by Alanna
Minnesota is where we live.
It's cloudy and cold here but the sun still keeps us alive.
And some days are sunny.
Everything is a brilliant green in the summer.
God gave us our house right where He wanted it to be.
Hurting people live all around us.
We have the hope of Jesus in us.
We can offer it to them.
I have an incredible husband.
His love for me amazes me every day.
I have four beautiful children.
I will never get over the depth I find in their eyes.
An artistic, compassionate daughter who is a leader.
Who cries for the hurting and the lost.
Who loves to care for others.
With a tender conscience.
Who wants to believe in Jesus but isn't quite sure yet.
A strong willed, smart, scientific, and athletic son.
Who at four still loves to curl up on the rocking chair with me.
Who is nearly always willing to share and welcome others in.
Who loves to learn all things, but especially numbers.
Another son who has always been the one to spread joy to all.
Who loves to pretend to be a puppy.
Who is always seeking and giving affection to me.
Who feels music in his bones and his soul the way his papa does.
And my littlest boy who is pure delight.
Who is literary and never tires of book reading.
Who learns so quickly and talks so much.
Who quickly learns to love and welcome each new person in his life.
And one precious child of my heart who lives across the ocean.
Whom God has so miraculously kept and grown.
My children are lost too.
I can share Jesus with them.
Every day I have the chance to love.
I get to make our house a beautiful place.
We get to be hospitable.
I get to love on my own littles.
My brother lives with us.
And he is a blessing words can't express.
I have friends here.
And friends far away.
I have parents who love Jesus.
I get to love my husband every day.
Investing in marriage matters.
Investing in my children matters.
Investing in this neighborhood matters.
Investing in our church plant matters.
Investing in North Minneapolis matters.
Investing in friends matters.
I am blessed beyond measure.
God is here.
And there's nowhere better to be than where He is.
He is trustworthy.
And worthy of praise.
Even today.
Sunday, March 29, 2020
honesty
by Alanna
Today is my thirtieth birthday. I am 30 years old. There. I've said it. Ever since I turned 22 I've been unwilling to say goodbye to 21. Some of it has to do with immaturity, a silly desire to not want to grow up or grow old. I'd still like to climb around on playgrounds if my hip would let me. 30 feels like definitely, undeniably an adult. It feels rather in the middle of life. You'd think with four kids I would have felt like an adult long ago. But lots of days I still just wish someone would tell me what to do, or that I could curl up in some giant lap and cry there safe and secure. Maybe I'm just immature.
But there's something more. I recently rediscovered this long note I wrote in my journal when I was fourteen. In part of it I wrote about wanting marriage, but then "right now, more than that, more than anything, I want to be in an orphanage. I want to be taking care of Your little ones who aren't loved by anyone else. I think I would give up just about anything to be overseas right now. Christy wants to come with me in the summer of 2008, but it's so far away from now. And, Lord, I have so little patience...." For twenty years this desire has grown in me. This weight of the suffering. This knowledge of the hurting. This awareness of just how much hope Jesus has to offer, and just how badly I want to join with what He is offering to the world. God hasn't told me to stop hoping for a life in a poorer country. But He has definitely held me here. I think, I hope, that He wants our family to be in a place where this is little gospel. Where we can sit with the suffering, though God knows we will never be in their place.
So here's honesty. The waiting is hard. And part of what makes me not to want to acknowledge birthdays is that I don't want to think about the years passing by. What am I doing with my life? Why are we here if we both want to be there? Why does God put dreams in our hearts long before their fruition? So today feels hard.
I'm learning to let myself feel. Asking God to let me cry more. It's scary but not as terrifying as apathy and sleep. Thankfully He's answering that and I've cried a little every day the past few. Sometimes I just miss the sun. But today I just sit and give Him my heart and tell Him that the waiting is hard. That sometimes I wonder what He's doing and why.
"If I am ever going to do what is on my heart (and Yours too I hope), I will have to trust You and rely on You completely." -Me at fourteen. I guess I never realized how hard that would be.
Today is my thirtieth birthday. I am 30 years old. There. I've said it. Ever since I turned 22 I've been unwilling to say goodbye to 21. Some of it has to do with immaturity, a silly desire to not want to grow up or grow old. I'd still like to climb around on playgrounds if my hip would let me. 30 feels like definitely, undeniably an adult. It feels rather in the middle of life. You'd think with four kids I would have felt like an adult long ago. But lots of days I still just wish someone would tell me what to do, or that I could curl up in some giant lap and cry there safe and secure. Maybe I'm just immature.
But there's something more. I recently rediscovered this long note I wrote in my journal when I was fourteen. In part of it I wrote about wanting marriage, but then "right now, more than that, more than anything, I want to be in an orphanage. I want to be taking care of Your little ones who aren't loved by anyone else. I think I would give up just about anything to be overseas right now. Christy wants to come with me in the summer of 2008, but it's so far away from now. And, Lord, I have so little patience...." For twenty years this desire has grown in me. This weight of the suffering. This knowledge of the hurting. This awareness of just how much hope Jesus has to offer, and just how badly I want to join with what He is offering to the world. God hasn't told me to stop hoping for a life in a poorer country. But He has definitely held me here. I think, I hope, that He wants our family to be in a place where this is little gospel. Where we can sit with the suffering, though God knows we will never be in their place.
