Why do I feel more vulnerable writing among the people who shared my story from the beginning before blogging even existed?
How is it that sharing my passion with strangers-who-became-friends was easier than exposing my soul living here? Here where so many have invested in me. Here where I bump into those long-loved and begin to love anew.
There are so many individual stories to catch up on, but there is a knowing. Maybe that knowing is what I fear.
Dylan and I packed our bus and went to Texas to mission training school, but it wasn’t our doing. Generosity was our income and faith was our food.
The people who live here paid our way. Names noted one by one. Faces of saints who believed in us. Families who prayed and cared and gave with an open hand.
There is a weight to those gifts.
I was going to the other side of the world, not Idaho. Sent out more than once, yet called back with a dim idea that I can make a difference. But who am I?
Voices say I am a prayer warrior, a good friend, a giver of grace…The words swirl around my heart. Then they quietly slip to the floor.
I know who I really am.
Don’t expect much from me, but expect everything from the Savior.
Somewhere along the way, He taught me the risk of love was worth it.
Somewhere along the way, He taught me where I end and someone else begins.
Somewhere along the way, He humbled me by pulling me out of my myopia.
I am crushed by His mercy.
Vulnerability is having the ability to be wounded. Yes, that is what I still fear. Being misunderstood, being screamed at again, being stripped of even more of my pride. Hurting my family. Losing my friends. But does fear help? No, it hinders.
Love reaches out in spite of fear.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (I Corinthians 13: 4-6)