the crowded couch

There is a couch in my living room that I find myself always sitting on.

I declare this to you as I'm cuddled under my favorite pink blanket--that I so maturely named "fuzzy" at the age of 22--on this said couch.

I eat my meals here.  I watch my favorite television shows here (well, when I'm not watching Burn Notice and Graceland at the Downs' that is...).  I have my quiet times here.  I even send all of my InterVarsity emails and write my talks here.

These patterns of browns, yellows, reds, and greens make up the fabric that screams of the redemption of my life.

In high school, I never really liked this couch because I never really liked this living room.  I didn't want to be in any common space in my house because I very much enjoyed staying in my room with the door shut.  My wardrobe and attitude announced to the world, "I have teen angst. And I don't want you to talk to me."

It was on this couch that I sat one horrible night during my senior year of high school.  I hid my face under a blanket while my swim coach sat across the room, telling my parents that I was suicidal and that I needed to go to counseling.  This was the night that I thought my life was ending, when in reality, it was only just beginning.  A year and a half later, what I found was that conversation led me to a Christian counselor who led me to InterVarsity, which eventually led me into a relationship with Jesus.

But even though the Lord worked that dreadful conversation for my good and used it as the catalyst to bring me into a relationship with Him, this couch was always the place where I hid in shame under a blanket, too afraid to look into any of their eyes.

And then this was the couch that I laid on (I won't say slept, because sleeping wasn't in the agenda that week) during the last few days of my mother's life.  My sister was on the chair, my dad on the bigger couch, and my mom on the hospital bed in the center of the room.  Dad and I took turns doing round-the-clock care for my mom at night and half-heartedly smiling at visitors during the day.  I remember jumping up from this couch in cold sweats and fear in the middle of those nights, checking to make sure she was still breathing.  The tears and words and feelings and images from that week are burned into my memory.  Forever.

And as those scenes were etched into my memory, these were the cushions that offered me comfort.

It was the death couch to me, the place where my suicidal thoughts and habits were made public and the place where I helplessly watched as my mom died.  It was the place that birthed shame and anger and fear and sadness.  It was the place that ripped life from me.

During breaks from college, I would come home and sit in this family room, remembering how my mom used to always hang out in here and how I would avoid joining her at all costs.  I'm not sure why, but I started reading and watching TV in here more often, maybe in some lame attempt to get back what was so abruptly taken from me, maybe in some lame attempt to apologize to someone who was no longer here.

So by the time I graduated from college, the room no longer held it's death-stigma in my mind.  Those haunting images never went away, but I began to forget about the significance in the fabric of that couch.

And one day, as if a wave of clarity hit me, my friend turned to me with laughter in her heart (trying to prove to me that there was no question that I was an extrovert) and shouted, "YOU SIT ON THE CROWDED COUCH!"

The crowded couch.

I looked around the room and realized there were 30 women packed in here, women who entered through that doorway every Friday morning, women who knew and loved the Lord.  On this couch, I was right in the center of the thickest sense of agape you'll ever experience, snuggled in between five other sisters in Christ.

This room went from a place of darkness to light.  This couch had somehow been transformed into a place where I met with the Lord quietly in the mornings and loudly with my women's bible study on Fridays. This couch went from the place where death loomed and shame burdened and became a place where I did my missionary work, where I wrote curriculums and talks to share Jesus with my students.  It went from being a place of me sitting alone under a blanket, hearing someone tell my parents that I wanted to die to being a place where I encountered Jesus.  It went from being a place of me sitting alone, watching helplessly as my mother died, to being a place where I sat piled with friends and love and the Word of God.

It went from a place where I was alone and in darkness to a place where I was in community and in light.

And oh isn't that what He always does?  He turns our mourning into dancing.  He replaces our sackcloth with garments of joy.

On this couch I once sat broken, and now I sit whole.  On this couch, I thought my life was ending, and now I write talks to invite students into the Life that He offers.

This couch represents me.  This couch speaks of my healing.  This couch proclaims the mighty work that Jesus has done in my heart.

By faith in the name of Jesus, this man whom you see and know was made strong.  It is Jesus' name and the faith that comes through him that has completely healed him, as you can all see. [Acts 3:16]

Refreshed by the Gospel... again.

Today I sat in the backseat of my friend's car on the way home from our church's women's retreat.  My eyes were closed, the wind was blowing my hair in every direction, the sun was shining brightly, and my mind & body & soul were humming to the praise music that we were blasting.

I found myself soaking in His presence.

This weekend revived me.  Between tears on my Saturday afternoon alone with Jesus and howling laughter with friends, God met me where I was at, just like He always does.  I had a web of themes that the Lord taught me this weekend but on that car ride home, I meditated on some of His words to me during our time of communion that morning.

