(and it's okay.)

I was sitting on the couch, his arms around me, sinking into his frame that's begun to carry a sense of home. I have found safety here, comfort in this place. We weren't saying anything of much importance, just the typical back and forth of two extroverts who are up way past their bedtimes. Sometimes we would cease speaking all together, and I would notice that in the silence and the closeness, I could hear the rhythm of his heart. In that moment, I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I heard someone's heartbeat. I couldn't remember the last time I let someone close enough to even hug me, pushing away any attempt that my friends and family would make at physical touch.

I'm learning that it's okay to let someone be close.

I said some very typical and blunt Alyssa-y comment and he rolled his eyes laughing and pulled me closer. In that moment, the familiar strong-willed leader inside of me clashed with this foreign desire to let someone else lead the way, and I was surprised at how beautiful those contradictions felt. The clashing didn't spark, didn't explode, but those oppositions melded with each other, complementary colors on the wheel.

I'm learning that submission isn't a bad thing at all for this campus minister, but it's the Creator's most perfect way.

No matter where we are or what we're doing, when I look him in the eyes I'm met with a gaze that says "I care about you, and I love you, and I'm not going anywhere." That, for me, is different. But that look is also easy to give and receive when butterflies are fluttering or when I'm laughing so hard that tears roll down my face. What about when we're angry? What about when one (or both) of us are in need of forgiveness?

During our biggest disagreement, I remember storming past him flaunting my typical "I'm passive-aggressive but I want you to know I'm extremely unhappy" response. And when I turned around to see how he'd react to my craziness, his eyes reflected back the same look that I've come to know so well, filled with so much grace and care, and he calmly reminded me that he loved me.

I am learning that no matter how I'm acting, I am loved for who I am, not for what I do or how I behave or even how I'm thinking in the moment.

It's okay to make myself known, to let someone in on all of the broken pieces of myself as well as all of the parts that I like. I am learning that when God is center, there lies true grace and joy and forgiveness and love. When Christ is the foundation, that look in his eyes is unchanging, and "I love you" is based off of a commitment, not a feeling. Jesus is freeing me from the fear of letting people in, of making myself known, of giving another imperfect person permission to unintentionally hurt me (and vice versa) as we both seek to grow in holiness and grace. And, oh, after years of fearing to let people in, there is rest in allowing someone else to see the whole of me.

I am learning that it's okay to just let go.

God is teaching me about the greatest part of His character: His love. Though I still don't grasp it fully, I understand His love more now than I ever have before, and I want to know it more. For if a grace and comfort can be found in the love of a person, how much more can they be found in the love of the One who is Love?

To be close enough to hear His heartbeat, to call His arms home, that is what I long for. God, as I'm learning to know and be known, would You use it to always point me back to You, the only One who loves perfectly.

confessions of a campus minister

My most honest confession? I often take my eyes off of Jesus.

Wind and waves surrounding me,

I notice my feet going under.

When the tasks are many before me,

And I yearn for man's approval more than I do for God's,

And the pressure pushes in from all sides,

     I lose sight of the vision,

        of the calling,

        of Spirit with and in me.

I forget that it was Jesus who said, "Come," before my feet even left the boat. [Matt 14:29]

And in my panic of "DO SOMETHING!" He gently asks me once again why I let my faith in His word, His power, His calling become so small.

My eyes aren't always on Jesus.

And when they're not, I grow afraid of the very waters that I asked Him to allow me to walk upon.

Truly, I am grateful for His hand repeatedly lifting me out of my panic,

     Lavishing me with a grace that I most assuredly don't deserve.

     Restoring these averted eyes to their proper gaze.

I am reminded that He has this too under control.

And that He cares about my walk on these deep waters.

     This walk that we journey together,

     Father, Son, Spirit, and me.

the grace that's all around

I'm sitting on my back deck, in perfect ~80 degree weather, watching the sun get progressively lower in the sky. During the morning hours I read and went on a run, in the afternoon I painted while listening to worship music, and tonight some friends are coming over to manuscript a bible passage.  Today was a day that I sensed the Spirit inviting me to stop and breathe and be.

