where the beauty is

There is trouble in my beloved place.

The sort of trouble that makes it very clear what I have learned in the past year, sets a fire in my bones and reminds me what I find most important, what I want to do with my life.

{Perhaps this will be a compilation, of sorts.}

My dear friend said to me today, about teaching, “I am not here to be me. I am here to show God’s presence to these people.” A good reminder that I am not on this earth to show who I am. I am here to show I AM, to be the love of God to people.

The word for this season has been privileged. I am privileged to pray for this trouble. I am privileged to be part of humanity. I am privileged to be able to mow the lawn, and run for exercise, and have these beautiful friendships. I am privileged to have experienced life in a refugee camp, a small glimpse into the hard life. I am privileged to have been respected, a teacher. Privileged to have shared simplicities: sunsets and soft bread, The Pink Panther in Persian, a night of dancing in the dark, sitting by a fountain watching pigeons and children.

Talking with my dear friend today about this trouble, and we realized that things like this are happening right now all over the world. We just happen to be privileged to pray for this one.

Because it isn’t about me changing the world. It’s about me being a conduit of God’s incredible love for the world. It isn’t about what I can give, what I can share. It isn’t about anything I can give, but what God can give. I am just privileged to be able to participate in that.

I realized, too, that the more aware I am, the more crises there are. I am slowly learning how to balance joy with sorrow, how to hold excitement for God and yet not forget the sorrow.

All year I hemmed and hawed and tried to figure out what happened to me there. And I know now, but I cannot put it into words. There is a language barrier, I think. Something to do with privilege- a gift, and the inescapable love of the uncreated One. Something to do with an ache that will never quite dissipate, an ache for the ones who do not know their value, and a longing for the way it was meant to be.

I ache for people displaced. I ache for people who hoard their lives, their synthetic imitations of love. I ache for the ones who walk across deserts, only to find there is no place that wants their stories. I ache for the ones who do not understand the value of listening. I ache for the children who know no different.

We’re missing out. The hard life is where the beauty is.

I don’t write this to preach. I’m really bad at praying consistently. I forget to be thankful. I get frustrated with people way too easily. I snap. I forget to allow God to love the world through me. I choose not to serve. I just think we’re missing out. Most of the time, I’m missing out. It’s these hard reminders that the world isn’t as it should be but oh what a privilege it is to get to talk to the uncreated One about it. And the special, painful times that make my heart ache and my bones burn for life. These troubles that remind me of the glory of God— funny how that works, isn’t it?— and God’s incredible, inescapable, awesome love (and the absolutely stunningly beautiful privilege it is to get to participate in being human, being loved, walking the deserts and listening.)