the we are enough movement (come join in?)

I was standing there in my dress and my thighs were touching beneath the fabric.

They were touching.

I could hear the music swell around me, and I could feel the people on both sides of me, and I just wanted to stop thinking about my thighs.

I just wanted to stop thinking.

But as I started noticing my touching thighs, I started glancing at my stomach that isn’t flat like the girl that stood beside me, which led me to think about how squinty my eyes become when I smile, and maybe that’s why that boy doesn’t like me…

And in that moment, I tried to think about how much weight I needed to lose in order to feel pretty.

In order to feel beautiful.

In order to feel enough.

Because a thigh gap, and a flat stomach, and large blue eyes would make me happy – wouldn’t they?

I'm over at Hashtag Hope today... join me?

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The Day That I Saw Jesus (incourage)

I saw Jesus the day my father shaved the hair off my mother’s head.

She was diagnosed with breast cancer three months ago. Jesus was there that day, too.

When my mom asked my dad if he would shave her head – because the chemo was causing her hair to fall out and it was just too hard to pick up the pieces – he said yes. When my mom asked my younger brother and I if we would be there when he shaved it, we said yes, too. We’re learning when trials come, the only way to endure them is together.

Jesus was on her right side, my dad on her left. Eli and I stood behind. I looped my arm through his and watched.

Watched the hair and tears mingle and fall together into the sink.

Watched my dads hand curve gently on the small of her back.

Watched love happen right there in front of me.

And Jesus was there for it all. He saw every hair fall – and since he knows how many hairs are on our head, he knows when those hairs aren’t there anymore – and I wonder if maybe Jesus was crying, too.

You see – this is what love looks like to me:

I'm writing my first post over at (in)courage today... please, join me HERE?

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putting God in a box (again)

I’m putting God in a box again.

It’s actually something I’m exceptionally good at. I stick him in the cardboard box, seal it tight, and wipe my hands on my pants, feeling confident that I’m in control once again. 

I coax myself into keeping this control. I pick it up gently, weighing it carefully in my hands. It feels heavier than it was before. It’s also more slippery than it used to be, and I feel it trying to slide through my fingers, so I tighten the hold I have on it. 

My fingers start to hurt from holding onto it so tightly. I can feel it slipping, and I clench my fists firmer, desperately trying to secure it inside of my hands. 

Sweat beads on my forehead, and my muscles are cramped, my fingers silently screaming from the throbbing ache of holding on so tightly. 

I tilt my head back, almost feeling dizzy from the pain, and shout, “God, where are you when I need you the most? Where are you when it feels my control is slipping through my fingertips? Where are you when I’m hurting? Where are you?” 

I’m angry now. Angry because I can’t seem to hold onto anything anymore. Angry because in my time of need God is nowhere to be found. I’m angry. And I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. 

It shatters into a million pieces. I don’t even realize that my fingers have let it slip, and I look down on the floor and see my control fragmented. Scattered. Shattered.

I start to cry. My body is weary from holding onto it for so long, and I feel betrayed that God didn’t come and help me. 

I rub my joints, trying to loosen out the ache. The tears are frustration. I sit on the floor. Alone.

And then I see it. The box. The stupid, stupid box. The box I put God into when I assumed control. 

Of course he didn't come when I called. I had pushed him away. And though I know he's bigger than a box, I also know he gives me the choice whether to hand over the control, or try to do it all by myself.

I want to open it. And I don’t want to open it. Because I know I was wrong. And I was foolish. And I was scared. And I’m ashamed I didn’t trust him with all that I am. 

I slowly walk over to the box. I carefully take off the tape, and lift the lid. I close my eyes, because I can’t bear to see his holy face. 

“I’m hurting.” I say. “I’m hurting. And I’m scared if I give you the control, things won’t happen the way I want them to.”

I breathe long. 

“And I’m ashamed.” I whisper, biting my lip so hard I almost draw blood. “I’m ashamed I don’t trust you as much as I should. As much as I want.” 

I gradually open my eyes. He’s there. Palms spread wide, my broken pieces in his hands. 

He shows me the shattered remains as if to say, is this what you wanted?

I shake my head. Smile sadly. “I know. How is my control working any better?” 

I hear him --

If you let it go, I’ll be the One to hold it together. 

If you let yourself go, I’ll be the One to hold you together.

If you let Me go, who will hold anything together? 

