I'll Take My Coffee Black

     This morning--I drank my coffee black.  I used to hate coffee--too bitter!  Until college... when I had my first sip of a delicious caramel frappuccino... Step one.  Pretty soon, the slight bitter zing of coffee (disguised by the dessert in a cup) lost its oomph.  A little less sugar, a little less milk.  Frappucinos became lattes became coffee with milk (soy), became just a bit of creamer... and now this.  A morning where I drank (and wanted) my coffee black.
     This morning--I have been sad.  I used to hate being sad--too bitter!  But being naive to the brokenness of this world can't last forever.  I have long sugared-up the pain presented to me by stuffing hard news with invented excuses "oh, I'm sure that person didn't really mean X, Y, Z", by straining out hurt and confused feelings while sprinkling on lots of distractions, and even by adding the whipped cream topper: "look at the bright side."  But little by little, I'm using less and less sweetener.  Less ignoring, less walls, less distractions, less optimistic write-offs... and now this.  A morning where I have been (and wanted to be) sad.
     Because there are some kinds of sadness that are right.  It's the kind of sadness that comes when I watch a boy we have poured into for the past two years make the decision to leave Micah and return to the streets.  The sadness that comes when I think of him shivering and cold, decidedly dismissing our roof of protection and circle of love.  It's a sadness that comes when a friend I once shared all my thoughts, dreams, hurts, and hopes with is no longer with me and can no longer hear me... nor I her.  It's a sadness that comes when I read one of my boys' writing: "I am choosing to reject Jesus, because I am living my own life." What life?  It's a sadness that comes when I see everyone, all of us, making the same decision to live for ourselves and because of that not really living at all.  It's a sadness that comes when I read about the crowd that waved palm trees before that Jesus, ready to make him king, and the very next week shouting "Crucify him!"  It's a sadness when I wonder "Am I a part of that crowd?"  It's a sadness, a deep sadness, that comes when I see us wanting to kill God.
     There is a bitterness that isn't meant to be sugared down.  There is pain.  There is injustice.  There is sin, and there are consequences.  And it is sad.
     And that's okay.
     I don't know if okay is even the right word, but I accept the sadness.  I think that's part of all this--being here, living.  There is a lot of sadness...

     You know, coffee is an intricate experience--when you've been at it long enough.  Strip away all the additives and there are so many flavours to be explored!  It's crazy to me that there are people who can drink a cup of coffee and know what country the beans came from!  But that's not how the coffee journey starts (at least from my experience).  All coffee (at first) tastes like, well, coffee.  Bitter and gross.  But with time and refined taste, what once was bitter becomes beautiful.
     Sadness is like that.  At least, the sadness I am talking about.  Because though I'm still sad, I'm also joyful.  I can't explain it.  The deeper the sadness, the fuller the joy.  Not mixed, but separate... and yet together.  Each flavour highlighting the other.
     Because... the saddest thing I can think of is the cross.  Jesus, our Lord and God who only ever loved us and lived life right, suffered for you and for me.  He suffered.  The pain of this world?  He faced--sugarless.  Bitter.  Death.
    Because.... the most beautiful, joyful thing I can think of is the cross.  Jesus, our Lord and God loved us and lived life right, he suffered for you and me.  The pain of this world? He faced--sugarless.  Bitter.  Death.  To bring LIFE.  True life.  Life that no longer separates us from the Father. Life that brings us into his presence and enables us to know him--beautiful wonderful him.  Life that lasts forever.
     There are so many flavours to be experienced.  And I am not afraid of any of them.  With hope there is hurt.  With beauty there is pain.  But I can taste them all knowing that my Saviour lives.  He himself was a man of many sorrows... And yet he promised us his joy.  A joy that he endured the cross for, scorning its shame, that we may be with him forever.
    And so, give me my coffee black.  I want to see this world for what it is, but even moreso, I want to see Jesus for who he is.  Yes, through all the bitterness, I taste and see that God is good.

Remember Who You Are

SIMBA:

So many things to tell her,

But how to make her see?

The truth about my past--impossible!

She'd turn away from me...

NALA:

He's holding back, he's hiding

But what I can't decide

Why won't he be the king I know he is?

The king I see inside

     If you skipped over those lyrics, go back.  Read them.  Simba has something to teach us about ourselves--who knew?!
     Read them?  Okay good.  Then listen up...

REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE!

