the year I will never forget

I woke up with all the air I could fill in in my lungs

only to let it all out with one very long sigh

twenty-one is over today

and I am trying to convince myself to focus on the mountain of homework I have instead of getting emotional like I always do this time of year

it's not working very well 

year twenty-one was one of those years you can't forget

no matter how hard you try

this was the year I mourned the most

and loved the hardest

this was the year I raised my first in the air 

for something bigger than myself

I learned how to use my voice as a 

megaphone

bridge

whisper 

twenty-one had 

baptisms & weddings & deaths

graduations 

lots of coffee  

a major title shift at work that gave me 

my family of high schoolers

being snowed in on a mountain with that family

the honor to help lead a student organization on campus for social unity

basketball & football & volleyball 

games cheering on my kids

celebrating an 18th birthday that will forever be my favorite birthday

breaking ground on the Woodhill community center 

sunshine

city adventures 

our beautiful Bella Sky Rose being born

serve the city meets the EYF fam

moving to the West Coast

making life long friends & family

sand & salt water

graffiti & tacos 

Mexico

life on the street

sunsets & being a momma for a couple weeks 

the boy

unexpected life lessons through suburban kids 

hundreds of hours in urban ministry 

a new home on the east side

see you later's in NYC & NJ

senior year

being a neighbor 

hope fellowship

and of course capstone 

twenty-two will look nothing like twenty-one for a lot of reasons

that's ok

I am thankful for what it was & the work it did on my heart

I left it tired but hopeful

answers in the sidewalk

Today I walked around my city.

I walked out of a meeting I got told to stop running from my calling.

And I just started walking.

I walked till I got a blister from my flats.

This is why I don't wear flats.

I made the phone call I always make in these situations, 

only to be told the thing I always get told in these situations.

Deep breath.

I hate accountability when it's someone keeping me accountable.

Sure, I keep my kids accountable, my roommate, sister, and some friends when they ask me to.

When it's me?

I'd rather just be forgotten.

I wish someone else would step up or feel the same calling within their spirit and that way I wouldn't have to play this out myself.

I walked over the cracked sidewalk.

I squinted my eyes when the sun started to peak through the tall buildings filled with important business people. 

I smiled to the man asking for money against the wall and told him he reminded me of an angel I met in San Diego.

My mind was both racing and at peace all at the same time.

The "to-do" list is way too long, but for some reason, it's okay.

The "to-do" list doesn't go away... not for me. 

The contents will not stay the same, but there will always be work to do. 

There will always be someone holding me accountable.

Thank God.

I will always find my answers in the sidewalks.

Whether I want it or not.

And now it is time to look at that "to-do" list and call out what makes priority.

What lasts.

What holds power and importance.

What things are simply out of my control.

This won't be the last time I consult the cities sidewalk to work things out in my mind and heart.

But now to hold myself accountable.

And put the running shoes up.

Cake Pops on the East Side

For those of you who don't know, I've been blessed with the opportunity to live in a really beautiful home on Jefferson Avenue.

Smack in the middle of Park Ridge and whats famously known as the East Side.
I am in walking distance of Magnolia as well as the Historic District of North Knox.

This is the street where twenty-thirty something young professionals meet and the ladies walk the streets at night regularly.

This is the couple of blocks where more than a handful of my neighbors have composts in their back yards, and the others have low riders with huge subs in the trunk sitting in their driveway.

This is the porch sitting community. The place you take your kids on afternoon walks.
This place is not just where "North Knox" and "East Knox" collide.

This is our home.

                                                                        -

If you know me at all you know that a huge passion, value, or ideal of mine is to live in community with Gods people. And for awhile now I have been able to live that out in several different ways. Always providing an adventure, learning experience, challenges, and preparing me for when I have a home of my own, and I get to share it with others.

I've dreamed for years of a big house with enough room for a football team size family.
A kitchen table that never seems to run out of room for my big boys, and baby girls.
Space for friends and neighbors to seek rest, fellowship, and love.

This past summer I shared 400 square feet with four other bodies and somehow we still managed to make room for guests to eat and hang out. I really believe that our homes are meant to be places of refuge and recuperation after a chaotic day in the world, but for people that do not have that space of their own... I also feel called to have a willingness to share resources and create a place that welcomes everyone.

Since moving onto Jefferson Ave I have been stretched and challenged in my own beliefs of communal living, and how sometimes you have to put your desires or comforts to the side in order to really look like Christ to the community you're in.

