why i'll never be the same.

In one week, I leave the home I love.

Life as I know it will change. Things won't ever be the same again. I am leaving so many loved ones. Deserting so many possibilities. Giving up my sanctuaries, places filled with memory, rooms bursting with the times I grew into who I am today and spilling over with the moments when I stood bare before God. When I became His. I'm leaving it all behind.

My first instinct is to hide, and my first reaction is to fear.

Oh fear, cold fear.

Whenever change comes upon me, I moan and say, "I hate change." My mom looks me in the eyes, sees the daughter she knows well, and says, "I know." Adapting doesn't come easily to me. But worry does. Anxiety, overthinking, and paralysis do. They don't even take a snap of my fingers. Boom. They're there, my blood seeped in them.

And I hate that.

I do not want to be one consumed with fear, ruled by fear.
Fear enslaves. Fear doesn't come from God. Fear comes from the Prince of Darkness.

So I'm begging you, Jesus. Break the chains of fear. Burn the bonds that are wrapped 'round my wrists.

Love casts out fear. Your wounds, received for my sake, should cast out my fears. I shouldn't be afraid. I should be fearless.

Bold.

Unashamed.

Embracing all you have planned for me. Even when I can see no further ahead than my feet below me.

Oh Abba. Why do I have the spirit of fear, and not of adoption? I ache to have what you give. A spirit of adoption, my first reaction to be a cry out you, my first instinct to not be fear. . .but peace.

Peace which only sprouts from the confidence you give. Emerges from the light that shines from your face. Peace which is born from Faith.

Yes, oh yes! That is what I want. Faith.
Faith abounding.

That's what I want my blood to be seeped in.

Holy Spirit, fill me up to the overflowing. I need you. I can't bear any fruit without you. I have no gifts without you. I need you so that I won't stay the same. So that I'll be forever changed.

       I am, I'm leaving.

I'm leaving my father, my mother. I'm leaving my city, my friends, my past. Leaving possessions, papers, and panic. I'm leaving my house, my block, my room - all which are sights well-worn and places well-loved. I'm leaving all that. But do you know what I think?

I don't think I'm leaving my home, anymore.

Because home's not here, not there. It's not Seattle or Minneapolis.

Home's not a place.

Home is a person.

His name is Jesus.

Anticipating Goodbye

At times, I just need to write something out. It might be a choppy poem or a single sentence, but I record little pieces of my thoughts in my phone when the moment comes upon me. Here is one of them.

* * *

I remember sitting on the porch

smelling the honey air-

and then

the realization.

This is my last spring at home.

And the melancholy crashed upon my insides

like a wave on the shoreline rocks.

Last spring. Me, here, as I am. Mom and Dad. Home.

And I remember too, standing on the sidewalk with shovel in hand,

the hazy glow of the streetlights after a snowfall.

The familiar feeling of the city at night, the snow freshly fallen. 

Even if it was April, I thought:

My last winter.

My last winter home. Me here,

snowflakes in my hair, the enchanted city,

the world muffled by the snow, 

the sky that certain color that only exists when it has just snowed in the night.

And I can see it coming, too, when I will bend over the garden, 

dirt in my fingernails and crowning my knees. 

When I'll unpin crisp and windswept clothes from the clothesline, 

or stand with hands in soap and murky water, washing the dishes, 

and face to the window letting the summer night in.

I'll hear it in the crickets:

Anna, you're leaving.

In which Heart must make a Choice

It is so easy to let my mind wander down the road called Ungrateful. It's the natural one, my tendency. The path is smooth and it's like my feet are made to walk there. I'm magnetized, drawn, following. So easy to wander, pleasant to forget, relaxing. I don't have to fight to stay here. I don't have to resist. I can just be conformed; no transformation necessary here. It's an effortless road and the pathway is worn shiny from the frequency of my travel on it. It's a well-worn avenue and (my) Heart holds it in familiarity. It holds it in high esteem. It thinks that Ungrateful is home because that's all it knows, that's all it has ever chosen.

Heart has had a few experiences away from the road called Ungrateful. There's this other path, you see. But its flavor is entirely different.

Heart noticed that immediately when she timidly ventured upon it. It was a bit more unfamiliar, somewhat rockier, definitely skinnier and thus easier to fall away from. Heart's footsteps were hesitant, but she continued on. And once she traveled farther than she ever had before, her pulse quickened. She stopped, realizing she was breathing more deeply than she ever had before, living more fully, and touching the Creator more closely than she had ever done in her existence. And it was so freeing, revealing, enlightening, empowering!

That was her first time.

But she forgot, you see. Heart has a tendency to do so. It was slightly scary, this new road. It required boldness and it alienated her from all the rest. For she had never seen anyone else walk this road. It made her different. Alone, she thought. So she turned back, returned to the arms of Ungrateful. She was quickly enveloped in the ease of Ungrateful, her 'true home', and her new sight hastily faded.

Every once in a while, Heart would gasp in the middle of the night. For a split second she saw that she was sitting in darkness. A rut, even  
a tomb.
A flash of lightning and she remembered:
I'm lost. This is not where I ought to be.

And so she would run away that night, before Ungrateful could notice she was missing. She would dive back onto the gravelly road named Grateful, and remember. She became alive again, aflame with the Holy Spirit.

But always, her cravings would kick in by noon the next day. She couldn't live without Ungrateful, she just couldn't! How could she have thought she could be rid of him for good? He owned her. And Grateful felt too good to be true.

Heart would always return.

As time goes on, though, Heart's expeditions onto Grateful get slightly longer. And she is beginning to taste the true bitterness of life with Ungrateful.

Let's just pray that she'll make it home in the end.

* * *

This story/metaphor just appeared, floating up as I wrote. I know the road names are a bit cheesy, overly obvious, and totally not subtle (even if good metaphors ought to be subtle). But now that I read over it, I think how the roads could be differently named. Maybe Life and Death, or Truth and Lies. Put in what you choose and it may become more meaningful, even more relevant to you personally. Those names just happen to be what I was originally thinking on and I'm just choosing to leave it unrevised.

Contented.

(source)

It's raining outside.

I just went to the Lagoon Theater, in Uptown,

with my mom, 

to Jane Eyre, the movie.

It was lovely.

And we took the bus, and then walked,

laughing,

with rain running down our faces.

There are still droplets on my nose and forehead and hair. 

I'm eating homemade bread, too.

I like how where I am feels right now.

The clouds outside, 

the wetness, grayness,

but warmness too.

I like sitting here, inside and warm,
and with the tea kettle whistling.
Here, and,

home.

 (source)

Nostalgia Ache

Home.
I'm home
I'm home
I'm here.

But I'm also missing my other home.
My Cibecue.
Aching for it.

I plan to write a lot about the mission trip in the future.

But for now,
I'm just saying,

I'm back.
And God is so good, so near, and so beautiful.

He's so good to me.

So Good To Me - Cory Asbury