Tears pool in my eyes - because this dying to self is not easy - but I close his fingers around the pieces and he holds my broken self in his hands. 

“You can have it.” I tell him. “You can have me.” I say. “You can have it all.”

(This is a figurative story I have created. I cannot physically put God into a box, but when I refuse to give him control over my life, it’s as though I have made him small and hidden him away from me. This is simply a metaphor for how I want to hand my life over fully to Christ.)

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confession: I lie on social media

Social media lies.

Or perhaps more accurately, I lie on social media. 

It’s this thing inside of me - this thing inside all of us humans - this thing called the need for approval. 

It can be so ugly. And yet, I’m addicted. 

Let me be honest. My social media? It isn’t honest.

On Instagram I look through filter after filter after filter and think, “Which one makes my teeth look white?” or “Which one is more artsy and hipster and will make me seem cool?” 

On Twitter I try to think of tweets that will cause people to think I’m incredibly witty or maybe even think I’m profound. 

On Facebook I want likes likes, baby.

This need for approval that sits in the very depths of my bones cries out: “LIKE ME!”

Don’t we all just want to be liked?

Yeah, my social media is a fat lie. If you saw me - if you really, really saw me - would you like me? If my photos went unfiltered, my thoughts tweeted without abandon, my life displayed honestly for all to see, would you like me? 

This is the truth: my unfiltered photos, my unruly thoughts, my uncontrollable life - God sees that. And God loves that.

My anger, my greed, my bitterness - God sees that. And God loves that.

Gossip that seeps through my lips, lies that fall from my tongue, thoughts that run through my head - God sees that. And God loves that. 

My hopelessness, my brokenness, my helplessness - God sees that. And God loves that. 

The way I alter my life on social media - altered, misshaped, moulded and puttied to look beautiful (when most times it isn’t beautiful at all) - God sees that. And God loves that.

You see, God has seen me at my worst. And can I tell you something? My worst is bad. And yet God sees that. And God loves that. 

So - yes. I lie on social media. I want to be liked. I want to be accepted. I want to be approved.

(And I so badly hope we get to the point where we feel we don’t need to embellish our lives to make them seem something they’re not. Let me tell you - I hate this lying.) 

But in all that - in all that faking and lying and hoping to seem better than I ever will be - God sees me. And He loves me. 

And He likes me.

There's nothing I can I do - no matter how much I mess up, and no matter how hard I try - that could ever lessen God's relentless love for me.

And? He sees you, and He loves you, and oh yes - He likes you too.

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8 things I've learned as a barista

I strive to be unpredictable. And yet I’m a nineteen year old art student working at Starbucks. There goes any chance of unpredictability.

So. Eight things I’ve learned as a barista.

1. People can be incredibly kind and considerate, and when you offer them a big, fat smile, they may offer one in return.
2. People can be incredibly cold and inconsiderate, and when you offer them a big, fat smile, they may stare at you like you’ve grown horns or have a piece of kale stuck between your teeth. (I was going to say “spinach” but kale is far more Starbuckian.)
3. No matter if people are kind or cold or inconsiderate - offer them that big, fat smile.
4. Chocolate chai lattes are never a good idea.
5. When people complain that the soy milk is too expensive, or that their cappuccino is not nearly dry enough, and as they complain - you immediately picture the Rwandan children hiking for hours to get their one jug of water - take a looooong deep breath and silently ask Jesus for patience. Then force that big, fat smile and ask Him for a bit more.
6. As 3 o’clock hits, brace yourself for the onslaught of grade nines who will undoubtedly order all of the “secret recipe” frappuccinos that you have no idea how to make.
7. When the twelve year old girl waves you over and tells you to “take these dirty dishes away”, try not to physically cringe, and remind yourself that there is nothing pretty about entitlement.
8. Every person is a living, breathing story. Just like you.

   

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five minute friday: writer

GO

I always wanted to write, but never thought I could be a writer. 

I thought to myself, “Maybe I can write, but surely I cannot be a writer. Writers are qualified and experienced. They know what they’re doing. And I do not.”

But then Jesus whispered into the very depths of my soul these words: writers tell stories. Writers create. Writers breathe life into dark places. Writers inspire. Writers tell the truth. Writers encourage. 

I paused. I wanted to tell stories, wanted to create. I wanted to tell the truth, and to inspire and encourage. 

It dawned on me then. I wanted to be a writer. 