Last night my house was full of beautiful, giggly, creative, patient, loving, little girls. My heart was overflowing so much I had to step away for a few minutes to make sure I wasn't going to break down in tears. It was as simple as watching them play in the backyard and being willing to help clean up the house. It was how they loved on each other and how desperate they were to just have a place away from their reality for a few hours.

A place they can get their hands messy making cake pops, and jam out to some Beyonce in the living room for a dance party. A place they could play, be heard, encouraged, share in the food and fellowship of each other. All we did was open our home and watch the rest unfold.

I never want to take that for granted.

Reverse Culture Shock

This is not writers block. This is not a lack of words. This is reverse culture shock.

I'm still trying to figure out how you can live somewhere for just 12.5 weeks, after living somewhere else your whole life, yet returning to that place feeling like an alien.

I remember walking to get my bags off of the conveyor belt in Cincinnati, my parents I hadn't seen in almost 3 months right next to me, and feeling lost.

God bless them I know they care, I know they wanted to listen to me and my hoarse voice from sickness talk about all of the adventures, lessons, and friends, but there was a disconnect because they did not see or feel or know first hand what I was talking about. I felt so bad.

We walked into their house in Lexington a few hours later and I just started to sob. Mind you this is the same house I lived in all middle and high school. But it was different now. The stove, the central heating and air, the dish washer, the big open rooms, my own room, full of childhood. I was sick. Inconsolable. Never before had I felt this way. All I wanted to do was just walk out the door and see my friends walking into the Park Gallery downstairs getting ready for college group, or see dozens of cars zipping by the most dangerous intersection there ever was. All I saw was the same house, row after row. The suburbs. I couldn't hear anything. No helicopters, sirens, people talking, palm trees rustling. Nothing.

A few days later I was back in Knoxville. Moved back to the East Side. Finding my way into senior year and another term at Emerald. Surely seeing my kids and friends would heal whatever sort of sadness I still had... that and time and I'd be fine right?

Apparently not.

Going through the motions I am expected to achieve, turning in work, showing up for class, scanning into chapel. It's all a blur. Sitting still in classrooms for over 6 hours a day after I spent 3 months under the sun, dancing in the streets with babies that had no homes... Living in this big house after sharing 400 square feet with 5 people... Friends that complain about their iPhone update being slow when I sat on  public bathroom floor to help a prostitute sew her skirt with an earring... And yet I'm honestly embarrassed that I'm more than a month removed from the summer and I still can't shake some of the things I felt, saw, experienced, and left behind in order to just "fit in." F that.

"Why can't I integrate back into this dang southern culture like everyone else?"

I'm still mourning the dead bodies from last year, let alone this summer. So forgive me if I find it a little hard to comprehend why I owe anyone a fake smile. I want to not have nightmares anymore. I want to feel like I didn't compromise. I want to know that my black and brown brothers and sisters won't be another hashtag. I want to stop piling stones in front of my heart because I'm starting to forget what it feels like to allow anyone else in.

But I know those things wont stop happening anytime soon.

And I know that I will continue to have an empty feeling inside of me until I am able to deal with the beautiful wins, and tragic losses from the summer. So my prayer is to be present when it's so easy not to be. My prayer is that I will continue to serve the Lord wholeheartedly, allow myself grace, lament the hard things, and rejoice the good.

Here I am, on the eve of a season change, in more ways than one.
Finally admitting reverse culture shock has settled in.
Still taking names, facing waves, and using up a lot of sand paper in hopes I look like Jesus at the end of this journey.

But this tough girl is tired.

Facing the Waves

"Don't turn your back to the waves!" 

"But I'm too scared!"

"You just have to face it head on."

And then she went back to the shore.

On my last Sunday in San Diego, Amy and I went to where everything somehow makes sense. After a tough night before, both of us were in need of some salt water and sun set healing. So we filled our glasses with coconut water, put on our swim suits, and pilled in sweet Nan determined to find peace.

That was when the biggest wave I've ever seen in person beat me up like I was a guy in fight club. Salt in my eyes, my mouth, and sand everywhere (I'm still convinced I have sand in my ears from that darn wave) This is when I started to feel defeated. Like okay, I am supposed to be out here enjoying myself, and spending time with Amy... but no, this wave had other ideas and I retreated to my beach chair to cough up water and sand and cry about the new bruises I had from hitting the ground so hard.