Alyssa, by my wounds you are healed.  My forgiveness is more than the cheap grace you've been making it.  My forgiveness is more than Me just covering your sins.  It's greater than that.  It's about Me making you NEW.  Take Me in.  This is more than just a ritual: It's soaking in My love.  It's being consumed by Me so that You not only rest in Me, but become like Me.  It's newness.  My forgiveness is the restoration of your life, of your relationships, of you and Me.

Our God is a personal god.  That's mostly what He taught me this weekend through Mark 5.  He loves the unloved and sees the disregarded.  In this chapter of Scripture, He could have cast out demons, healed the sick, and raised the dead all alone by a prayer to the Father on His friend's boat.  But He went to them.  He spoke to them.  He had compassion on them.

If God wasn't a personal god, He wouldn't have died on the cross and rose again.  Do we realize this?  Do I realize this?

He could have just left us with the law.  He could have just left us to animal sacrifices.  But the law never made the Israelites new.  The law only allowed for them to reflect God's fading glory, not for them to be transformed into His image in an ever-increasing manner.  The law only covered their sins (imperfectly, might I add).  Do I realize this?

The Gospel message of Jesus dying for our sins is generally well-known in America, and sometimes it becomes dry and taken for granted, even to us born-again Christians.  But He died and suffered and was mocked and flogged and beaten.  For you and for me.  He made the sacrifice personal so that we could be personal with Him.

God allowed Himself to be brutally murdered for me.  Do I realize how personal that is?

And He rose again so that His Spirit could dwell in me, not just so that I could have eternal life in heaven, but so that I could have a living relationship with Him here and now.  The fact that I could have a conversation with Him and feel Him all around me this weekend is proof of the resurrection being personal.

The law doesn't come and dwell in us.  Jesus does.  And the law could never make us new.

His forgiveness--and what we are remembering when we take communion--is more than just the acknowledgement of the covering of our sins (though it is that too, don't get me wrong).  It's also the acknowledgment of us needing His nourishment for our souls, of us needing Him in us in order to be made new.

He died and rose again and lives in me.  That's what makes me new.  It's not just the covering of my sins that transforms me, if that were the case you'd see grander stories of transformation in the Old Testament instead of fading glory (2 Cor 3:13).  It's Him living inside of me that makes me new and transforms me into being more like Him.

He is personal.  He is in me.  He is all around me.  It's a miracle, really, that He not only washes our sin, but desires and chooses to transform us and have a relationship with us.

We are unworthy.  But His love is greater.  His love is the greatest we'll ever know.  And just when we think we're deep in His love, we realize that we've only just scratched the surface of understanding it.

Love is dying to save.  Love is conquering death to transform.  Love is being the Living God who we can hear and see and feel.

The question then doesn't become: Does He love me [or How can He love me when I'm so unworthy]?  The question was never that.

The question is: Am I listening?  The question is: Am I paying attention?  The question is:  Am I being transformed from the inside out by His Spirit that lives in me?

The question is:  Am I engaging with this Love?

He is here.  And He is personal.  And He loves me.
And He is making all things new.

tonight, i breathe in that familiar scent

The past few days have been a whirlwind of emotions due to some unexpected circumstances. Though I don't want to get into the details of those encounters, I did want to note that it was that string of events that brought me to this spot on my bed where I find myself typing from at 2am.

I was tossing and turning about an hour ago, unable to fall asleep, thinking of the trauma my family has gone through over the past several years.  I was replaying memories, mourning deep regrets and painful losses, wishing that I could just do it all over again.  Mostly, I just wanted to rewind the clock and have a second chance at things.  I missed the people who we've said goodbye to and the way our family unit used to function.  I missed the sense of home that I used to know so well.

I got out of bed, determined to find a box of sweatshirts of my mom's that my dad had mentioned still lingered in the house.  After a rather short search, I found it.  Furiously shaking, I pulled out articles of clothing and stopped when I picked up a very familiar navy blue USA sweatshirt.  I held it out before me, images flashing across my mind, scenes from the 90's replaying in my brain.

Hesitantly, I brought the old sweatshirt to my nose and inhaled very deeply.  Mom.  I breathed in the scent of love which used to fill my nostrils every time that I hugged her, and collapsed in a ball on the ground, sweatshirt in my lap, silent tears streaming down my cheeks.  I thought of my unwillingness to hug people now and wondered if somehow, those things were connected.