     Simba, born to be king.  A lion, born to be courageous--a fighter.  And yet what does he do when circumstances scream death?  He flees.  Why?  Scar, his secret and deceptive enemy, convinces him that he does not belong.  He convinces him that the world would be better off if he were not in it.  He makes him forget his identity--as king.

     Why am I telling you this?  Because we also have an Enemy, and he, too, is cunning, deceptive, and wants to take over the throne--of your life, of mine, and of this world.  And in so many ways we have let him.  We have let the Enemy chase us off into Hakuna-Matata Land and convince us that eating bugs is a delicacy!  Living in our own little universes, blind to the battle being waged around us, we keep looking for pleasure after pleasure to satisfy our roaring appetites.  Vine swinging from dating relationship to dating relationship, grub-gorging in chips bag after chips bag, thrill seeking in vacation after vacation.  Not that these are always bad things, but at the expense of what?  Is there something we are missing?  Where are we being called to FIGHT?

     We have an Enemy.  1 Peter 5:8 says, "Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour."  How does he do this?  Discouragement, complacency, laziness, shame, insecurity, fear.  Shall I go on?  Our enemy is always a LYIN' (get it?! lion---lyin...).  He wants to kick us out of his territory and lull us into sleepy-living, because he knows the Lion KING is on our side.  The lion of the tribe of Judah.  Our Lord Jesus, who when we believe in him, has given us his spirit.  He has given us what we need to fight.

     And I'll tell you where I am called to fight: remembering who I am.  Not so far off from our furry friend, is it?  First step for Simba to return to his homeland and claim what is rightfully his: remembering who he is.  And who is he?  His father's son.  Who is his father?  King.  And guess what?  So is mine.  So is yours.  But how often do we let the fear of our past grip us--convincing us that we are just a sham, a coward, a nobody?  This is an attack of the Enemy--who doesn't want us to come back and live into the victory of the TRUE king!  The victory the Lord Jesus has already won for us in his death and resurrection.

     My brothers and sisters, this is a call to battle.  This is Nala calling out the Simbas.  You aren't dead, you are alive.  SO LIVE.  Look to Christ.  Find your confidence in him.  Stop letting the Enemy lure you away and convince you that the darkness of the Shadowlands means that it is time to go to sleep.  NO!  Instead of fear, put your confidence in Him.  "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me" (Ps 23:4).  Instead of insecurity, remember whose say matters.  "If God is for us, who can be against us" (Rom 8:31)!  Instead of surrendering to your weakness, find your strength in Him.  "Be strong in the Lord and in his might" (Eph 6:10)!  Have your weapons at the ready--cling to the Word of God!

     And now I'll go back to the song that began all this: Can you feel the love tonight? Nala's love for Simba reminded him of who he was and brought him back to where he was meant to be.  How much more, then, should the love of Christ woo us and bring us into the life he died for us to have?  Can you feel the love tonight?  If you can't, look to Jesus.  Look to the cross.  Look to the empty tomb.  That's love.  And so, by the strength of his power, let's go fight.  Remembering who we are, let's go love.

(My ladies bible study group is currently going through "The Armor of God" by Priscilla Shirer.  If you Ladies in particular want to dig deeper, I highly recommend doing this study!)

Stung!