"You done?"

Heck no I wasn't done. 

Was I going to come all this way to the beach just to get wrecked by one massive wave and call it a day? 

No way.

Even after Amy had found her way back to our spot on the beach, I stayed in those waves. The waves I later found out were on the news for some of the biggest and strongest this season. But I could have told you that! And I remembered what she said about facing the waves. Maybe she was right. Maybe facing them wasn't so scary and I was the one who really needed to trust that I would end up okay. Even if I did get a little beat up by the waves. Even if I needed to let the water rush over me while I catch my footing again. 

So, after a few half attempts, I did it. 

I turned my swim suit clad body to the setting sun. 

To face the waves head on.

I jumped up, and came right back down as if no effort was needed.

I wish I could explain to you the feeling that came over me. I had a peace about me, but also so much excitement! I wanted to do it again and again as if I was a child going to the beach for the first time. I stayed out there, facing some of the biggest waves of the season, sharing the space with some of the most talented surfers I've ever seen. We exchanged comments like, "Dude, this is crazy" and I even caught myself yelling back at Amy like, "Did you see that one?!" 

We ended the night with a less than exciting sunset, but I won't remember the clouds and darker sky. I'll remember Amy listening to my story, praying over me, and being the encouraging voice I needed to see that facing the waves head on, isn't all that bad. 

This is all I can say to describe my summer here in San Diego, a season in my life where more often than not I wanted to turn my back on the hard things. I wanted to close my eyes and act like I did not know what was coming my way, or take control over situations that were much more heavy, powerful, and messy than I could handle on my own. But the day I realized that getting knocked down, beat up, or bruised up a little bit in urban ministry didn't mean I needed to sit out... was the day I felt the most at peace with where God had me. 

I started to face the waves head on in San Diego, but that doesn't mean the adventure stops here...

"How was your Summer?"

Much like Jesus had his disciples feel the holes in his flesh, from where he hung on the cross, to make them believe, I too want you to touch my heart and say, "Look, feel, believe what I am telling you!" 

This summer has left crater sized holes in my heart.

It has also filled in a lot of cracks I've been born with, or acquired after being handled without proper care. 

This is a feeling no one could understand without physically poking around in my soul long enough to realize, wow, she wasn't lying, this place is messed up. 

But alas, I will just have to use my half ass words and poor typing skills to convey just how messy it really is...

how beautiful. 

After about a dozen attempts, I gave up writing about what I was seeing, feeling, smelling, doing, experiencing, learning, here. 

Nothing worked. 

Everything felt forced. 

It was as if people were waiting with binoculars at the very idea I had a story to share about being the little white girl who went to California to love on homeless people.

I hated that feeling. 

I hate that I didn't want that title.

I hate that I hated being white. I hate that I wanted to be seen as more than a little girl. I really hated the idea that I needed to give people positive stories about homeless people finding homes, or how miraculously they were no longer addicted to drugs, or how I even bring one to Jesus! 

I hated that I felt the need to shelter anyone from the daily reality of the people I see day in and day out, the true suffering our country is going through right under our phone screens or turned up noses, distance, or just plain ignorance that keeps us from seeing it. The life of the person living on the street. The one hiding behind a title or mask in the church or corporate world. The person who is addicted to numb the pain of their situation. The Refugee from the Middle East. The Immigrant from Mexico. The single mom. The rich white kid who has never had to worry about money, food, or housing. The man whose past is so vividly displayed across his body, even if his heart and eyes look different now. How more often than not I felt like I wasn't good enough for this.

News flash. That's a lot of "I hate's" coming from a girl who preaches Love & Peace. So you can see where some inner turmoil comes into play here. And a lot of resolution has happened, and still seeking to be found. 

Don't hold it against me. 

I don't NEED to give anybody, any particular story.

I don't personally NEED to be anything other than a little white girl, to do what it is I do, just as long as I go about it in a respectful, fruitful, God honoring way. 

So here I am. 15 days away from another seemingly impossible transition. 

Still wondering what it is I am supposed to say about the last 3 months.

Hoping my elevator answer to, "How was your summer?" doesn't sound like a horrible mix of vacation meets activist.

My heart will miss...

Sundays, surrounded by people who look more like the Kingdom will in the end than most churches looks now.

