From basement to palace

This is *way* overdue, but my office moved in September and I'm still excited about it!

Over forty people relocated from our basement "rabbit hole" beneath the Freshmen Commons to an elegant historical building with palatial columns, filigreed doors and watery colored glass. We are now on the first floor, which means that torrential rain will no longer flood our space with four inches of water. Yay!

Technically, it isn't a new place; the OGAPS office is actually returning home after a long displacement for renovations. In January of 2013, the University received a grant to restore our building to its original historical state. Here is an article from the TAMU times describing the renovation.

It's definitely an upgrade in every sense of the word, but I'm SO glad the actual moving is finished!

If you've ever moved, you know that a single person's accumulated do-dads, papers, and miscellaneous mess can be daunting. Multiply that experience by about 40, and you've got a pretty good idea of the task we faced. By God's grace we made it to the end with relationships still intact. :)

When the Jack K. Williams Building was built in 1932, its grandiose architecture would have made quite an impression. The Great Depression had made its paralyzing presence known across Texas by that time, and the farmer's sons coming to school from small, dusty Texan towns had probably never seen anything like it.

For many years, all of the University's administrative offices--from the President's office to the Registrar--were housed here. (Our suite actually still contains the original vault where student's cash tuition payments were locked!) For this reason, the building was originally called simply the Administration Building. In 1998, the name was changed to honor the work of former University president Jack K. Williams for his work to increase enrollment while preserving traditional historical landmarks on campus. 

The sweeping staircase in the lobby makes our building a popular spot for bridal pictures. We can see the photographer's flashes through the filigreed door that fills our suite's front entrance, and it makes me remember the fun of taking my own bridal portraits three years ago.

My favorite part of the building is the wide shaded porch that faces the University's green front lawn like a benevolent grandmother. When I sit with my lunch on the cool steps, the smooth columns soar upward to the fourth story roof above my head.

Here are a few more pictures of the details!

Five Minute Friday::Glue

Today I am linking up with Five Minute Friday, a writing exercise where you set a timer for five minutes and write on a specific topic until it chimes at you to lift your fingers from the keyboard. You can join in here!

Today's word = GLUE

Yesterday was all unraveled and ragged. I flew out the door with my shoes barely on my feet and a granola bar in my hand. Seriously, God bless granola bar makers.

My house looks like a garage sale after all the good pickings have been picked over. Ever since our washing machine decided to re-create Noah's Flood two weeks ago, we've been living in a carpet-less home without baseboards or doors or basic organization. Just getting out the door is a feat of memory and agility. Where was my jacket again...? *wracks brain, bumps into furniture*

It really hasn't been too bad. Now that the thirteen rumbling red industrial fans and honking-huge dehumidifier are gone, at least I have a kitchen again. Even while the fans roared, we laughed about their white noise making it easy to sleep.

But yesterday at work my shoulders and neck creaked with painful lumps as the phone constantly rang and rang and rang and my throat grew dry from explaining. The papers piled up faster than I could sort them. My fingers clicked constantly, almost independent of my tired brain as the mental to-do list grew longer and heavier.

It felt like I was coming unglued. Can anyone relate?

I stumbled up the stairs to our homegroup meeting with only half a heart to be there. Heavy-eyed, foggy-brained from my desperate post-work nap, I willed myself to sit.

"Between the songs", they said,  "let's tell what God has been doing in our hearts". What have You been doing, Lord? I wondered. I'm so unglued and discombobulated.

As I flipped backward in the blue journal looking for scraps I'd chanced to record, I found the sweetest words. Words that had patched me together on another ragged, teary day in January.

"Cherise, you do not have less at this moment when you are exhausted and fighting a cold than you do on days when you are well-rested, healthy, and feel in control. You have Me in abundance at all times, and I am all you need."

Wonderful truth.

He is not diminished if I am depleted, and He holds even my unraveled, unglued moments together by his powerful Word.


Side note: My homegroup will notice that this journal entry wasn't what I shared last night with the group. It felt like a personal hug from Jesus for that moment, something just between the two of us for me to feel his love while I shared something else out loud. But now, in the light of a new day, it seemed  appropriate to share.  I hope someone else will feel His love in the middle of an unglued moment like mine. 