     Sun shining, birds chirping, bible open, heart at rest.  Another beautiful morning bright with possibilities.  All was well.  Or so it seemed.
     It started with an itch.  A small itch on my right foot.  Too small to even be consciously registered, but my subconscious was quick to act.  My left foot swiftly brushed the source of my discomfort and in-so-doing burrowed its perpetrator into my veins.  And it hurt... a lot.  Looking down, I realized what I'd done.  A wasp.  I'd been stung.... and I'm allergic.  Great.
     I'd been stung by the Honduran version of a "wasp" here before, and nothing much happened aside from a swollen bite and some lasting discomfort.  Needless to say, I forgot about it soon enough.  I even let the pain of the sting motivate my morning run.  No pain, no gain!  Let the sting push me onward!  Bad idea?  Yeah, I'd say so.
     If I had allowed logic to lead me (or even the morning heart prompting that whispered "No run today"--something I clearly ignored...),  I would have taken it easy.  Instead, I elevated my already-in-overdrive heart rate with my obnoxious obsession to compete with my own shadow.  About 20 minutes in, I noticed my lips were starting to feel a little tingly.  That's odd... My chin was becoming numb.  Huh, that's weird... 30 minutes in, Man, my head itches! Maybe I should take some Benadryl.  Thankfully, some logic was setting in (however minimal).  I scoured our cabin for meds.  None.  The medicine cabinet at the house.  Nada.  Went to the Bells' home.  Zip.  Alright, maybe I should go to the clinic right next door.  Went to get Jessica to accompany me.  Told her I was a little uncomfortable and concerned about a potential allergy.  She noticed my arms.  Oh, that's not good.  Hellooooo rash!  The madness had begun.
     Clinic, closed.  Pain, increasing.  Not good, not good.  The Micah cook came out and verbalized my fears as she nervously gasped, "What happened to you!?"  Ahhh, yes, my face.  A swollen marshmallow-like rose garden perhaps?  Yes.  Well, at least I won't be as cat-called as normal today.
     Thanks to other staff members who were more in their right mind than I was at the time, they pushed me into the Micah van, prayed over me (their anxiety was increasing as they watched my bronzed skin flame into red sweltering bumps), and sent me on my way--traffic and all--to the nearest (relative) emergency room.  By the time I'd arrived, I was already pretty faint and my throat had begun swelling shut.  Not good, not good.  But I was at peace, somehow.  Gift of God?  Had to be.
     I threw myself down on the nearest hospital bed and was quickly surrounded by a flood of nervous-looking doctors and nurses.  Well that's reassuring.  "This is for the allergy," one of them told me and put a pill in my hand.  "This is for the allergy," another said and slipped me an IV.  "This is for the allergy," yet another said, pulling out my favorite: a butt shot.  "This is for your stomach," the IV nurse attached a second bag of liquid.  My stomach? Ah well, who was I to argue?  "This is for your pain," another said.  Okay, this is starting to feel a little overkill.  Needless to say, they attended to me.  By the third IV bag of saline, I knew I was racking up a hefty bill with, in my humble opinion, some rather unnecessary precautions.  Want some proof?  They brought in the head doctor to tell me in English all the things they'd already told me in Spanish.  Just a few things.  All things I had already understood.  They charged me 100 buckeroos for that two minute chatter.  Cool.  
     "Has this ever happened to you before?" the English speaking cranky man asked me.
     "Yes, fourth grade," I answered him (in Spanish).
     "And how many nights did you stay over in the ICU?"
     Nights! Ha! You've got to be kidding me... "Uhhh, none? They just gave me the shot and I was good to go."  Wish they'd let me out of here now, too...    Cranky man left.  Nice nurses stayed around a bit.  They came in and out, every time asking me if I wanted the TV on.  Nope, the answer is still no.  The peace and quiet of the room to myself was actually refreshing.  My whole life here feels like a freaking soap opera--no need to watch one.
    An hour goes by... two... three... Breathing, fine.  Skin, fine.  Mental state, relative.  Four... Five... Err.... Am I ever getting out of here? I made myself known every time they came in to change out IV bags, "Are you sure I need that?  Are you SURE?"      "Yes."
     Okay, well, I'm alive.  So... that's good.
     After about 7 hours, they finally said I could go and handed me a prescription for ten days of two different types of drugs to help with "the allergy."  (I didn't get them).  And then came my favorite: the bill.  In the flurry of the morning's activity, I was not in any state to worry about grabbing cash or card.  Thankfully, the wonderful woman who drove me grabbed some Micah money and covered the mystery expenses.  At my insistence she finally admitted to me the cost.  6500 limps ($350).  Okay, okay, a lot more than necessary but this is my life we're talking about.  I should be grateful.  I should be grateful.
    I wasn't very grateful.  Racking up the unnecessary charges in my mind and thinking about how I would pay for the day's adventure, my mind quickly shifted from the gift to the cost.  Considering what I was paying for, it wasn't even that much.  And it's not like I didn't have it, I just didn't want to spend it.  I had just been given my life back, and I had already become a stingy calculator.  But I realized that, and I stopped.  Wait a second, brain, you are freaking out.  The work of God is to trust in him.  Are you doing that?  No.  So shut up!     And right then, in the split second of mental silence, came a very distinct whisper whose voice I know well, "Your life cost much more than that."
     If my own self talk didn't shut me up, that certainly did.  I knew the Lord had spoken to me, and he was right (as usual).  Three-hundred and fifty dollars?  I could pay that back.  But the price God paid for my life--the life of his own Son?  That is a debt I will never be able to make up, and he knew it when he foot the bill.  God paid the price for my life.  He decided I was worth it.  And he paid. Because of him, I am alive.  Forever.
     You see, a wasp's sting is one thing, but death's sting is a whole different ball game.  Sin's venom is far more deadly, and its poison I willingly burrowed into my own veins.  The consequence was lethal, but thanks be to Jesus Christ and his pure blood, shed for me, I have been given the ultimate transfusion.  His blood runs through my veins, and because of that marvelous gift, I belong to him. Forever.

