July 19

I had a conversation with my friend Alaina about nostalgia a little while ago.  Both of us are videographers and understand the value of a moment on a fiscal and sentimental level.  I mean, people are willing to dish out INSANE sums of money to have their special memories translated into the tangible.  It’s still the craziest concept to me.  People would take out a small loan if that meant having something that matters to them captured forever. Memories come at an expense.  I think that’s why the present is so painful for me sometimes.  

During my conversation with Alaina we talked about how, because of our awareness of the cost of a moment, we are even more sensitive to each moment as it’s happening.  My job is literally to translate the beauty in seemingly ordinary moments and create something people will hold onto forever.  I know what a beautiful moment will look like as a memory.  I spend the hours filming and editing and stressing to try my best to recreate the feeling of a moment.  I’m hypersensitive to this because that’s what people pay me the big bucks to do.  It doesn’t just happen when I’m at a wedding or event anymore, though.  It happens when I’m rolling pasta dough, sitting on a porch drinking green tea and talking to a cute boy, walking along a busy street while breathing in probably a few too many exhaust fumes, and grading papers that have been crumpled up in frustration.  

It’s a pretty universal human experience to feel nostalgic. We’ve all smelled something that brought us right back to naptime in preschool (personally it freaks me out when this happens).  We’ve all listened to a song that made those feelings crash over us all over again.  Certain places will always feel like home no matter the numerical value of our days spent there. These things hit out of nowhere and we’re left feeling whether we are prepared to or not. 

These past few weeks I’ve felt almost sick from anticipatory nostalgia.  There have been no ordinary moments.  Only ones I where I feel the pang of missing them as they’re happening.  Romanticizing your life is great until it starts to kind of rip you apart. 

I feel as if I’ve lived eight lifetimes since being here (I know this is cliché okay I never promised good writing just honest writing).  I literally Googled “how to make time go by faster” within the first week of being here.  I am no stranger to hard things but I was convinced this would be the one thing that would finally take me out haha.  Dramatic, but true.  Now here I am, wrapping my fingers around every moment and clinging on for dear life as I tend to do with the things I love.  

Living open-palmed in the direction of Heaven is so hard.  But so worth every single thing that falls from my fingertips in the exchange.   

These past weeks have been so full.  Not in the active, exhausting sense of the word.  I just feel content.  Full.  And I haven’t really even done anything.  Wild, huh?

An update: due to an unforeseen change in the Plan™ -  everyone here got covid!!  Crazy how that happens, right?  We do everything in our power to control all the things and then somehow everything goes in the complete opposite direction of where we’ve tried to corral it with our fears.  One thing the Lord continues to (kindly) drill into my thick little skull is that we don’t have control over ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING in life.  There are no guarantees apart from His promises.  

Life begins and ends within the capacity of the things we relinquish control of.  Surrender is the most sacred act we get the opportunity to be a part of. I think I’m (finally) starting to really understand that concept.     

A few weeks ago, we wrapped up week four of teaching with so much joy and newfound confidence.  We were halfway through our time here and we had come so far.  Things began to feel really beautiful during week four.  Undeserved blessings came in the form of students bringing me homemade desserts, little ones running through the halls just for “one more hug, teacher!” and the abundance of love that seeps through every jagged crack this city is made of.   

To celebrate the halfway mark, we planned an overnight trip to Antigua.  We spent the day drinking coffee in front of volcanoes, eating incredible food, admiring the beautiful architecture and people who call the city home, eating more incredible food, and just soaking in the loveliness of it all.  At night we wandered the city and bought Wendy’s frostys and danced through the busy streets and listened to saxophone players and sang along to the music drifting from the crowded bars we passed. It felt pretty movie-like.  I held my camera in my hand and tried to capture the moment.  Some things simply will never translate behind a lens.  This was one of those. 

After we got back to Huehue, sadly, three members of our group tested positive for covid.  We had to cancel classes for a week and my anxiety had AN ABSOLUTE FIELD DAY with all that free time.  Every once in a while, I have a little wee meltdown about life.  You know, over all the things the Bible explicitly says about 3289379827 times not to worry about.  Those things.  