My to-do list is still very long.

My anxiety over New Student Outreach approaching is still very high.

There are still emails to send and students to meet with and books to read and talks to write.

But I'm learning that in this career of full time ministry, it's easy to always be busy because the work never actually ends.  I'm learning that in order for me to be effective for the Kingdom, I need space to be filled up.

So today, I said "yes" to God giving me that space.

Space in solitude.  Space with Jesus.  Space to breathe now that the swim season has ended and before NSO begins.  Space to sleep and recover from the sickness that dragged my body down over the past few days.

And in this moment, I'm very much aware of the grace that's all around.  There is grace in the cool summer breeze, grace in the sound of cicadas, grace in the view that I have in this backyard, grace in the fact that for the very first time this summer I actually don't feel tired.

It's easy to see grace in the slower rhythms.

I think that in the whirlwind of this summer, on most fast-paced days I missed the grace that was all around.  I would squint and have trouble seeing it, but it was there, abounding.  Because there was grace in every "ready, go!" I shouted to my swimmers on the wall, grace in those afternoons we got caught in the rain on the pool deck, grace in the traffic jams I sat in on Staten Island when I just wanted to be home and asleep, grace in the office work that left me yearning for human interaction.

I learned (the hard way, I think) of my need to notice His grace in any rhythm, not just the slow ones.

This year is going to be full, of ministry and responsibility and intentionality.  But I think that there is an invitation there for it to also be full of love and joy and peace, despite a busy schedule or circumstances that are out of my control.

I think there's an invitation to be aware of Him, always, because He's the only one who wholly fills and loves.  Oh, to practice the presence of God.  This summer taught me that I'm not as good at it as I once thought.

But there is forgiveness and mercy and grace and the opportunity to start again, right now.  The choice to notice, to celebrate, to love, to play.  And I think that these four things are always available, even in the hard or the long days, because they are all a grace given by Him.

Spirit, be so present around me. (& in me.)

Let me be so aware of You that You seem tangible in any moment.

Let my life be lived into and out of Your grace, in every season and every rhythm.

daring to dream

When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion,

     we were like those who dreamed.

Our mouths were filled with laughter,

     our tongues with songs of joy.

Then it was said among the nations,

     "The LORD has done great things for them."

The LORD has done great things for us,

     and we are filled with joy.

[Psalm 126:1-3]

I was afraid to dream over this past year.

More accurately, I was afraid to dream with God over this past year.
In tears, I'd pray, knowing that it was He who had awakened these desires within me.
And I'd ask for any solution to the emptiness that I faced each day.

I was afraid to dream because I was afraid to speak the words of what I really wanted.
So I sat in those secret places of my heart, quietly dreaming with myself,
     Not letting the images get too bright, too noisy,
     For fear of them being so loud that God could hear.

Because the truth is,
I was afraid to invite Him into those dreams,
     afraid His response would be a "no."

But that,
That was foolish thinking.
Because every moment that I thought I was dreaming alone,
I was actually dreaming right alongside of Him anyway.
And those dreams (I believe)
     were put there by Him to begin with.
every. last. detail.

And the thing is with God,
     He is good.
     And He delights in this daughter of His.
     And He is the Giver of good gifts.

In just one short week, everything changed.
And a whisper from the Holy Spirit told me that everything was going to be different.

I know this now,
     because I'm living that dream.
          every. last. detail.
And the really crazy part?
     (we both are.)

The degree to which God answered my year-long prayers over the past two months is so crazy,
So unreal,
That I have to keep reminding myself that this actually is reality.
That I'm not going to just wake up from it because I'm living it.

"Goodnight. And this isn't a dream, so I'll talk to you tomorrow," he reminded me.