The Love That Wasn't Asked For

    Hovered around a beaten up couch with my Micah family, I gently held little Daniel's hand and scratched wide-eyed Noe's back as we watched our newest brother screaming with every shred of life he had left.  Though our latest Micah member had only come into the home two days prior, twelve-year-old Jose Luisito had already been strong on our leader Michael's heart for months after seeing his frail little body living and dying on the streets. Yes, I am convinced that God chose Jose Luisito to be adopted into our family far before he ever came to us, and even before Michael had been awoken night after night with little Luisito's face etched into his thoughts and prayers.  Jose Luis was chosen to be rescued.
     But that rescue was not chosen by Jose Luis.  So malnourished that he should be dead, why wouldn't Jose Luis want someone to save him from the destruction of the streets?  Why wouldn't he want the food he needs instead of the crack he craves?  Jose Luis didn't want to be rescued.  He still doesn't.  He wants the streets.  He wants what is killing him.
     Unlike typical Micah policy, we didn't give Jose Luis a choice.  We took him in, and we've kept him. This may seem unfair to you, against his free will, but he is a dying child.  It doesn't take more than one look at his small skeleton blanketed only by a thin layer flesh of flesh to see that he's nearing his last breath.  Something had to be done.
    There have been many moments of play--futbol, video games, bike-riding--but afterwards always come the crisis.  He screams, he curses, he bites, he kicks, he cries... To keep him from fleeing to his doom, men and boys gather around and pin him down on that rugged couch.  The staff and Micah boys pray as they speak words of love over him--"We are for you.  We are doing this because we love you.  This is for your good..."--yet Jose Luisito always responds with words of hate.  Cursing Michael, who has done nothing but love him.  Threatening to kill those who are standing in his way, who are the only obstacle keeping him from fleeing to his own bitter death. Spitting at those who are holding his head to keep him from choking himself. Proclaiming Satan while we speak over him the truth of Jesus as the one who has conquered him.  
     Jose Luisito has his demons.  The effects of crack cocaine and the demons inside him are evident to us all.  The battle is real.
    But the battle is not only real for Jose Luisito, it is real for us all.
    No, I have never been a cocaine addict.  No, I have never encountered demons in the way this child has.  But I have been dead.  Dead in my sin.  Unaware of the life and love of my Father.  I have spit at Jesus, rejecting the one who came to save me.  I have tried to run away from him, believing I know better than he.  I have rejected his provision and instead have chosen to care for myself.  I too am a recovering addict--an addict to sin.
     But God chose me.  And he never let me go.  Struggling to run away from his love only makes me tired, because there's nowhere that I can flee from his presence.  The discipline he's shown me has always been for my good.  My Daddy loves me.  He sent his Son to die for me even when I considered him my enemy.  He showed his love for me when I didn't even want it.
     When I see the Micah family, all filled with their own hurts, struggles, bruises, and baggage, huddled around this boy that they are determined to love, I see the Gospel.  I see Jesus, my Savior, and my loving Father who sent him.  Oh, I long for the day that Jose Luisito rests in the freedom that he has been brought into.  I long to see the drugs leave his system and for the demons to flee.  I long to see him playing with joy--laughing and smiling, free from fear.  I long to see him overwhelmed with gratitude that Michael decided to take him in, and trusting that he really does love him.  But even more than that, I long for the day that his eyes are opened to the love of the Lord.
     I have tasted and I have seen: The Lord is good. He is our loving Father. He hates the sin in us just like we hate the crack in Luisito--he hates it because it's killing us.  The sin is not us; the sin is our drug. Evidence that we have rejected the Father.  We sin because we don't love our Father.  We don't love our Father, because we don't believe that he loves us.  But, oh, how he does love us.  He showed us his love when he died for that sin, so that we may live with him forever.  He wants us to live with him forever because he loves us.  So let's believe that the Lord does love us and that he knows what is best for us so that we may begin living in the love, joy, and freedom that he died and rose for.

*After being initially rejected for treatment in the hospital, we have finally found a treatment center for Jose Luisito that will help us help him on his journey to healing, to his journey home.  Please pray for Jose Luisito.