So here's honesty. The waiting is hard. And part of what makes me not to want to acknowledge birthdays is that I don't want to think about the years passing by. What am I doing with my life? Why are we here if we both want to be there? Why does God put dreams in our hearts long before their fruition? So today feels hard.
I'm learning to let myself feel. Asking God to let me cry more. It's scary but not as terrifying as apathy and sleep. Thankfully He's answering that and I've cried a little every day the past few. Sometimes I just miss the sun. But today I just sit and give Him my heart and tell Him that the waiting is hard. That sometimes I wonder what He's doing and why.
"If I am ever going to do what is on my heart (and Yours too I hope), I will have to trust You and rely on You completely." -Me at fourteen. I guess I never realized how hard that would be.
Monday, March 16, 2020
bringing you through that door
by Alanna
There's this door in my heart. Most the time I keep it shut and locked. I've even let the vines grow over it so some days I hardly notice that it's there. Behind it lies the suffering of millions. A bloody holocaust in the country I call my own. The cries of all the Djemys in the world who are separated from their parents for a chance at survival. The senseless deaths of so many from diseases that are easily preventable, easily treatable. The mommas who can't feed the babies they pushed out of their own frail bodies. The man who stands on the corner with a sign looking for what? For hope? And that small broken country just a two hour flight south from our prosperity. Those five letters that put together and spoken aloud make me cry every time. And those starving for truth. All over the whole world.
The reason I keep that door locked is because I can't fix those things. I can't even hop on a plane and go sit with them in their suffering. I can't mail them my life savings. And I can't just lay in bed and cry for them all day. To weep with those who weep could be debilitating when so much of the world is weeping, so many of these twenty four hours. I also don't know what to do when I feel cold water flow over my hands from the tap in my kitchen, every day. On and on it could come. And I feel so acutely that I don't deserve this, and that all is grace but how do I give some of mine to them?
Anyway, since the door got opened recently I've been thinking that maybe the solution isn't always to keep it shut and locked. Maybe there's something more I can do than just pray and cry. Maybe I should give my children a glimpse inside. Not into the horrors, no. They are too young and innocent. But maybe I should crack their vision just a little bit, to realize that the world is big. That we have been given what we have been given for a purpose. That maybe, just maybe, we could give our box of granola bars to the man on the corner. That we could pray together for the kids who are hurting in a country that's not ours. And choose to believe that those prayers matter because God made all these promises to be the defender of the fatherless. That we could share everything, however we can, and and claim nothing our own. I don't know what that could look like. And the not knowing makes me too afraid to try. But tonight I don't want to fear anymore. I want to try to crack that door. And trust the King with that flood of sorrow, come what may. Maybe I'm not meant to keep the door closed. Maybe I'm meant to bring others through it.
There's this door in my heart. Most the time I keep it shut and locked. I've even let the vines grow over it so some days I hardly notice that it's there. Behind it lies the suffering of millions. A bloody holocaust in the country I call my own. The cries of all the Djemys in the world who are separated from their parents for a chance at survival. The senseless deaths of so many from diseases that are easily preventable, easily treatable. The mommas who can't feed the babies they pushed out of their own frail bodies. The man who stands on the corner with a sign looking for what? For hope? And that small broken country just a two hour flight south from our prosperity. Those five letters that put together and spoken aloud make me cry every time. And those starving for truth. All over the whole world.
The reason I keep that door locked is because I can't fix those things. I can't even hop on a plane and go sit with them in their suffering. I can't mail them my life savings. And I can't just lay in bed and cry for them all day. To weep with those who weep could be debilitating when so much of the world is weeping, so many of these twenty four hours. I also don't know what to do when I feel cold water flow over my hands from the tap in my kitchen, every day. On and on it could come. And I feel so acutely that I don't deserve this, and that all is grace but how do I give some of mine to them?
Anyway, since the door got opened recently I've been thinking that maybe the solution isn't always to keep it shut and locked. Maybe there's something more I can do than just pray and cry. Maybe I should give my children a glimpse inside. Not into the horrors, no. They are too young and innocent. But maybe I should crack their vision just a little bit, to realize that the world is big. That we have been given what we have been given for a purpose. That maybe, just maybe, we could give our box of granola bars to the man on the corner. That we could pray together for the kids who are hurting in a country that's not ours. And choose to believe that those prayers matter because God made all these promises to be the defender of the fatherless. That we could share everything, however we can, and and claim nothing our own. I don't know what that could look like. And the not knowing makes me too afraid to try. But tonight I don't want to fear anymore. I want to try to crack that door. And trust the King with that flood of sorrow, come what may. Maybe I'm not meant to keep the door closed. Maybe I'm meant to bring others through it.
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