This isn't a dream.
This isn't a dream.
This is real. Every word, every look, every feeling.
This is real.

Our God is good.
He answers prayer.
And He is crafting my story into something beautiful.
     (Something for His glory.)
Mending the brokenness that once felt so unfixable.

We don't know the ending yet,
     (and that's okay).
Because in this moment, there is peace.
     There is healing.
     There is joy.
And there is the unwavering knowledge that the Spirit is right here in the thick of it,
     directing and loving and leading, just like He always does,
His presence reminding us that we are His.
And that He is surely writing this chapter with all the care and affection of a good Daddy,
     who still smiles and reminds that He is always redeeming,
     always protecting, always gently guiding, always restoring.

It's okay, My child, He tells me, Jump in. Let go. For I am here. And I am making all things new.

the thick empty

Most of the time recently, I've been so aware of the silence, of the thick empty.  I can hear my heartbeat echoing throughout the stillness, reminding me of the longings that aren't met (today).

And I'm angry, and I'm sad.

(Unsettled, fidgeting in my seat.)

Most of the time recently, I've found myself drenched in tears, questioning His love and faithfulness and goodness.

But I know that regardless of my feelings, regardless of the sadness and the loneliness and the pain that pierces through this thick empty, He is so abundantly good.

And that THIS (right here, right now), this very moment in time, THIS is His best for me in the now.

But that part,

(If I'm being honest)

That's the part that is sometimes so very hard for this little heart of mine to fully grasp.

My prayers over the last few months have been to live into and out of this now, this best that He offers me today.  To stop looking back and stop yearning for more--for something in the future--but to live in the here and now.

To be present in the moment,

With an increased awareness of my God.

The tears still come as these unfulfilled longings piece my heart.  The pain is still real and the desires are still present and I still pray that there would be some other ending to this story, some other outcome.

But for now, I will choose to live in the fullness of this very moment.  I will choose to press into Jesus, to allow Him to fill every crevice that looks and feels (and is) so very empty.

The invitation today (and every day) is to know Him deeper, as Lover and Friend and Comforter and so much more.

And though I would choose a different story for this season, I know that He is a better Author than I.  I know that His plans transcend mine because He is good and sovereign and loving.

And I can trust Him to fill the thick empty with Himself,

To illuminate His presence in the loneliness.

To comfort and grow this little heart of mine.

Explosion in Mountain View

There have been news choppers circling my neighborhood for almost nine hours.  It's dark and late and though I want to sleep, the rhythms of this helicopter coming in and going out stir my heart awake.

You never think that something like this would happen in the place that you call home.

Today around 1pm, there was a violent gas explosion on the street that runs parallel to mine, obliterating one home, completely destroying ten houses and damaging many others, injuring seven workers, and killing one person.  From where my house sits, this site (that looks much like a mini Ground Zero) is visible from my window, directly behind the houses that are across the street from me.

The explosion only caused (very) minor damage to my house and it felt rather odd to be welcomed home by numerous news station vans at the end of my driveway.

But as the hours have ticked on today, the eeriness of it moved from surreal to sickening.  The devastation of it all hit me little by little.  My body felt tense as I turned on the television and watched an interview of a childhood friend who lives across the street from me explain what the explosion felt like and then another childhood friend telling about the injuries he received as the explosion knocked him over.  The weirdest interview I watched was of my next-door neighbor because my house was in the background of the camera shot.  I froze in horror as I watched a dog find the dead body in the rubble on live television and my heart sank even more when later in the night I stood up and looked out my window and saw the lights and the huge crane illuminating the darkness of the night.

I'm not sure why I feel so shaken up, especially because my life and my loved ones lives weren't effected.  But as I watched clip after clip of families running through the grass onto my street, as I watched these people trace the same pathway I would take as a high schooler walking home from my friends' houses, my stomach knotted up inside.

It looks like a war zone over here in Mountain View.  There are emergency vehicles and news casters everywhere.  The firehouse is full of people without homes for the night and my heart breaks every time I look at images of the aftermath.