Identity Clarification

I am not spectacular.
I am not the star of the show.
I am not sure of the right thing to say nor how to say it.
I am not the savior of Honduras.
I am not the solution to the world's poverty.
I am not the most popular, nor am I the most hated outcast.
I am not the life of the party.
I am not the light in the darkness.
I am not the one who will satisfy your needs, heal your pain, or take away your aching hunger.
I am not who you're looking for.
I am not.

There is one I am, and I am not him.  I am his witness, and I am here to tell you who is the I am: Jesus Christ.

Jesus is the great I AM.  The one who is and is to come.  The one who was before all things, and through whom all was made.  Jesus is the star of the show, the Savior, the solution, the living water, the light in the darkness, the light of men.

Jesus gets the glory, and he has shown me who I really am: I am his--I belong to the true I am. Because of him, I am a child of God.  Forever loving, serving, and praising (with great joy) our great I AM.

Oh, won't you join me?!?

Unveiling Zits on the Road to Glory

     Let me tell you a little not-so-secret secret: I have acne. Not exactly a problem I enjoy having. What girl wants to have puffy red dots all over her face? Not me. Driven by insecurity, I have gone about fixing this all too visible flaw in my vanity through various cleansers, masks, and, as only girls have the luxury of doing, makeup.  But, let me tell you from experience, all the layers of chemicals and skin-colored powder have only made everything worse.  Because, no matter how much I try to cover it up on the outside, the problem is on the inside.
     Let me tell you another bigger not-so secret secret: I have sin--a problem that is far uglier and far, far worse than a couple of zits.  And just as all my pesky pimples are only a symptom of the bacteria trapped inside me, all my icky behaviors that come to the surface--getting impatient with my roommate, boasting about my abilities, using harsh and manipulative words to get my way, arguing with my mother--are just the manifestation of a problem that is within my very nature.  A problem I was born into.  Try as I may to cover up all my pride with some real good spiritual makeup or religious zit-pop by trying to fix all my wrong behaviors on my own, these me-methods simply won't work. I will never get rid of my sin by dealing with it on the surface.  Sure, coverup may appear to be working for a while, but even if other people can't see what's underneath, God sure can.  And it's what he sees that matters to me, anyway.

     Now let me tell you something a little more hopeful in all this: my acne is going away.  I've figured out that certain foods irritate me, so I've started eating right to clear out my system from within.  I've also decided "to heck with the makeup!" If I want to see some true change, I've got to okay with the ugliness that's going to be exposed along the way. And you know what? It really is getting better!
     Let me tell you something way more hopeful than a more even skin tone: Jesus has conquered my sin problem.  He died for my sin--my ugly, horrible sin--by taking it on himself and defeating it.  My sin problem isn't a behavioral issue, those are just the zits that show me there's something that needs to be dealt with.  My sin is a nature problem: a bigger-than-me-I-can't-fix-it-I-need-a-doctor problem. And praise be to Jesus, he has done away with the old and made me new.  The sins that still cling to me?  Those don't define me--Jesus' righteousness is what defines me now.  And the sin that's still in me?  By the grace of God it is being being dealt with and extracted by his firm, loving hands.  Jesus has made me a new woman--that is his free gift, but I also am taking my responsibility seriously to "eat right" (feasting on the word of God!) and stop using spiritual makeup (I don't want to be a hypocrite! authenticity for the win!), so that God can work out in me what he's done within me.  Jesus has already saved me, but it's a process to take off the old nature and put on the new.  To surrender myself daily to the work that Jesus is doing inside me.  Yes, I'm aware that means a lot of ugliness is going to be exposed on the way, but I also know that I am daily getting closer to true healing and wholeness. And, oh, I am excited for the day when I get to stand before Christ with confidence and an unveiled (zitless) face, filled with joy as I gaze upon the absolute beauty of his.

***Disclaimer: this post is in not written to trap readers into legalistic dietary and cosmetic rules.  I could care less if you do or do not eat dairy or whether or not you decide to put on some Almay.  I do, however, deeply care about your walk with Christ.  If that's ever something you'd like to talk more about, I'd be more than happy to ;)

