Stories and Purpose

Fall comes, busy and consistent in a way that my summers are not. This steady tumble of hours upon days, days upon weeks. And, I remind myself of the beauty that is here. Remind myself of the need to rest.

Because, once again, there are pieces of my life scattered across my floor. Once again, I need to slow down and find the stories here.

Part of my fabric stash sits in the middle of the room, jumbled and spread around by playful kittens, and a dark green scrap catches my eye, white letters still brilliant against the background. A twice worn shirt from an 11th grade trip to Atotonilco Los Altos, Mexico.

A trip where I began to form my ideas of how I would someday lead a team. The value of music and conversation on starlit rooftops. Of time taken from the task to be with, play with, hear stories. Of the power of roadside food and unwashed fruit to lock a place deep into your bloodstream, to make it home.

I learned the value of simple rules and the natural balance of late nights and early mornings. The divisive power of a grumpy leader and the feel of a team curling in on itself for protection, not from our hosts, but from each other.

The power of water to soothe and to process and to heal, and the homecoming that sometimes begins long before the plane ride home.

So many of the things that have been Haiti, I learned in Mexico.

Off to the side, half buried under Bible study notes on the life of Moses, the flip flops that were Provision right before middle school camp, a narrative that stretched through our week when one of them was left behind -- somewhere in a bush, near the edge of a field, in the dark and adrenaline of a night game.

A night game that we still reference when we talk about camp, when the kids gather around and we repeat the stories that make them feel real. When we talk about trust and leadership and the Body of Christ. When we remind them of a time that they were Brave.

When they were kind enough to lend an extra pair of flip flops to a shoeless leader. Clever enough to find it along the side of the trail where I could not. United enough to know of a need that had never been spoken directly to them.

A little more worn, lightly chewed by my parents' cat, a silent reminder.

The jackets that indicate a change of season, socks that mean a school year of tennis shoes and walks during gym class. 

Things that aren't. Shorts that are tucked carefully away in drawers until the weather changes again. A sweatshirt still with the 7th grader who borrowed it at camp.

Echoes of Kenya everywhere, of Haiti; of cluster, Sundays, camps and school. That always tension of being ready to leave and yet thoroughly grounded to this place. The quiet whisper of a three years ago conversation with God, a promise to stay "until."

That word that stretched out into the future and echoed through countless conversations with the Divine. "Are you sure, God?"

"Yes. Stay until..."

Until. Until a seemingly arbitrary event that might be soon, could have come any time, might not be for years or seasons.

Until.

Until three weeks from now.

But, not.

Not that I am getting on a plane three weeks from now, or three weeks after that. 

Simply that the "go" that I have been waiting for from God, the fleece, the Macedonian call, the "stay here until..." came two and a half weeks ago. Becomes reality in three more. Simply that I can see the pieces gradually falling into place.

That something has changed to the feel of it all, something that has nothing to do with the physical changes that are happening all around me. No longer a staying until. But, a staying in order to.

And, I find myself acutely aware of this choice to stay. To be present with and for these kids one more day, one more week, one more hour at a time. To be faithful to a bigger calling that has nothing to do with my timing or my specifics and everything to do with the overarching plan of a God who is Great, Gracious, Glorious, and Good.

Because, in this season, the first step of "go" involves not leaving.