In all of this uncertainty ("I can't believe this happened here" and "Could this same gas explosion happen tomorrow in my house?") I am certain of one thing:  The love of God is so thick and real and immense.  And this Love pierces through any pain and darkness and fright.

Jesus is present in the midst of the suffering.  He is with the families grieving and the families without homes.  He is with the frightened and the workers who were injured and their friends and families.

He is right there in the rubble.
Right there in the middle of it.

He isn't a far off God who will try to fix this.  He isn't a God that doesn't notice and doesn't care.  He is present and He is there with the brokenhearted and the afraid.  He is present in the debris.

It seemed appropriate to me that most of the damage in my house was nail damage to the framework and ceilings (other than a poor decapitated wooden duck that fell off of a wall somewhere) when the damage done to my Savior was also nail damage.  And when I look up at the holes that now dot my ceiling from where these nails were shaken by the brute force, I am reminded of the holes from the nails that pierced His hands and feet.

He is here, I know it.  Despite the eeriness of the news chopper breaking through the silence of the night, He is here.  In my neighborhood, in the firehouse, with the brokenhearted, in the rubble, He is here.

He is God.
He is Love.
And He is making all things new.

I am confident that this God of death and resurrection will bring Life to this rubble.  He will bring Life to this tragedy and resurrect it for His purposes because He cares and loves and pursues and restores.  He will create beauty from the mess.  I know this because it's His nature.  I know this because I know Him.

He doesn't just pick up the broken pieces, but He sits in them as the crane sifts through the rubble.  He is present in the middle of the heartache.  The explosion was strong, but His love is stronger still.  The damage is immense, but His love is greater.  The road to healing and recovery and restoration is long, but He walks it with us.

[Listen over the helicopter.  Do you hear Him?  He is here.]

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. [Psalm 34:18]

If someone is reading this that was personally effected, know that I am so sorry and my heart breaks for you and I am praying for you.  But also know that there is a God who loves you and is there with you and desires for you to know Him.  Also, my church would love to help you in any way possible so feel free to visit ccmercer.com or email connecting@ccmercer.com

Life.

Life.
That's how I can sum up all that I've been thinking and feeling and experiencing and reflecting on lately.

There is Life in the laughter,
   Life in the tears.

To know Life in the deepest of heartaches,
   Life in the mundane,
   and Life in the jubilation,
is perhaps the greatest invitation to us ever given on this side of heaven.

To walk with Him in all things,
to really know He is present when my heart is breaking and when my heart is celebrating,
is to experience true humanness, to be as I was designed to be.

Life.
Always.
[Because there is Life in Him.]

Sometimes my heart is completely overwhelmed,
   by this Life,
   by this Love,
   by His relentless pursuit,
because I am so undeserving.

And regardless of how often I stumble or fall,
He. loves. me.

With a love powerful enough to pierce through the darkness,
a love powerful enough to transform a darkened heart,
a love powerful enough to break the chains that once held me bound.

I'm overwhelmed because that kind of Love is indescribable,
that kind of love is the only kind with the ability to transform,
   to produce growth,
   to soften a heart.

So today, this mix of emotions feels overwhelming,
   [in a good way.]
because this Life that I'm invited into is better than anything I've ever known.

these growing roots.

"Man cannot live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God."

I opened my eyes and stood straight, pushing away from the wall that I was leaning against as if I were the seeker counting in hide-and-seek.  Jesus had spoken; that much was evident.  And those words hung in the deepest parts of me for longer than I had anticipated.

This morning, two days after this interaction between us, a thought hit me:  The things I cared so much about six months ago are not as high priority in my life anymore.

Some of those things (actually, most of those things) are, at their core, good.  And I still desire them, but they are no longer the focus for me.

I could write a list for you about what those things are, but I think that would be besides the point.  The point is that those things--the bread of this world--aren't my focus anymore.  And though good, I never want them to be the focus again.