Burnt Pans & Broken Plates

     Let's be real about something real quick: I break things.  A lot of things.  I trip.  I fall.  I lose things.  I forget.  I show up late.  I'm messy.  I'm disorganized.  I'm unobservant.  I'm scattered. Keep these qualities in mind when I tell you what I did last night....
     Last night I cooked dinner.
     The whole endeavor began with good intentions. My desire was to honor my roommates with a special me-made meal in order to return the favor for their many incredible kitchen-creations I have shamelessly indulged in.  Comparing their expertise with my limited abilities of popcorn-making and Snickerdoodle cookies (hit or miss depending on whether I keep count right on all the measurements), I knew I was taking on a weighty task.  But a task I would take on.  And I mean FULL ON.  Go big or go home, right? Let's go salmon dinner extravaganza!
     The slight pangs of anxiety began when I watched the clock tick past my desired start time. Sitting down with little Edward to help him finish his math problems, I knew this was where I most needed to be...and, yet, I didn't want to disappoint my roommates by being further behind than planned. Rushing to the kitchen post-homework, I began my meal-making with some typical Kelsey Oops-Moments. Pulling out a pan I'd recently singed with my attempted tea-making experience (I put too little water in with some pineapple peels that burned to the bottom when I forgot it on the stove...), I started up a batch of green beans.  Some nasty pot burny junk surfaced to the top, quickly revealing my previous pan mishap in sight, smell, and sound.  Putting the must-be-cooked-with-precision-salmon in the oven that I couldn't quite tell whether or not was actually pre-heated, I completely forgot to set the timer.  Guess I'd just have to check it myself!  But, not understanding my roommate's directions about "flaking," I assumed I would have to wait for the pink little bugger to turn into a crusty, fried looking filet (hint: that's not what she meant).  Thankfully, my nearby roommate was able to salvage this mistake pre-disaster. Anyway, with these mistakes and others, by the end of the entire experience I felt the tension and disappointment of my less-than-worthy kitchen skills laid out bare before the eyes of the experts.  I wanted to do something special, but by the end I just felt like a disaster... again.  Fighting back tears of failure, I reached in the cabinet to pull out a plate.  My emotion-masking would have been successful if it weren't for that final action.  I dropped that plate, and it shattered, along with my resistance.  The tears came, and I left.
     Taking a moment to gather myself and cry out to the Lord, a few other things ended up surfacing along with the tears.  Something I'd been holding inside: I'm afraid to cook because I don't think I belong in the kitchen. I'm sure you know me well enough by now to know I don't mean actually cooking in an actual kitchen.  Burnt, raw, or perfectly "flaking", a piece of salmon is going to go in and out the same way no matter how perfectly cooked--not a big deal.  What I'm talking about here is this--do I see God's kitchen as a grace-filled place that allows for burnt pans and broken plates?  Or do I see him as a top-notch food critic letting me know all the little ways I'm not living up to his sophisticated tastes (not to mention having ruined his precious cooking equipment in the process)? Although I don't always allow myself to believe it, the truth is that God is full of grace, mercy, and loving kindness.  Yes, he's "the perfect chef", but he also delights in having me with him in his kitchen! He holds my hand and guides me step by step, and though I may slip up, he won't let me fall completely.  He even takes the "broken plates" of my life and finds ways to not let them go to waste. A funky art project perhaps?  A lesson learned in love?  Who knows how, but he does! The truth is, my God is a God of love, and he wants a relationship with me.  Perfect love drives out fear, and since he loves me, I don't have to be afraid of his perfection.  He's willing to walk with me step by step, tablespoon by tablespoon, on the journey to becoming more like him.
     Sure there are times when I'm tempted to stay out of the kitchen.  I find myself closing off to others for fear of their rejection, keeping myself from digging deeper into conversation for fear of saying something I'll regret, letting creative ideas be left undone for fear of never finishing... But in those moments may I remember whose kitchen I'm in: the Lord's.  And if the Lord is on my side, I have nothing to fear.  My Lord works all things together for the good of those who love him.  In the Lord's hands, our greatest disaster can be worked out into his greatest glory and our greatest good. Want proof?  The cross.  Our most shameful moment in history--when we nailed the God of the universe to that horrible cross--turned out to be the climax of our Lord's great mercy and love for us. Talk about redemption!
     So...would you like to know how my messy kitchen chaos ended?  A hug.  My roommates chased me down and drew me out of myself.  After a long embrace and refreshing words, they brought me back to an already-set table to enjoy the surprisingly delicious meal together.  If that's how my (sorry, ladies) totally imperfect roommates respond to me (mess and all), just imagine how much more love my Father who created me shows me!  And not just to me: to you.  He wants you in his kitchen! And though his capabilities far surpass that of a five star meal, he'll joyfully join you where you're at--even if, for now, that means you're still learning how to make toast.  Go on, join him in the kitchen, and trust that he loves you far more than his pans.