There is a stirring in my spirit when I see growth, a joy that overtakes me and causes me to want to jump up and down. Both the green sprouts that come up out of the ground from newly planted seeds and the leaves that form on mature plants create excitement in me. "Yes! His Kingdom come!" I want to shout.
It is a joy to walk alongside of so many people and watch as the Lord does a work in them. Sometimes He uses me in their journey and sometimes I just get to sit back and watch these lives unfold before my very eyes. But regardless of my involvement in their journey, I find my breath taken away as I am left in awe. I become speechless from the stories, from the wisdom shared, from the love displayed, and from the acts that my friends step into right in front of me.
I love watching the newer believers in my life drink in the gospel every week, eyes wide and sparkling with the hope that the empty tomb offers. They remind me that the basics of our faith--grace and new life and joy and love--are truly the most important part, that the resurrected King and His forgiveness and the power that His Spirit gives to all of His followers are more important than any of the nitty gritty pieces of theology I often find myself pondering. They remind me that I need to constantly live out of the gospel and out of the transformative work of Jesus. I love watching these sisters and brothers grasp biblical concepts for the first time and step into freedom from strongholds for the first time and engage in listening prayer for the first time.
And truly, nothing is more wonderful than watching my friends who have been walking with the Lord for decades get wow-ed by the Gospel all over again. I love to hear their stories of stepping out in boldness, to watch as these strong men and women of God lovingly encourage the rest of us to have a missional-mindset, to be in the room as they welcome and love new-comers so well.
I count myself blessed to be invited into the lives of so many who exemplify the on-going work of the Spirit. Their growth inspires me. It reminds me to never stop living out of the beauty of the Gospel. It encourages me to press deeper into the Life that He offers.
Thank you, friends, for opening up your hearts and sharing your lives with me. Thank you for allowing God to continuously transform you. Thank you for having a heartbeat that echoes the Kingdom of God.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Immanuel
I sat curled in a ball, weeping into a blanket, crying over the same thing that always gets to me.
After a conversation earlier in the day, I spent my afternoon in meetings, half of me present and half of me feeling like I could burst into tears any second. 6pm and the door to my house couldn't come fast enough. And when I finally walked in that backdoor at the end of the day and made my way up into my room, I couldn't contain myself any longer as I collapsed on my bed, sobbing.
That was where I sat for an hour, blanket wet from tears by the time my eyes were dry, body shaking uncontrollably as if I had a fever. I was one gross and snotty mess, "waterproof" mascara down my face, hair literally drenched with tears, my nose blocked up thanks to my inconvenient nose ring. I wept so hard that I went to bed four hours earlier than my usual bedtime, body weak and head aching from the sadness.
I slept nine long hours and woke up well before dawn, surprised at how alert and content I was feeling. I made my way downstairs, brewed some coffee, and began to read Scripture like I always do. During my morning quiet time, I realized that the night before I had spent that hour crying out to God.
That, for me, is different.
That, for me, is progress.
In between "I'm sorry's" and in between moments of long silences when all anyone would have been able to hear were my sobs, I must have said "Jesus" a hundred times. Sometimes I found myself stating the obvious ("I'm just so sad") and sometimes I muttered out a few complete sentences to Him ("Let me just feel Your presence & let me just know You are here & teach me how to forgive myself"), but when no other words came, I just continued to say His name, sometimes adding a soft "please" at the end. And always, I invited Him into the room.
It was honest and authentic and raw. It wasn't an hour of eloquent prayer and it wasn't a time when I necessarily experienced any crazy supernatural encounters. It was just me and my tears and my blanket and my God. The room was still and the pain was real, but something was different. I didn't feel the presence of God in some overwhelming fashion and I didn't feel any less sad and in that moment, if you had asked me, I probably would have said that I didn't feel any less alone. But I realized in the morning that He had indeed been in the room, that I went from my typical place of sitting alone with my regret to inviting Jesus into it.
I realized that while I went to bed physically tired from crying and still sad and still hurting and my situation still very much the same in the morning, Jesus had been right there in the thick of it. Because I invited Him in, because I cried out to Him, because I took the focus away from the pain of the situation and put it back on Him, I no longer felt debilitated by my sadness.
Immanuel, God with us.
And He is always with us. He had always been there when I cried, I just had never chosen to engage Him before. I would push Him away, too hurt and angry and ashamed and lost in my thoughts to know what it was I even wanted from Him.
But now I do: His presence.
He is good. He is faithful. He is everything I need. And as long as I remain in Him, no situation will ever been too over-bearing for this little heart of mine.
After a conversation earlier in the day, I spent my afternoon in meetings, half of me present and half of me feeling like I could burst into tears any second. 6pm and the door to my house couldn't come fast enough. And when I finally walked in that backdoor at the end of the day and made my way up into my room, I couldn't contain myself any longer as I collapsed on my bed, sobbing.
That was where I sat for an hour, blanket wet from tears by the time my eyes were dry, body shaking uncontrollably as if I had a fever. I was one gross and snotty mess, "waterproof" mascara down my face, hair literally drenched with tears, my nose blocked up thanks to my inconvenient nose ring. I wept so hard that I went to bed four hours earlier than my usual bedtime, body weak and head aching from the sadness.
I slept nine long hours and woke up well before dawn, surprised at how alert and content I was feeling. I made my way downstairs, brewed some coffee, and began to read Scripture like I always do. During my morning quiet time, I realized that the night before I had spent that hour crying out to God.