But am I qualified? Am I experienced? Do I even know what I am doing?

Doubt clouds my thoughts all the time - but still, I write. 

Even in my under qualification, my inexperience, my self doubt, I. Can. Be. A. Writer. 

Because writers are anyone who want to tell their story, and the story of others around them. 

I want to write. 

I want to be a writer. 

I write. 

I am a writer.

STOP

Linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker today

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why I'm saying "no" to no makeup selfies

Over the past few weeks, I have seen a lot of “no make-up” selfies on both Facebook and Instagram. 

Let me tell you, I love seeing girls embrace their naked faces - especially when they are encouraging one another! I love reading kind comments that my friends have written to one another, assuring each other that we don’t have to hide behind the makeup.

But it’s a struggle for me to see cancer awareness pasted beside these no makeup selfies.

Here’s my struggle: putting a photo of yourself wearing no makeup on social media, and attaching cancer awareness to that photo, doesn't directly help someone who has cancer. 

Now, that no makeup selfie with the words “this is for cancer awareness” may make you feel good, and it may even make you feel like you are really making a difference. I don't think either of those things are wrong or bad. I think the intention to raise cancer awareness and make a difference in it, really is a beautiful thing.

This is not a cry for help or a call for pity. 

Perhaps this is because I now have a connection to cancer, but I’m asking you to rethink how we create cancer awareness. How about instead of just creating awareness, we go one further, and make a small step towards a difference? 

Pray.

Donate. 

Pray.  

I promise - that will make a difference.

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why I didn't write for 81 days

It was cold.

I woke up and shivered, yanking my white comforter tighter around me. I hadn’t forgotten what had happened the day before. It sank in with clarity and vengeance, hitting me afresh even before my eyelids fluttered open. Tears coursed down my cheeks, soaking into my pillow.

I sighed; a long, deep, soul rattling sigh.  

The day earlier began as normal. It even seemed good. That morning, as I drank my coffee and snuggled beneath my covers, I quietly asked Jesus to give me something to write about. What he gave me was not what I had imagined. 

My mom and I were going to run some errands together that day, (we have a slight obsession with Target) and the first errand was a quick doctor’s appointment for her. She had gotten some tests taken, and the results were back.

The appointment was at 11:40 on the morning of January 10th. There weren’t very many people in the waiting room, only an older gentleman who silently flipped through a magazine. We waited in the waiting room until 12:06, and then she was called in. I didn’t go in with her. 

I tried to read my book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, and Lamott talked about noticing the details, becoming an observer. I noticed the nurses huddled in the corner behind the glass wall that separates the patients from the staff, and I could hear them talking about how one of them was taking her daughter to see Les Miserables on stage that night in Toronto. 

And then I thought of my mom.

I suddenly got a cold flush - the cold, sticky, sweaty flush you get when you have a fever. A sickly feeling deepened inside of my belly. I wondered how those nurses could talk about our favourite musical while I was sure that my beautiful mom was receiving some sort of horrible news a few walls away.

At 12:31 my mom emerged, the doctor close behind. I couldn’t read my mom’s facial expression.

“Let’s go,” she said to me. I gathered our things and she walked towards the door, and I looked behind me and saw the doctor. I gave her a sad wave, because I knew what was coming, and we locked eyes and I knew then and there, and she nodded her head at me and I turned to the door and followed my mom out into the snowy driveway.

My mom took three steps and then looked at me and cried, “Liza, I have cancer.” Her voice broke and she shrugged her arms, her palms to the sky, hands spread wide, and I said, “Oh Mama”, and we fell together in a heap of tears and tangled arms and we cried and held one another tight. We held each other for a long time.

And then we took more steps down the driveway but we stopped and I said, “We have to pray”, and we gathered each other close and begged Jesus to please hold us. Please, please hold us. 

Because all at once our world was crashing down around us and it felt like there was nothing concrete, nothing certain that we could hold onto - and as we got into the car, tears were streaming down her face and she said she had to tell my dad. 

My mom is so strong. She is so, so strong.

When she got off the phone with my dad, she handed me 2 pieces of paper - one for a blood test, and one for a chest x-ray. She needed to get them both done as soon as possible. On the bottom of the chest x-ray paper, the doctor had scrawled: early diagnosis breast cancer. I stared at those horrible words and I wanted to rip the cancer out of her body with my own bare hands. And if that didn’t work, I wanted it to be me in place of her.