The pain doesn't go away.  My life has moved on.  I'm four years older now.  I have a college degree and a real life job.  I've met Jesus and my life has been deeply transformed by the Gospel.  I have a new mom-figure in my life for all of those necessary mother-moments.  The reality of her being gone isn't as debilitating as it was when I was 18, but the pain is still the same.  It's still sharp and strong and at times very consuming.

Sometimes I wonder if people think I'm silly for still hurting to the degree that I do over my mom's death, and so I refrain from talking about it.  But what I remind myself of is that the majority of people in my life (thankfully) just don't understand.  I praise God that my friends didn't go through what my sister and I had to as teenagers.  A mom is so significant in a girl's life--especially at our age.  I long for her comfort at every difficult moment and for her celebration at every joyous one.  I wish she saw me graduate college and I wish she saw the births of our little cousins.  I wish she was going to be there at our weddings (if we get married, that is).  I wish I could have shared with her when I found a major to study that I enjoyed and a career that I was passionate about starting.  So many times things happen throughout the day and I think, "I wish I could call up my mom to tell her about this."

I miss her laugh and her constant involvement in my life.  I miss her telling me how proud she is of me.  I miss her cooking and her giving heart.  I miss her making up crazy stories about our neighbors at the beach.  Mostly, I just miss her hugs and having someone who would lay down next to me and hold me.

I just miss her.

I sat on the floor, heart aching from the loss of that comforting smell, lips quivering as they wished for one last chance to apologize and say, "I love you."

Eventually I pulled myself together and dug to the bottom of the box, where I found the sweatshirt that reminds me of my mom more than any other article of clothing.  Walking into my room, I slipped it over my head and gazed in the mirror.  I look like her, only younger and with longer hair and bigger glasses.  And now I sit on my bed, the scent from this sweatshirt I'm wearing rising into my nose.

For now, I smell like her, too.

But the scent will fade, just like it did from the other articles of clothing I've taken from her closet.  And I'm sure over time, the memories will fade too, just like they did of the other family members who have passed away.

And this pain?  Maybe one day it will fade.  But for now, for today, it hurts just as much as it did back then.

me (currently, at 2am)

to be grown up.

I didn't watch the 2013 VMA's over this past weekend, but like most Americans, my twitter and facebook feed blew up over Miley Cyrus' shocking and over-sexualized performance.  I wasn't surprised when I read the comments, knowing the direction her music had been heading in over the past couple of years and so I shrugged most of it off.  Usually when I hear gossip over celebrities I don't turn on the television, partly because I've never been one to follow celebrity drama and partly because I know that continuously immersing myself in our sex-loving culture every time a celebrity does something jaw-dropping probably will add up to be a stumbling block for my walk with Christ.

But for some reason, I youtubed her performance today.  And for once, the entertainment culture didn't beckon me to stumble and didn't make me day dream of a worldly life.

For once, I sat heartbroken, eyes glazed over with tears, feeling the heart of God for His daughter on that stage.

Not long ago, Miley was a Disney Channel superstar and a role model to so many young girls.  Now she seems to be doing everything in her power to let the world know that she's 20 years old and that she's all grown up.

I am a campus minister at The College of New Jersey, a missionary to students ages 18-22 years old.

Miley, at age 20, is the average age of my students.

I sat on my couch, cringing and mourning over the images that I was watching on my computer, thinking of the thousands of ~20 year olds that I see walk past me every day on campus.

Miley wanted to grow up and, in this culture that we live in, sex is the way to do just that.  She never heard the message that God created her to be a woman and that He has plans and a purpose for that womanhood.  She never heard the message that to be a woman, in the way God intended, is to follow Christ.  The message that is portrayed in this day and age is that if you want to be a woman, you must become a sex object.

So who can blame her, really?  Miley responded to the culture that she grew up in.  Sex, to America, is what draws the line between being a girl and being a woman.  Not the biblical Truth that God created man and woman in His image, to be like Him and to glorify Him.  Not the biblical Truth that there is a God who loves her and gave His life because He couldn't bear to not make a way for her to be in a relationship with Him.

And she definitely hasn't heard in this culture that even through the sin and the ways she's refused Him, He stands with open arms of grace, eager to welcome His daughter home.

The only difference between Miley and the average 20 year old in our society is that she was raised in the fame and money that allowed her to strut her "I'm a woman" announcement on stage at the VMA's.  The reality is that the average college student is raised in that same exact culture.  Maybe the women on campus aren't going to class in their underwear and promiscuously dancing on stage in front of the whole world.  Maybe they aren't as public or outlandishly jaw-dropping in their actions, but those once-little-girls are sent the same message as Miley that to be a woman and to be liked is to be about sex and fame and independence.