That, for me, is different.
That, for me, is progress.
In between "I'm sorry's" and in between moments of long silences when all anyone would have been able to hear were my sobs, I must have said "Jesus" a hundred times. Sometimes I found myself stating the obvious ("I'm just so sad") and sometimes I muttered out a few complete sentences to Him ("Let me just feel Your presence & let me just know You are here & teach me how to forgive myself"), but when no other words came, I just continued to say His name, sometimes adding a soft "please" at the end. And always, I invited Him into the room.
It was honest and authentic and raw. It wasn't an hour of eloquent prayer and it wasn't a time when I necessarily experienced any crazy supernatural encounters. It was just me and my tears and my blanket and my God. The room was still and the pain was real, but something was different. I didn't feel the presence of God in some overwhelming fashion and I didn't feel any less sad and in that moment, if you had asked me, I probably would have said that I didn't feel any less alone. But I realized in the morning that He had indeed been in the room, that I went from my typical place of sitting alone with my regret to inviting Jesus into it.
I realized that while I went to bed physically tired from crying and still sad and still hurting and my situation still very much the same in the morning, Jesus had been right there in the thick of it. Because I invited Him in, because I cried out to Him, because I took the focus away from the pain of the situation and put it back on Him, I no longer felt debilitated by my sadness.
Immanuel, God with us.
And He is always with us. He had always been there when I cried, I just had never chosen to engage Him before. I would push Him away, too hurt and angry and ashamed and lost in my thoughts to know what it was I even wanted from Him.
But now I do: His presence.
He is good. He is faithful. He is everything I need. And as long as I remain in Him, no situation will ever been too over-bearing for this little heart of mine.
For this is what the LORD says…
"As a mother comforts her child,
so I will comfort you."
[Isaiah 66]
Sunday, November 3, 2013
selah moments
I think that I've told this story a million times in a million different contexts, but it was so impacting to me that I must tell it again…
August, September, and October were going to be far busier than usual for our staff team at TCNJ. And when October began approaching and I was a bit drained from the previous two months, the realization that the usual October lull wasn't going to come hit me. Somewhere at the end of September, I turned to Robin and said, "Oh man. I just need to get through October. November can't come soon enough."
"Alyssa," She responded, "Life doesn't start in November. Life is now."
This reminded me much of what Jesus said to me when I was in the Catskills for a few retreat days before NSO began in August. "Alyssa," I heard Him say, "I am in the city just as much as I am in the mountains." He isn't just present in the restful seasons, but He is present in the hustle and bustle of packed google calendars, too.
From that moment on, everything shifted in me. My prayer changed from, "Lord, get me through October," to, "Lord, what are you inviting me into in this very moment?"
I began to make attempts at practicing the presence of God, of listening, of sensing Him in the room, and of inviting Him into all circumstances (even the really boring ones). I began experiencing Him always. I'm still growing in this and I still have much to learn, but my relationship with Him soared to new levels almost immediately.
Last night I was finally able to put words to it: I am learning how to add selah moments to my life, always.
In the Psalms, selah was added after some verses with the intent of pausing and reflecting. In my life, I began pausing and reflecting after even the little things, inviting Jesus into the situations I was in and asking Him what He thought about them. A life of abiding began to captivate me and I wanted more of Him, more of His presence. I couldn't get enough. The more I experienced Him, the more my heart yearned for more--more Jesus, more Spirit, more of the Father.
And oh, how I experienced Him in October. I carved out moments of selah. I would drop what I was doing just to get down on my knees in sincere prayer and worship if I felt Him inviting me deeper into His presence. And I chose time with Him over everyone else in October. For an extrovert, it was strange that I felt like I had intentionally dropped off of the face of the earth (socially speaking) this month, but I knew that in a season thick of ministry and limited on time, I needed Him more than ever before, and so I prioritized Him in new ways.
On Friday, the calendar turned to November, and I have to admit that I've spent the last few days in a confused and almost somber state, mourning the loss of the October that I had once so dreaded.
A normal work flow is now underway. My social life has started back up (I've hung out with.. gosh… 30 friends in the last three days?!… most of whom I haven't seen since August), which is a gift to this raging extrovert. I am grateful for November, really I am. But I loved October. I loved it because I learned and grew so much in the simplicity of inviting Jesus into it. It was a month of love and passion and newness and an opportunity to know Him more.
But life doesn't start during the next season that is unique and unlike daily life--be it on a peaceful retreat or in a busy, jam-packed week. Life is now. Life has always been now. Life will always continue to be now when I choose to invite Him into it. Selah.
Life is now when it's quiet. Life is now when it's routine. Life is now when it's busy. Life is now in Christ. Selah.
And the most wonderful piece is what Jesus talks about in John 15: that abiding produces fruit. The closer I remain to Him, the more I can hear His heartbeat, and the more my own heart begins to beat in rhythm with His. I am morphing more into His image with eagerness and delight. It feels good to sense growth in this sinful heart of mine, to watch the ugliness of it be made beautiful by His love.
And that's all I really yearn for these days, anyway: more awareness of Him in and with me, more of my heartbeat syncing in rhythm with His, more of this Kingdom reality, more heaven on earth.
And that's all I really yearn for these days, anyway: more awareness of Him in and with me, more of my heartbeat syncing in rhythm with His, more of this Kingdom reality, more heaven on earth.
And broken and ugly things just like us are stamped, "Excellent,"
With ink tapped in wells of divine veins.
-Lofty by Propoganda
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