When I sing, glass breaks and cats hide. I had my headphones in and walked under some folks in the guava trees. As I sang my heart out, picking hog plums, our contact looked at Moriah and said, “Well, all it says is make a joyful noise…”
God and I have been talking about love. In the past, I figured I was too messed up to be worth loving so I kept everyone at a distance. No hugs, no depth, no joy.
I had I’m fine syndrome but was anything but fine.
The other day, Jesus reaffirmed there's a robe of righteousness enveloping me, illuminating purity that’s glorious and fought for. Uniquely given, received and rejoiced over. He’s my bridegroom and He says, She’s mine as He smiles in complete awe. I got a word Jesus wants to romance me this year—total truth.
He just digs me for me.
But as I digest the past 8 weeks and think about the ups and downs of “Christin: The Homeless Traveler”, one question keeps coming to mind. Do I really trust Jesus to write my love story? Not just the mushy boy stuff but do I trust Him to completely have my back when it comes to my love story with Him? Heartbreak flat out stinks. It’s like thinking you’ve won the lottery then finding out it’s one of those prank tickets. Or biting into an apple and finding out its plastic…It only leaves you mad and craving the real thing.
So trusting Him with everything I have… dreams, future, emotions…Dang. That’s a big commitment.
Am I not the girl who always runs to avoid getting hurt?
Heck to the Not Anymore!
I’m not intimidated about a future that’s more unknown than ever. Shoot, I don’t even know how we’re getting to Nicaragua much less what next month looks like. I live today, here, now.
Because I know I’m loved.
Accepted. Wanted. Enjoyed. HIS.
And it’s totally enough. It’s not about walking around kicking dirt with my shoe and hoping someone feels sorry for me. It’s absolutely not about being a missionary because like I said a few blogs ago, I don’t even know what the word means.
But It is about love. And life. And people. It’s about hiding a dead crab in a toilet and laughing so hard your teammate pees her pants. It’s sitting on a rooftop and falling in love with Jesus all over again. It’s singing in the back of pick-ups or finding 10 frogs in your roommate’s bed. Its bus ride convos that challenge you or hippies at gas stations that inspire your wardrobe. Yeah, there’s time to serve, sweat and work our butts off, but there’s also time to be romanced by The Lover of our souls.
To just live. To just be.
It’s about running into His arms instead of just running. Stewarding restlessness so that it loves Him back. I know that I’m loved far beyond anything I can fathom. My arms are reaching up like a fat baby angel, knowing my Dad is going to scoop me up, hold me tight and dance the night away.
It’s the kind of love that breeds security and hope. Passion and dreams. Living and being. And it’s good.