Global Week

Last week our church tried something new.

We have always been a “missional” church. We are dedicated to evangelism and discipleship both here in our college town and overseas. For years, we have had special partnerships with churches overseas in countries like Nigeria, Italy, and Mexico, and we send teams each year to those partners. (Shameless plug for the Italy mission trip! It will change your life!)

We usually talk about the trips in spaced-out spurts: Mexico one week, Nigeria another week.

Not this year.

This year, our leaders decided to streamline, focus, and intensify by creating Global Week: a seven day period of teachings, prayer, worship and information about Jesus' Great Commission. We had a free missions conference by The Traveling Team, a half-night of prayer, info lunches about each mission trip—the works.

To be honest, I was nervous about last week. I was afraid that all this talk of missions would rip the band-aid off the old, unmet desire to go to the ends of the earth. That it would poke the wound raw, stir up the discontent I had almost ignored.

Here is my old pattern:
1) I see a need.
2) It’s huge.
3) My heart breaks.
4) I jump to the rescue.

And just to clarify,“Rescue” usually involves prayer, tears, and an intense desire to sell my car and hop on a plane. In the end, I feel frustrated because I’m here, not there.

Like I said, this is the old pattern.

 On that Sunday as the last session by The Traveling Team ended and we folded our chairs to leave, I realized that something was missing. The heart-wrenching, hopeless, urgent feeling was gone. In its place was a quiet, growing excitement to be so stratigically placed.

I remembered with a jolt that almost every hero of the Traveling Team’s stories was a man or woman whose most meaningful work was the mobilization of students. They were willing to go themselves, but humble enough to realize that God’s glory is often more magnified through community than through a single man or woman's zeal. It made me feel honored—not displaced—to be living here among college students.

After all, what could be more strategic?

He has placed me here. Until he reassigns me, I will be faithful in this place, with these students, with these kids and the kids on our street. At this moment, I simply feel content to pray, trusting that God will tell me the next step.

If you’d like to read more, check out this post, in which I realized that staying and sending can sometimes be radical obedience.

Soggy

Only three weeks on the job, and already I’m part of an office-wide adventure. In my head, it’s called Operation Soggy.

 

 

If you live near us, you probably woke in the middle of the night this past weekend to torrential rain and an electric light show that shook your house. It was fantastic. When I peeked out the window, the street was a single writhing river of silver and the shadowy trees were bending double under the wind. I grabbed some earplugs, covered my eyes against the lightening, and went back to sleep.

 

 

The next day, I learned that the awesome storm had caused some not-so-awesome flooding in our basement office. 

All the rubber baseboards were removed and thrown in a pile.

They brought in an ARMY of green industrial fans.

Check out the water line outside!

  For now, several of us are temporarily working from the sixth floor of the campus library as the sheet rock is replaced, soggy documents are rescued, and the army of green fans blow round the clock.

How does my garden grow?

 The last time I showed you my garden, the box stood stark in the ground, softened only by a few tiny pepper and tomato plants.

Look at it now!

Because of the drought our area has had for the past two summers, I was considering installing an auto-drip system. But because this summer has been pretty wet so far, my new concern is drainage. Too much water equals root-rot. I'm hoping that the fact that it's a raised bed will help.

I'm excited about these baby tomatoes!

And these flowers will one day be cucumbers!

Not sure why the bell peppers are looking puny. Too much water perhaps?

There is one problem I have no clue how to fix. Little sugar ants are eating the stems of my zucchini plants at the root! Does anyone know how I can stop them?

Returning

My least favorite part of any mission trip has always been the goodbye. You pray, prepare, go, serve and love with all your heart--and then the moment comes when you leave, taking only photos and a certain but far-away hope that you'll see them again in Heaven.

But this year is different! This year will be the first time that I get to return, making last year's goodbyes simply see-you-laters.

Lord willing, in three short weeks hubby and I will once again be walking the streets of Milan.

I can't wait to hug our friends who live there and serve year-round.
I can't wait to drink a real cappuccino at breakfast.
I can't wait to see how the little church, Il Refugio, has grown.
I can't wait to spend long hours at pizzerias, discussing life, Jesus, and our cultural quirks with students.
I can't wait to pick up the strands of friendships we began to weave last year.

