the other day we fought about sweatpants.
yup. that's what we do, trip up on a trivial matter and before you know it we're entangled in a two-hour debate on poverty, entitlement, and how to spend money—one that would've made our LAUP leaders proud.
and with another click of the shutter it somehow turns into us laying on opposite sides of the room, staring at the ceiling, telling stories and confessing secrets like: "i'd give anything to hear six words from God."
our relationship is one long continuous discussion. a string of issue raising, misunderstanding, and sharp, unintentional hurting. and that's pretty much expected, right? between our differences and individual sins, we're jagged little creatures—and as we pull each other in, our brokenness is bound to cut.
sometimes it feels like our Creator is the only one who knows what ties us together. and every once in awhile he gives us a glimpse of it—sitting side by side on a piano bench harmonizing to "Silent Night" and asking "what do these words actually mean?"—he gives us small, simple, sweet reminders that we could be great.
in my time of prayer for us the other day i asked God what my part was—what's my part in our sin and brokenness, what's my part in helping him feel the divine touch he so desperately longs for, what's my part in helping us learn how to be the kind of people whose relationship gives glory to God?
and in a quiet moment, i remembered Ghana. i remembered the 13 months the boy spent in a country 7,500 miles away from me having the kingdom painted into his soul. the children that taught him compassion, the churches that taught him to worship. the mamas and aunties that gave him a home and the challenges that shifted his paradigms.
i shook my head as i chided myself for not doing my part in the past few months. since he's been back i've been focused on moving forward, on taking advantage of the time we now have. we talk about Ghana every now and then, but he's a man of few words and i've never prodded further. why? jealousy, probably. i'm jealous of Ghana for being significant in his life and jealous of him for getting to go in a season where God has asked me to stay. i let jealousy render me passive, and i—
far be it from me, i said as an urgency began to rise within me, far be it from me to be the one that smothers the Ghana in him. far be it from me to join the never-satisfied voices of our society that tell him he's not good enough or that he should want more. far be it from me to be the one who helps him forget what it's like to dance freely before the Lord.
grace, child, He says to me. after all, you're still figuring this girlfriend thing out. here, begin each day like this: how will i serve him today? (in fact, ask that question for all those you will encounter in your day, and learn what it means to love). don't worry, you'll learn your part in time.
so today, i'll ask him to tell me a story from Ghana. "you've already heard all my stories," he'll say. "i know, but i want to hear them again." and tomorrow, we'll sing a song with a simple melody and a complex rhythm. and the day after that, we'll dance.
and one day, ten, twenty years from now, we'll be in a developing country somewhere. he and i, we'll be painting the kingdom with our lives as we learn to love the poor and be loved by our God. and on that day i'll give thanks for that summer when we were placed on different teams and had isaiah 58:6 and amos 5:24 pressed into our souls. and i'll give thanks for that year when we were placed on different continents and learned how to live displaced and minister the gospel. i'll give thanks for the countless battles with one another where we learned that forgiveness is the breath that keeps us going—
the countless temporary battles that will have no choice but to acquiesce to the life we were meant to live.
we could be great. far be it from me to be the one who forgets that.
yup. that's what we do, trip up on a trivial matter and before you know it we're entangled in a two-hour debate on poverty, entitlement, and how to spend money—one that would've made our LAUP leaders proud.
and with another click of the shutter it somehow turns into us laying on opposite sides of the room, staring at the ceiling, telling stories and confessing secrets like: "i'd give anything to hear six words from God."
our relationship is one long continuous discussion. a string of issue raising, misunderstanding, and sharp, unintentional hurting. and that's pretty much expected, right? between our differences and individual sins, we're jagged little creatures—and as we pull each other in, our brokenness is bound to cut.
sometimes it feels like our Creator is the only one who knows what ties us together. and every once in awhile he gives us a glimpse of it—sitting side by side on a piano bench harmonizing to "Silent Night" and asking "what do these words actually mean?"—he gives us small, simple, sweet reminders that we could be great.
in my time of prayer for us the other day i asked God what my part was—what's my part in our sin and brokenness, what's my part in helping him feel the divine touch he so desperately longs for, what's my part in helping us learn how to be the kind of people whose relationship gives glory to God?
and in a quiet moment, i remembered Ghana. i remembered the 13 months the boy spent in a country 7,500 miles away from me having the kingdom painted into his soul. the children that taught him compassion, the churches that taught him to worship. the mamas and aunties that gave him a home and the challenges that shifted his paradigms.
i shook my head as i chided myself for not doing my part in the past few months. since he's been back i've been focused on moving forward, on taking advantage of the time we now have. we talk about Ghana every now and then, but he's a man of few words and i've never prodded further. why? jealousy, probably. i'm jealous of Ghana for being significant in his life and jealous of him for getting to go in a season where God has asked me to stay. i let jealousy render me passive, and i—
far be it from me, i said as an urgency began to rise within me, far be it from me to be the one that smothers the Ghana in him. far be it from me to join the never-satisfied voices of our society that tell him he's not good enough or that he should want more. far be it from me to be the one who helps him forget what it's like to dance freely before the Lord.
grace, child, He says to me. after all, you're still figuring this girlfriend thing out. here, begin each day like this: how will i serve him today? (in fact, ask that question for all those you will encounter in your day, and learn what it means to love). don't worry, you'll learn your part in time.
so today, i'll ask him to tell me a story from Ghana. "you've already heard all my stories," he'll say. "i know, but i want to hear them again." and tomorrow, we'll sing a song with a simple melody and a complex rhythm. and the day after that, we'll dance.
and one day, ten, twenty years from now, we'll be in a developing country somewhere. he and i, we'll be painting the kingdom with our lives as we learn to love the poor and be loved by our God. and on that day i'll give thanks for that summer when we were placed on different teams and had isaiah 58:6 and amos 5:24 pressed into our souls. and i'll give thanks for that year when we were placed on different continents and learned how to live displaced and minister the gospel. i'll give thanks for the countless battles with one another where we learned that forgiveness is the breath that keeps us going—
the countless temporary battles that will have no choice but to acquiesce to the life we were meant to live.
we could be great. far be it from me to be the one who forgets that.