Because those things aren't Jesus.

One by one and little by little--so slow I wouldn't have even noticed if I hadn't taken the morning to reflect--they each faded into the background of my life as Jesus was illuminated more and more.

As I became more rooted in Him, as He alone became the only thing that I was running after, everything else stopped screaming for my attention.

I think, maybe, that's a piece of what the Spirit-led life is all about.  It's about being so fixed on Him that one day you finally understand that He alone satisfies, that man cannot live on bread alone because even though you eat it today, you will hunger again tomorrow.  I'm not sure I'm always there 100% of the time because I still fall into the trap that other things--even good things--can satisfy me, but I'd like to think that I'm moving and that these roots are growing and that I'm farther along on the journey than I was six months ago.

I'm not sure what the bread is for you, what the thing is that you are tempted to have more than Jesus--maybe it's friends or marriage or success or fun or wisdom or strength or gentleness.  But those things have to come second.  (Actually, some of those things are only produced from our intimacy with Jesus and thus naturally come second anyway.)

The thing is, the bread isn't bad.  It is, at it's core, good for us.  But we have to understand at a heart level that this bread will never satisfy.  That when we live our lives in pursuit of things--even good things--other than Jesus, we will always find ourselves to be insatiable.

No amount of bread and no type of bread will ever satisfy.  The things of this world will always leave you hungry again.  But Jesus does.

He lives in me and walks with me and when I spend my days aware of Him and in step with Him, the insatiable becomes satiated.

When rooted in Him, I am satisfied to the full.

He [alone] resurrects.

Last night, in an attempt to spend some intentional time with Jesus, I coerced my friend into painting her prayers with me.  I needed to create space, to listen and be still and rest.  After eight nights of continuous sleepovers (and let me add that half of those nights there was a crowd of women sleeping over due to a wedding and a New Year's party) and little alone time to hear from God, my soul was thirsty, panting, my arms reaching out franticly to touch Him.

And so I gave my friend a quick demo of how to paint, handed her the supplies, and turned on the worship music.  I barely spoke, other than my exchanges with Jesus and for me, this space was exactly what I needed.  I began throwing colors on the white sheet, pinks and greens and yellows, celebrating the new life that I've seen in my walk with Him over the past few months.  Something broke open within me this semester, and I was creating a painting to represent that.

After awhile, I felt like the piece was done and I sat back to look at it.  Though I was sure it was finished, it didn't look quite right.  I added more yellow, but that wasn't it, something was off.  I crossed my arms, frustrated, my eyebrows furrowed in thought.

[how I intended it to go]

It just didn't feel right.

I flipped the painting upside down and stopped.  It's supposed to go this way.

But God, I insisted, that isn't how I created it to go.  I was painting a picture of the Life that broke open within me this semester, remember?  If the piece is turned upside down it looks like… well… it looks like You shining down into some sort of messiness, not me bursting open, growing closer to You.

Ah but My child, He replied softly, you are mistaken.  The intimacy you have with Me didn't increase because you figured out how to listen or because you discovered new tools.  You burst open because I resurrected dead areas in your life.  I am the initiator.  New Life always starts with Me.

[how He intended it to go]

With the painting turned upside down (or I suppose it was right side up to God) it felt brighter.  I've never taken an art class, and so I can't explain to you scientifically what it does to the eye to have the brighter colors on top and the darker colors on the bottom.  I don't know how (neurologically) this makes the art appear lighter.

But I do know that there is something brighter about knowing that my God is the initiator, about knowing that I don't grow to Him but that He reaches down to me, about knowing that there is a resurrection hope amid any lifeless mess.

There was, it appeared, a theology lesson present for me in the midst of my play.  That, I think, is what art has become for me: a space to learn and re-learn the Truths about our great God, a space to create with our Creator, a space to breathe and rest and interact with Him, a space to know and be known.

[a space for Father, Son, Spirit, and me.]