The returning will be dolce--sweet.

I haven't been blogging about Italy, but many of you have heard through a letter, a Facebook update, or a phone call.

What you may not have heard is that this year's support raising has been unusually difficult.

So many people have been generous, even sacrificial. Every gift that has come to our mailbox or to the online giving site has humbled is to the core (and sometimes made us jump around our living room like kids on a sugar high!)

But I'd be lying if I said that this process hasn't tested my faith. It always does, but it's been tough this year.

The conversations have gone something like this:

Me: Jesus, I know you're not slow, but you sure aren't following my schedule. The deadline is Thursday.

Jesus: Trust Me.

Me: Ok I do trust you. Help me trust. I know you can do even more than I ask.

Jesus: My ways are higher than yours, remember?

Me: I remember. Keep reminding me.

Because sometimes I need to return to what is, no matter the state of my emotions or my bank balance. His faithfulness is a constant, His love is forever.

And the return to those truths is always dolce.

Five Minute Friday::Broken

A Christan radio station recently made an Easter comment that resonated with me. They said that Easter was about breaking: a broken world, a broken Body that redeemed us, and a broken curtain that used to separate us from a Holy God. (Ok, torn, but I guess that's what we call broken fabric.)

I feel broken. In many ways I am a person who needs fixing, like a broken lamp, shattered by anger or careless mistakes. 

I am also emotionally broken when I see the brokenness it took to fix me. And right now, on the Saturday between sacrifice and victory, I feel a kinship with the heart-rending brokenness his followers must have felt as they sat, fearful, their dreams shattered the day after He died. 

They waited, broken. But isn't waiting the thing to do in our brokenness? To wait on the One who heals?


Want to join or just want to know what Five Minute Friday is all about? Head over to Lisa Jo's blog and find out :) And while you're there, be sure to visit & leave some comment love for the other bloggers who linked up! 

John Locke and morning people

Are you a night person or a morning person?

While I have a bad habit of hitting the snooze button a couple times before finally trading horizontal for perpendicular, mornings are my favorite. Whatever exhaustion or stress last night held—it’s gone, replaced by the sense that today is fresh, clean, and full of potential for awesomeness. I feel new. I am full of thought and conversation. I get urges to sing like a Disney princess and twirl around the kitchen with the cereal box. As I drive to work, the reborn sun glints on my steering wheel, the radio is loud, and my foot can’t stop wiggling a little.

And obviously, this is all VERY annoying for non-morning people.

I’ve had to learn to tone things down, if only for the sake of being loving to the nocturnal people in my life. One such person is my husband.

Mornings are slooooowwww for hubby. He’s not a grouch, but jokes are not funny before 9:00 am, and loud noises are less than welcome.

On the flip side, evenings are tough for me. I lack energy, optimism, and sometimes common sense. While we were first dating, the euphoria of being around him was enough to make me a temporary night-owl, able to stay talkative until the wee hours. Later, I realized that this was his natural state. My natural state is sleep at 10:00pm.

John Locke’s Treatise on Government said a lot of things, but the idea that stuck with me is this: only when we choose to limit our own freedoms will the rights of others be protected. I may have the freedom to dance and sing loudly in the morning, but it doesn’t make my sleepy husband feel loved. To protect each other, we must lovingly choose to limit ourselves.

So in the name of love, I am learning not to bang pots and pans or discuss complex things in the morning.

And in the name of love, hubby is gentle with me as the day wanes. 

Staying = Radical Obedience? Sometimes.

They were sitting there on our blue couch, earnest and eager as they told us about the Bright Mountain People*. Hubby and I traced curious fingers over pictures they had brought and tried to imagine living there, with all the foreign tastes, sounds and mannerisms. Such a beautiful people, but such a hopeless future without a Savior.

(not actual picture...only my imaginings)

As teens, our friends had heard about missionaries like Wycliff, Carmichal, and Elliot, but always as a history lesson to encourage the now. All the dangerous work had been done, they thought.

