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.

For this is what the LORD says…

"As a mother comforts her child,

so I will comfort you."

[Isaiah 66]

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 broken and ugly things just like us are stamped, "Excellent,"

With ink tapped in wells of divine veins.

-Lofty by Propoganda

The Rattles of New Life [and conversations on post retreat syndrome]

Son of man, can these bones live?

That's the question that's been echoing through most of my conversations lately, friends crying out to me that they feel far from God.  The common thread of spiritual deadness makes me keenly aware of the decaying stench that penetrates so many Christian circles, not due to any outright disobedience to Christ, but due to a lack of the pursuit of relationship with Him.

It's the same question I asked God time and time again when I was overcome with the stress and the busyness--and sometimes even the monotony--that daily life tends to bring.  I would find myself often frustrated when I would get on a spiritual high at retreats or conferences or mission trips and watch it fade after returning home, presenting myself more like Moses than Paul, watching the glory fade and not increase.

Sovereign LORD, you alone know.

I knew something was off, something wasn't adding up.  As a New Testament believer, these constant deaths and revivals seemed much too draining to be the abundant life that Jesus spoke about.

Dry bones, hear the word of the LORD!

The revelation that God is always speaking and that I needed to just listen opened up new doors for me.  It tended to the flame that was in my heart, creating a fire in me that became beautiful and untamed and all-consuming.  As I started making attempts at listening, I could hear.  As I started making attempts at noticing, I could see.  Suddenly, abiding became more of a tangible reality rather than some abstract concept that we preach sermons and write workbooks on.  He is speaking.  Do you hear Him?  And almost all at once I began experiencing the fruit of the Spirit overtaking me and sensing the heartbeat of God.  I began experiencing newness.  Mundane routines were transformed into Jesus adventures.  I began to feel alive in more places than just on retreats.

This is what the Sovereign LORD says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin. I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the LORD.

In Ezekiel 37, the bones rattle and come together and grow tendons and skin, but there is no life present.  Part II involves the word being spoken again, and life is breathed into them.  We can give the appearance of being alive and actually be dead on the inside.  Having tendons and skin, while it might mean that you aren't dry bones anymore, doesn't mean that you are living in the abundant life that Jesus offers.

The bones rattle and receive breath after they hear the word.  Deadness becomes life when we hear Him speak and we chose to respond, but we won't hear Him unless we practice the art of listening.

So for those of you who were at The Big Event this past weekend (or those who also experience the comings and goings of retreat highs), listen up: You did not experience a Jesus high because you were at Lake Champion.  You experienced a Jesus high because you were constantly in Scripture, in prayer, and in fellowship with believers.

If you find ways to incorporate those things into your daily routine, you will experience abundant life all of the time, and not just on retreats and at conferences.

Here are some simple and tangible things you can do:
1.  Read Scripture.  Every day.  I don't care how busy your schedule is or what your major is.  Be in the Word every morning (~1 chapter a day) and don't leave your spot until you find an application for your life.  [And actually read through a book, don't just pop around aimlessly.]  His word is alive and active and He will speak to you through it.  You've never read Scripture before on your own and don't know where to start?  Great.  Try starting with Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John.
2.  Learn how to listen in prayer (rather than talk the whole time).  We are not a people who worship a far off god that we just "shoot prayer requests up to."  We are in an intimate relationship with a living God who dwells in and with us.  Speak and wait to hear.  Journaling can help you focus, so ask God a question and then write a response as He puts thoughts in your mind or pictures in your imagination.
3.  Get plugged in and pursue fellowship.  Join a small group.  Find community.
4.  As you go about your day, practice His presence by becoming more aware of Him in the room.  This might seem tricky at first, but the more you do it, the more natural it becomes.

He loves you and He offers you life--abundant life--that stretches beyond the walls of our worship services, weekly prayer meetings, and off-site retreats.  This life exceeds the limitations of our life stages and schedules and (even sometimes) our lack of close friends that live nearby.

Dare to experience Him always.  It will change you.  Forever.

[Speak.]

"My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me."

-Jesus

To follow Him has always been the invitation.

When Jesus first called His disciples He said, "Come, follow Me."  They left their homes, their families, and their careers to follow.  This initial story parallels our own lives, for those of us who have entered into a relationship with Him.

But the following didn't stop there.  The following continues, always, as we remain His sheep.

Jesus says that He knows these sheep, these followers.  And doesn't this verse also imply that the sheep must know Him?

The word "hear" [Greek = akouō] speaks of attending to what is being said and giving an ear to a teacher.  It is a choice.  The reality is, He is speaking all the time, and the invitation is to listen.  And when we decide to listen to Him, we grow to know Him more.

The call is to hear and thus to know Him, to have Him know us, and to follow.  When Jesus beckons us to come, it is not a one-time decision or even a once-every-six-months decision.  We joke in this Christian culture of experiencing "come to Jesus moments," but the invitation is not to come during a season of revelation or hardship or exponential growth.  The invitation is to follow.  Coming happens once or in scattered spurts.  Following happens with every step, every leap, every hobble, and even every crawl.

The invitation is to follow.

The invitation is to listen, because He is speaking.

The invitation is to know and be known.

The invitation is to go deeper,

     in this minute and in the next,

     abiding and praying without ceasing.

Let's stop separating the sacred from the secular.

Let's stop coming to Jesus only when we hear His voice screaming over our noisy lives.

Let's stop coming to Jesus only when we meet with Him in the morning.

Let's say "yes" to the invitation to live out of the Kingdom reality that we are so graciously offered,

     [on earth as it is in heaven].

Let's follow, not come,

     in step with the Spirit, every second of every day.

Let's hear His whispers as well as His shouts,

     because He speaks and His words cut through all of the opaque mundane,

     and all of the thick darkness that we sometimes endure.

He is speaking.

He calls us by name,

     saying, "Child, pay attention,

          you are Mine."

He knows His sheep.

By name, He knows us.

By name, He calls us.

The invitation is to experience Him [always].

The invitation is to go deeper.

always, always, always deeper than before.

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)