Listening to all the youth group kids laughing outside my window on Tuesday nights & yelling at me from across the yard.

Serving food and praying with the residents at the Plaza every Wednesday with my favorite human beings from the San Diego Rescue Mission.

The few Thursday nights I was able to make it to our college/young adult group and just surrounded myself with some extremely woke young people on fire for the Lord. I owe a lot to those friendships. Y'all did a piece on my heart about what it means to be transformed and adopted by Jesus after a life less than perfect. 

Being able to say "Happy Food Distribution Day!" every Friday to a group of volunteers that are THE MOST ridiculous, but I wouldn't want them to be any other way. 300-500 people coming through our line every week, whether I was the one handing them the food, cleaning up, gleaning for other ministries, or just trying to keep the spirits up as I walked around, that has left a mark for sure. 

All the afternoons spent sorting through fruits and veggies at Feeding America, getting to know the future business owners, lawyers, doctors, politicians, etc. informing them what it feels like to be that 1 in 5 kid going hungry in San Diego.

Every day I went out on the street.

I've never felt the way I do about East Village for any other neighborhood. 

Let that sink in.

There are places on this earth I call home. And then there is East Village. 17th down by Imperial and the bypass might as well be Hell on earth. Take away the drugs, rapes, alcohol, mental illness, physical disabilities, burnings, stabbings, cool. The fact that people are only living with what is on their back, in filth, in their own little village blows my mind. 

I've met people with joy out on the street, there is no joy there.

The strongest street team leaders do not choose to go there most days because it is that rowdy, and yet, I somehow find myself drawn to the darkest depths of that block. 

When others are fleeing, people like me go running toward it. 

Not for a gold medal, not for praise, but out of fear that those people will never see light if I don't go.

I could list off names, experiences, days that left the most impact on me. Days I sobbed driving up, or pulling out of the driveway because I just couldn't hold it in anymore. I could tell you of the dozens of times I made a group of kids turn around in their tracks, or how I still can't breathe around cops. How I took shanks away from drunk ladies, or hugged weeping men because they will never be the father they needed to be to their children. Have you imagine what it's like talking to a group of kids over top 4 choppers looking for a man that killed 3 people in their sleep. I could relive the ongoing jokes I have with Sweet Willy, Heather, Charles, Ms. Streetz, Freckles, Tim, etc. about how a little white girl can earn respect out on the street if she works hard enough for it. 

I could tell you how I fell in love with being called his Mija. Became part of a family that represents everything hot mess and redeemed by the Lord. How five guys in the mission taught me more about what it means to be treated by a man respectfully, than any other dude in Bible college ever has. I could tell you how living in 400 square feet with 5 people is crazy but so doable. How I swore I would never get used to sirens, and the day finally came where it was just background news. I could tell you that some days the most exciting thing about my summer was counting granola bars or zip lock bags. I've learned to appreciate the other side of ministry. The behind the scenes, the numbers, the phone calls and e-mails. I do not love them. And I'll be honest, I never will. But I do appreciate them. 

There are things I won't share.

Things that got zipped up and put away just like the bodies in those bags.

Anger, hurt, sadness, joy, celebration, all things that I need to hold onto or leave behind here in this city so I can be fully present once I return to the south.

Much like I needed to be fully present here in SoCal. 

I ask for respect in that decision. That some parts of my heart will just be fleshy craters, and no one else besides my family here, and my sweet Father in Heaven need to be concerned with. 

So when the question is asked, "How was your summer?" I'll smile big, maybe even hold back a few tears early on, share a memory here and there and say "I learned a lot, it was messy, and it was beautiful." And I'll revisit a place in my heart that is still aching to understand what it all meant. 

Margins in the City

I ran as fast as I could - sand kicking up behind me

My shoes and all other cares in the world were left in the dust.

Consumed.

-

As the sky turned different shades of bright orange, yellow, pink,

I was waist deep in the water wondering how on earth something so beautiful could also be so, 

Destructive. 

-

As I shook the hard worked hands of my brothers and sisters I couldn't help but question when was 

the last time someone smiled at them, let alone sat and prayed with them.

Broken.

-

I bawled more tears for the earthly fathers, than I ever have before that day.

I also learned that this is something I will be called to forever, even in the dry seasons.

Passion.

-

It's very easy to overlook the margins in the city.

This is the part of urban ministry people don't tell you about.

Find the margins, hold tight, and remember why you came here.