But then, they had a profound realization:

There are still entire cultures that have never heard the name of Jesus. 

 And each year, millions of people die without ever hearing of the God who loved them and died to buy their freedom from death. So our friends went, committing to a lifetime of language learning, relationship-building, and sacrificial living so that the statistic could change.

I was sitting there on the other couch, feeling as if I had swallowed a bag of hot marbles. What am I doing here while people are dying? I wondered. The faces from the pictures were still there when I shut my eyes, and I had a sudden urge to quit my job, sell my car, and book a flight. What if I missed my calling? I even felt a throb of jealousy, that they were living my old dream while I did laundry and brought home paychecks.

My response was not entirely wrong; it is right to be heartbroken over the eternal death of millions of people. If we feel more sadness over a flat tire or a disappointing football game, we need to do a serious gut check.

But I have a tendency to want to rescue people myself, rather than looking to the Rescuer.

An even bigger confession: I have a deep, inner aversion to averageness. Even as a 2nd grader, I hated earning less than an A+ on school assignments.  As a teenager, when I pictured my future, it never included the typical elements of the American Dream. I never wanted the picket fence, the cul-de-sac, the 2.5 kids or the fat paycheck. I wanted to be 100% sold out for Jesus and His Kingdom. In my mind, that meant that I would live sacrificially,  give extravagantly, and home school my nine children while my husband and I went to the furthest corners of the globe with the good news that Jesus reconciles broken people.

And none of this is bad in the least. Even now, many godly people are living this lifestyle and giving all the glory to Jesus.

 But do I desire this radical lifestyle because Jesus desires it from me? Or is it because I want to be "a cut above" your average Jesus-follower? Maybe it's a mix. Most of my movitations are, if I get real with myself.

Truth: even good activities can be downright disobedient if God hasn't asked you to do them. 
(King Saul found that out the hard way. For his story, check out 1 Samuel 15:22)

As I've prayed and journaled through these thoughts, here are some in-progress conclusions:

1) I should make sure my heart is in a position of continual availability to go. Maybe the answer I have taken as "no" is in reality "not yet." If I knew He would send me outside the US in five years, how would that knowledge affect the way I live today? As my cousin, Jeremy recently tweeted: "Your vision of the future affects the decisions of your life today. Without a heart set on eternity you will live for only temporary things."

2) I should be humble enough to realize that Jesus may want me to live a life of faithfulness and relative obscurity, devoid of the moving stories, exotic passport stamps or flashy sacrifices. Am I willing to accept obscurity, the life of the suburban soccer mom and "sideline involvement" in missions if that's what Jesus asks of me? It takes faith to believe that being still and patient can accomplish as much as radical action. Staying can be its own sacrifice, and secret prayer may be more news-worthy in Heaven than any foreign travels on earth.

*The "Bright Mountain People" are called by a pseudonym here, to protect our friends and other workers who bring them the Good News. 

Invisible Gardening

Buried in darkness, the germ of life waits in secret. So much potential packaged so tiny, lost in the loam, out of sight.

Under the heat lamp and the peat and the dark, the first finger of growth presses through membrane into the earth and tiny fibers take shape. Cells add themselves to each other feverishly, exploding quietly.

But above the lamp, I hover. I'm impatient. I see none of the growth below, and the dirt is just dirt, and I wait.

You might have noticed that I haven’t blogged. Normally, I’m not one to lack words, but the creativity seemed buried as well this Christmas. In many ways, my heart has been like a seed in one of my peat trays, growing invisibly, even to me. 

Most mornings I’ve had to take a deep breath, releasing my desire to perform and achieve and produce, trusting that even in the darkness, the Gardener was doing something good in me.

Out my back door lies a freshly dug hole, wide and shallow. My biceps ache, but I’m happy. In the hole rests a new wooden box I made, open to receive compost and the baby plants that now stretch green toward my desk lamp.

So much preparation, weeks in advance of any growth.

For the past few months, I have plugging away doggedly at the things I know are good for my heart. I’ve been reading a challenging book, asking myself the challenging questions, choosing to be vulnerable. And honestly, the lack of visible growth been frustrating.  I’m a more patient gardener than I am a garden, it seems.