I had thought I’d prepared myself for the diagnosis of cancer. I had thought about it a lot beforehand, ever since she’d told me about the lumps, and though I thought it might happen, I never really thought it might happen. 

I watched her get her blood taken, and then together we walked down the hall to the x-ray office. We waited for a few minutes and then she was called in to get her x-ray taken. I saw a lady crying and wondered if she had cancer, too. I saw other people smiling and wondered why on earth they had the right to smile when my world was crumbling.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face and when I looked into the mirror I saw bright green, puffy eyes and a red, swollen, speckled face. I sighed. 

When we got home, my dad wrapped his arms around my mom for a very long time. 

“This sucks.” I said later as we sat in our family room together, quietly contemplating this new reality.

My mom nodded. “You’re right. This does suck.”

“We have to rely on God.” My dad said. “He’s all we have to rely on.” 

In my heart I prayed that the cancer was contained, that it hadn’t spread, that this nightmare would be over. I told Jesus I wasn’t happy with Him, and I asked Him why, why, why.

But we would rely on Him. Because He’s all we have to rely on.

The morning of January 10th, I asked Jesus to give me something to write about. This was not exactly what I had in mind. 

81 days later, and I’m finally writing about it. It took a while to allow the rawness of the situation to heal a little. My mom’s currently doing chemotherapy. We’ve seen Jesus through this cancer journey in incredible, tangible ways. We’ve learned a lot. And this is only the beginning.

We continue to trust in the comforting arms of Christ, and lean on the hope of Jesus. It’s the best possible place to be. 

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the best gift I ever received (& the boy who changed my life)

I am weeping on this Christmas night, a day in which our Jesus was born, a day in which we celebrate life with one another, a day in which Africa perhaps knows no different then the day before. I cry for Africa. And I cry for myself.

I cry because I have forgotten what I vowed to remember - the desire to create an impact in a world so desperately longing for hope. I cry because I have forgotten Africa. In this hustle and bustle of festivities and chaos, I have forgotten Africa.

I sit here tonight, among presents and gifts and treasured memories that have been created today, and there’s a sadness in my heart that sinks deep inside me.

I sat on the stairs in my home, and thought of my friends in Rwanda. Christmas is such a North American thing - isn’t it? The stockings and gifts and Santa Claus and turkey and carols and snow and reindeer and elves, and as I sat on my stairs, I wondered to myself, “What are they doing in Africa today?”. And for the first Christmas in my life, I really thought of other people besides myself.

I had wanted this Christmas to be special. I decided this year I wanted to give gifts that “gave back” and was able to give a scarf and necklace and tank top and t-shirt and framed prints that went towards enabling sustainable business for HIV women in Ethiopia, providing a meal for the homeless in downtown Toronto, and giving more shoeboxes out this Christmas for Operation Christmas Child. They were wonderful, and gave a deeper meaning knowing they were helping someone else in our world.

And then my sister and brother-in-law presented me with a gift. They gave me a card which said, “Ashimwe will be receiving a present this Christmas” - and as I read those words the little six-year-old boy that stole my heart this past summer imprinted himself into my mind, and tears streamed down my cheeks, the same way they’re streaming now. (You can read about Ashimwe and the impact he’s made on my life here.)

My sister and brother-in-law sent money to a missionary in Rwanda, who is making sure Ashimwe is given something. I’m overcome with joy, and I ask Jesus to hold Ashimwe tight for me tonight. I wish I was there to hold him myself.

So tonight I cry, a mix of joy and sadness. I miss Africa today. But tonight, in my heart, I know a difference has been made - in the lives of Ethiopian women who create scarves and necklaces, in the life of a homeless person in Toronto, in the lives of children who have received shoeboxes filled to the brim with toys and candy and love, and in the life of dear, dear Ashimwe. In my life, too.

I want to thank my sister, my brother-in-law, and Jesus. This gift for Ashimwe... it’s the greatest blessing I could ever imagine.

Thank you... Thank you.

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why I left everything & went to Africa

I had dreamed about this day for so long. For nine years, I had wanted to go to Africa. And here it was: the Big Day. June 16th, 2013. I was off to Rwanda, Africa for two months. I could hardly breathe – I was so excited.

I was prepared and ready to change the world...

(I'm over HERE at Fluid today... join me?).