The average college student is a version of Miley Cyrus:  a person who was raised in a culture that tells them their value is based on their sex appeal and their independence is based on their ability to break every social taboo without caring what people think.  They are 20 year olds searching for ways to explore this new start to adulthood, wanting to be desired and loved and heard.

But there is a God who desires them and loves them and hears them.  There is a God who created them and yearns for them to turn to Him, and who delights in blessing them.

The culture we live in is rapidly progressing in what it considers to be it's sexual norms and ideals, which means that the average 20 year old experienced a lot more of this sexual revolution growing up than the average 20 year old five years ago did.  The culture we live in traces easy pathways for females to go from girls to sex objects in an instant.

I want to see them go from girls to women of God.

I want those 20 year olds to know that life isn't about what the media says it's about.  It's not about money and sex and fame and drugs and fun and success.  It's about saying "yes" to Jesus because He's already said "yes" to you.  I want to invite them into a deep encounter with God that will transform their lives, rather than watch them stumble into false promises of fulfillment that will instead leave them empty inside.

The average American receives the message every day that this Miley-pattern of growing up is good and normal.  I'm not talking about prostitutes or strippers or porn stars, but the average American 20 year old is on a trajectory that is headed toward spiritual death because of the lies that this culture feeds her daily.

Today I wept for Miley.  And for every 20 year old at TCNJ that thinks she has to be like her to be grown up.  Today, more than ever, I was reminded of why I am a missionary to college students.

[partner with the mission.]
www.donate.intervarsity.org/support/Alyssa_Dembrowski

You captivate me.

I'm here,
     Listening.

It took me awhile, but I'm here (now).

Simple obedience,
     how sweet it is,
To sit in Your presence,
And hear You speak to me.

That's what I live for, really.
     (I can't believe I resisted for so long.)
These moments with You.

Nothing more exciting,
     adventurous,
     and peaceful
          than hearing directly from my King.

You speak,
And every hair stands on the back of my neck,
     so aware of You.
The air is thick and beautiful,
     like it is when I hear a new harmony,
Chords blending and moving and I,
     am lost,
     in Your song.

Nowhere I'd rather be,
Than right here with You.

                    See, I am doing a new thing!

                         Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

                    I am making a way in the wilderness

                         and streams in the wasteland.

                                     [Isaiah 43:19]

the art of grace.

lately, i've been an advocate for creating.
     [newness in the debris.]

building friendships in the midst of brokenness.
piercing a nose through the sunburn.
cooking dinner with random scraps of leftovers.
receiving love from a Savior when my heart beats with rebellion.

i remember learning in chemistry about entropy,
that a system naturally goes from order to disorder over time.
meaning that unless energy is put into something, it just gets messier.

in this world, there's always going to be disarray.
and according to these laws of science, our environment is bent toward the chaos.

so i think there's something to creating in a world where there is always messiness.
i think there's something about picking up broken pieces and crafting something else,
not continued attempts at gluing back the original,
but designing something new.

i think, that maybe, that's what Jesus does with me.
He takes my heart that's so prone to messiness and continuously molds it into new artwork.

i'm not the same today as i was yesterday.
and i'll be different again tomorrow.

i'll be messy in another way from this entropy and sin that i live in.
yet i'll be more holy from the Potter always having His hands on me,
always kneading this clay of His.

i think that participating in my own acts of creation reflect my Maker's heart just a bit.
i think that's my favorite. and i think, just maybe, it might be His.
     [sculpting in the mess.]

crafting life from beauty is easy.
but life from the debris?
well, that brings Him the glory.
2 Corinthians 12:9

that's the art of grace.

what is grace?

Tonight I was sitting with Jesus as I journaled through my good friend Aletheia's comtemplative art journal.  I came to this piece where she prompted my thoughts with a question next to the painting:  What is grace?

Grace is
     having this dance with You,
     moving in step with this new routine of familiar patterns,
          as You hold me close in gentleness.

Grace is
     feeling Your heart beat in time with mine,
     sensing You flutter all around me,
          embraced by Your love so abounding.

Grace is
     the sea of love that swirls in Your eyes,
     vast shades of blue interacting,
     color with more depth than anything I've ever known.

Grace is
     us.
     this love story.
     and Your passion that never gives up on me
          with a magnitude that's incomprehensible.
     [You never stop loving me.]

Grace is
     everything that first brought me to You,
     and everything that keeps me where I am,
     and everything I live my life for.

Grace is
     this stillness,
          this love.
     it's here,
          and now.
     and there,
          and forevermore.

Grace is
     written in the story of my life,
     splattered in the paintings of my soul,
          the harmony that rings out as You pursue me,
          [undeserved and unending.]

Grace is
     beautiful.
     healing.
     enchanting.

Grace is the heart of my Savior.