But last night, a friend told me that I seemed less anxious and more trusting than I was in the fall. A tendril of green that I had overlooked!

Even when our hearts feel like bare dirt, He is good, and He is at work.

Thanksgiving :: A Hard Discipline

Honesty time, ya'll.  Last Friday night, I had a world class emotional breakdown. (Or, as my friend would call it, an "EBD".)

Every abrasion of my heart felt like it had just received an alcohol bath, all my failures were hanging out on the line for the world to mock, my eyeliner was at clown proportions from tears, and the last thing I wanted to do was eat a cheerful Thanksgiving dinner with my homegroup. The last thing on my mind was thanks.

But I went. Mainly because I was bringing the salad. Teeth clenched, expectations nonexistent, I gripped the glass bowl and stomped out to the car.

And...of course, the pecan pie and laughter and paper football shenanigans softened my crustiness.

Give thanks in all circumstances.

Seriously--this is a hard lesson!  Can there be anything more difficult than thanksgiving when the car won't start? Does anything rub more against the natural grain when you and your hard work feel invisible and unwanted, when the card declines, when the future is murky, when your energy bottoms out and you get a paper cut on top of it all?

I'm learning that discipline can be a mercy, that the very thing that puckers my mouth may settle my stomach, that obedience is always best, even if I go kicking and flailing. Thankfulness--like love--is a choice, not a Norman Rockwell painting or giddy emotion.

I've read about a life brimming with "eucharisto thankfulness" in Anne Voskamp's book. I know that no other life is fuller, even if poverty is the discouraging reality of the bank statement, the pantry, or the social calendar. But if I'm going to stick to honesty, I have to admit I'm out of practice.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds...

So here we go: I'm going to practice this week. I'm taking the Joy Dare, and I hope it extends past Thursday.

A Wild First Anniversary

As I typed that title, I realized that it could easily be misunderstood. If it helps, just insert the word "memorable", "unexpected", or "ridiculously crazy". Because those words certainly apply. 

As mentioned in an earlier post, my man and I had made some pretty awesome plans to stay at a ski resort after I picked him up at the airport Sunday afternoon. Apparently those places have awesome deals in the summertime!

We were so happy to see each other at the baggage claim! But when we got in the car, we were less happy to see a new light flashing on our dashboard. Our transmission fluid was low. Uh oh. 


[Hubby, the take-action man] "Quick--look up an auto parts store. We need to take care of this pretty quickly."
 [Me looking at my phone] "ok....here's one that looks close."

We arrived and were about to make a left turn into the parking lot when...the car refused to shift into drive. So close! Some kind guys helped push us the remaining few yards.

The next four hours were a hilarious comedy of errors:

• I bought transmission fluid, but it was for a different type of car. 
• We next bought the right fluid and lifted the hood, but there seemed to be a cap for every type of fluid EXCEPT transmission fluid. 
• It turns out that our car doesn't have access to the transmission from the hood area. Instead, you have to craw under the car, unscrew a bolt in the pan, and use a hand pump to get fluid in. 

Getting under our car. I felt like a grease monkey!

• I crawled under, but the nuts we had were too small for the bolt. 
• Got the right nut, but the ratchet was too short/I was too weak to turn it. 
• Got a longer ratchet. 
• Took off the bolt...and transmission fluid poured out! Oh noo! Lesson learned: the car needs to be running so that the fluid stays in the turbines. 
• Hose was too large for the hole. 

Hand pump we tried to use

• Smaller hose didn't have a good seal (aka: big mess)
• Broke the pump because the fluid was so thick.
• Finally pumped about two quarts in. Yay!!!  
• Let's try driving! Umm...it will only go into reverse. 

After consideration, we decided against driving backwards three hours to our resort.

By that time, the sun was down, we were hungry, and we realized that there was little chance of a rental place being open.

We suddenly remembered a good friend who happens to live in Denver. Maybe...?  Yes!  She came to our rescue, let us stay at her house and use her bed, shower, and car! So much better than sleeping in our broken car in the Autozone parking lot. We felt so incredibly loved, and we had a wonderful visit!