It’s so easy for me to allow lies in and give them freedom to permeate my mind.  I realize that I’m emotionally quite a bit more vulnerable than normal here.  With nowhere to run and nothing strong enough to distract me from the darkness, I’ve had to do the hard and brave thing: be vulnerable with God about the darkness and doubts.  I’ve spent most of my life ashamed of my doubts.  Recently, I’ve learned the Lord never asks us not to have doubts.  He just wants us to bring them to Him.  I like to think He delights in our silly little human fears.  It’s all the more reason for Him to prove us wrong every single time.  

This week I’ve experienced spiritual warfare to an extreme that I haven’t in years and years. The words “spiritual warfare” sound so dramatic. I think it’s important to identify these things and name them, though.  I’ve learned it’s not enough to run from these attacks.  You have to actively fight them with truth.  Fighting back has looked like sitting on the bathroom floor at three in the morning and mumbling scriptures full of His promises.  It’s looked like breaking down and finally being honest with where I am.  It’s looked like being still and making the choice to not run away but run to Him instead. 

A lot of my anxiety comes from fear of the future.  I love to have a plan.  Which is hilarious, because I genuinely have no idea what my life is going to look like from week to week these days.  Don’t get me wrong, I have some big ambitions and desires for my life.  There are a lot of things I love with my whole chest and am convinced are what I was created for.  But my biggest one will always be this: living every single moment with and for Jesus.      

Basically, I’ve realized I would rather spend my life teetering on the edge of the unknown and constantly choosing to let go of my own desires.  I would rather let the Lord carry me from the ledge and set me down gently into the valleys.  I would rather live in uncertainty than regret the life I could’ve lived if only I had the courage to tiptoe to the edge and freefall into His care. It’s the most terrifying and freeing decision I’ve ever made.  

I have two weeks left of teaching and it’s breaking my heart to think about leaving.  I feel like the people and potholes and exhaust fumes and fluorescent blue walls and bland tortillas and mountains are a part of me now.  It’s relatively devastating to think about this place and these people becoming memories. 

It’s a lot easier to see the Lord’s hand in everything when you’ve reached the end of yourself.  At this point, none of this is me.  I mean, it never really was in the first place.  I don’t know how I’m able to stand up and teach and speak and laugh and feel at the level I am these days.  He continues to carry me through in the big and small things. 

I’ve been reading a lot since being here which has been good for my mind and soul, I think.  Right now I’m reading this book (titled Love Anyway)  written by this guy who founded an organization in Iraq to bring relief and medical care to refugees and communities under attack.  The book is wrecking me and my limited and white-washed understanding of the middle east.  Jeremy’s (the author)  life speaks volumes about the power of loving anyways - a bold and powerful message coming from a man who has experienced loss and trauma us westerners can’t possibly wrap our heads around.  His convicting call to “love anyway” hits pretty damn hard.  Love anyway, even when the Lord calls you to move your wife and children to one of the deadliest parts of the world. Love anyway, when your Iranian friend and trusted colleague turns on you and makes your life a living hell.  Love anyway, when ISIS kidnaps your other friend and beheads him and you tragically stumble across the horrific footage. 

Love anyway, even when you’re living in a foreign country and throwing up every stupid day for some reason (yeah).  Love anyway, even when your students are confused and you feel like a big fat failure.  Love anyway, even when things are uncomfortable and scary. 

Love anyway, even (and especially) when it costs you a little too much. The widow who gave Jesus all she had was the one He delighted in. These moments of small (and big) surrender matter so much.  But DAMN do they suck sometimes!!!!!! 

Jeremy’s book is filled with words that will devastate you in the best way.  I want to end this blog with a quote from it that I think everyone should read! He writes:

“I used to believe I was the most alive when I was far from death.   But now I get it - life and death are not opposites.  That kind of thinking only shackles us in fear.  Nobody bypasses the grave.  So it’s actually the choice to die before we die that removes fear from the driver’s seat and makes us most alive to live.”   

So here’s to making the daily choice to die to ourselves.  Here’s to refusing to allow fear any say in our decisions.  I feel more alive to live here than ever.  And I think it’s because I finally crawled into the backseat.