The next day was our anniversary. We used her car, got a tow truck to a local repair shop that quoted us a reasonable price, and found a rental place.

Then, we picked her up from work and all three of us went to see The Avengers in 3D!  (totally recommend it. :)  )

Now, this is a crazy story, and it might seem like everything that could have gone wrong did. But as hubby and I reviewed the day on our way to the resort, we noticed how God had really protected, provided, and given us wisdom!

We could have broken down in the middle of nowhere. Instead, we broke down within yards of an autoparts store.
We could have had to push it ourselves, but those guys helped us.
The guys who worked at Autozone were so friendly and helpful. They even loaned us tools and helped us pump!
We were actually laughing and having fun the whole time we worked on the car. Not stressed!
Our friend, "Aladon", rescued us and we had a great visit!
We had a free tow service.
We got a recommendation to a good repair shop that didn't insist on selling us an expensive warranty.
Our emergency fund was enough to cover the repair!
And...(this is the icing on the cake!)...our resort let us move the reservation, allowing us to stay for two nights even though we had technically been no-shows the night our car broke down!
We had a great, relaxing time at the resort, and then some good friends came to get us and bring us back to Estes Park after we dropped off the rental. 


An anniversary celebration that has no glitches or snags and is full of chocolate, romance and flowers is really nice. Really really nice. 


But this first anniversary felt like a celebration of the real life we share with each other. We're messy, things break and don't go as planned. But God is good, and we have fun. :)

The sunset on our way to the resort.

Beauty in Smashes

A friend's car got keyed--on purpose--this week.  Natural reactions that the average human might have in response to this range from annoyed to downright boiling, but my sweet friend just reminded herself that cars are temporary...and then started praying for the angry jerk.  (Not her words--mine.)

I'm not saying that she didn't have some angry thoughts before she responded so beautifully.  The point is, the response was beautiful.

My own car was hit--accidentally--two weeks ago.  See exhibit A. >>>>>>

The fact that it was an accident made my own calm response far less heroic, but I'm having plenty of chances to continue practicing patience.  Today, for instance, I showed up for my 4pm appointment at the collison repair place, only to be forgotten in the waiting room for an hour.  I hadn't had lunch (because I forgot it at home this morning), and my stomach was pinching my ribs pretty fiercely while I sat there, craning my neck to watch the Whitney Houston coverage unfold on the TV.  Patience...

When the guy finally came up to me, my hands were starting to shake with low blood-sugar, but he might have just thought I was excitable. He crouched down by the cracked plastic to look, checked my odometer, and 30 seconds later, I was on the road. I waited an hour for you to do 2 minutes of inspection? Arg.

By the time I got some delicious soup in my tummy, I was fine again. But why should acting like Christ depend so firmly on whether I feel hungry or not?

Jesus, help me trust you, even in annoying circumstances.

Gifts from Jesus

If stress is an odor, then this week reeked of it. My emotions were out of whack, the mountain of laundry loomed ever larger, and my job felt like I was trying to juggle 200lb dumbells. Wearing a blindfold. And rollarskates.

It's interesting: Jesus didn't take away the situation. I still have a to-do list longer than the Amazon. Instead, he reached down into it, purposely, thoughtfully, and left me some beautiful gifts as if to say, "I am still here. I still love you. You are known and treasured by Me. Trust me."

Gift #1: Check out the picture! I opened the mailbox earlier this week to find an envelope from my parents. Inside, was a gift card to Wally World for twenty smackeroos and instructions to buy plants for my garden. My heart craves fragrant, green, growing things, and Jesus knows it.

Gift #2: I found a beautiful $40 sweater marked down to $10. Once I used the $9.47 gift card that I had saved from Christmas, I bought it for only fifty-three cents! Jesus knows that I love to feel beautiful while saving $$.

Gift #3: It stopped raining this morning just as I mounted my bike to ride to class. Jesus cares about the fact that I forgot an umbrella.

Gift #4: My sweet husband folded clothes for me the other night. Aww....

Gift #5. My boss called to tell me that one huge source of work stress is NOT due today, as I had feared, but at the end of March! At that news, I could almost feel my nerves unknotting themselves. Jesus is my Shepherd. He gives me rest.