Advent // Awaiting

Yesterday I waited in line for 12 minutes at Target to buy a single pair of sandals– an emergency change of footwear for my company holiday party to slip into when the dancing begun. 12 minutes with one item in my hands. I watched the woman in front of me unload her cartful as the cashier slowly scanned item after item. My impatience grew when she made eye contact, glanced at the single item in my hands before looking away and proceeding to unload her whole cart. Where I come from, you let someone go in front of you in cases like these.

But I digress.

Impatience has long been a virtue I struggle with. Just when I think I’ve kicked it, I find myself cursing traffic or tapping my foot at the lady in the grocery store line, and I am humbly reminded that I have, in fact, not kicked it.

Christmas is a wonderful reminder of the importance of patience. As the halls get decked and the countdown begins, anticipation grows for the special day on December 25th. We each look forward to different things– presents under the tree, family traditions, a nice meal, a classic movie and a cozy fireplace. But Christmas has always been as much about the waiting as it is about the delivery.

The Israelites waited hundreds of years for the fulfillment of the prophesied messiah. The “Wonderful Counselor” and “Mighty God” who would take away sins had been promised for generations. And when He finally came, all those years of lofty promises came bundled up in the form of a baby wailing from a manger somewhere in Bethlehem. A virgin birth and a dirty barn were not what anyone would have imagined for the grand entrance of the Messiah into the world.

Despite what anyone could have expected or reasoned, God fulfilled hundreds of promises through an ordinary girl, a podunk little town and an infant who would grow to be our Savior. But before proving to be the King of kings, before miracles and preaching and dying and resurrecting, Jesus was just a carpenter in Nazareth. For some 30 years, God was preparing Jesus’ heart; His period of waiting was not wasted, and ours are not either.

In the Church, we call the weeks before Christmas Advent. This season marks the beginning of the Christian year, and it is “a time of expectant waiting and preparation for both the celebration of the Nativity of Jesus at Christmas and the return of Jesus at the Second Coming.” I think amidst the Advent calendars and colored candles, we often forget the second part of that sentence. Advent, and Christmas for that matter, is not just about the Nativity.

We celebrate Christmas to remember and honor hat God held up his promises by sending His son that starry night. But more importantly, we celebrate Christmas to remind ourselves that as He fulfilled His promise long ago, He will do it once more.

May this Advent season be a reminder of all that our hearts are really waiting for, a celebration of the promise of fulfillment.

20/20

A few weeks ago, I had surgery to correct my vision. For the last few weeks since, I have been forced into a very uncharacteristic period of rest.

As you can imagine, my eyes were sensitive and tired for a few days following the procedure; even the dimmest kitchen light still stung and my eyes strained to bring the blurry world into focus. My vision improved quickly, but daily headaches halted my plans to read, use my computer, watch TV and even work out as my new eyes tried to heal themselves. The rest my eyes required left me restless for days, with nothing but the colorful visions of my own imagination to paint the world around me.

In the darkness and stillness of my recovery, I learned a little more about seeing. This verse from 1 Corinthians came crystal-clear into my mind, “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known” (13:12).

As I peeked through tired eyes at my fuzzy surroundings, the thought of seeing dimly spoke to me.

My eye surgery was but a parable for my life right now. Graduation and job hunting has left me in a season of uncertainty, my vision of the future hazy and unclear. I cannot see the future God is forming beyond my line of vision.

Really, we’re all a little blind. Our eyes can only perceive the tangible, the obvious. And even then, the eyes are often deceiving. Yet we know there is so much more, a complex universe that exists below the surface of all we see. Our vantage points are highly subjective, and entirely oblivious to some of the most amazing things happening at this very moment.

Because we are not God. We cannot understand everything, cannot see the threads that bind us all together in one elaborate, beautiful mess. Even our own lives, the ones we think that we know best, are only being viewed through a mirror dimly.

This could be disheartening, but Paul doesn’t stop there. He adds that we will someday know all. We will understand the reasons behind some of our most difficult trials, know the answers to every challenging question we ponder.

As our God works behind the scenes, we enjoy the roles that we play without ever fully seeing the whole picture. Our actions could have repercussions so far-reaching we will never see where the ripples land. And that could be an incredibly scary thought, or it could be a humbling one. We cannot fathom the importance of our own lives until we release the idea that it is our own life at all, but by losing sight of self, we gain a greater view of the entire production.

My life right now is more unknown than usual. I do not know where I will be in a month or two or three. I am in the darkness, but there I cling to God’s low, steady voice leading me into the light. I cannot yet see what God is doing with me in this season– the seeds He is planting or the harvest He’s reaping. Though if I squint, I think I can make out the shadows of lessons in patience, in trust, in rest.

For now, that is enough. Until my vision is perfected, I will view the world through lenses of faith.

Even when my eyes can’t see 
I will trust the voice that speaks…

from “Peace Be Still,” Lauren Daigle (listen here) or check out her album on Amazon below!

From Mess to Masterpiece

Here’s the last post in my miniseries inspired by the wheel-throwing ceramics course I’m taking this semester! Read my first post here. 

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I’ll let you in on a little secret about pottery: You never know how a piece is going to turn out. The uncertainty of the craft is enough to deter the obsessive-compulsive and to entice the free-spirited. If you approach the wheel with visions of precision and perfection, you may as well leave before you ever get your hands dirty. Pottery is not for you.

If you’re going to try wheel-throwing, you must forget your cookie-cutter ideas and your Pinterest inspirations– this is not IKEA.  Your work will be flawed, a little off-kilter with patches of unevenness, smudged with the maker’s mark. Your flawless form will get bruised and beaten as it passes the numerous steps from the wheel to the kiln to your hands. The final product is rarely the one you envisioned in your head, but sometimes the results can surprise you.

For a recovering perfectionist like myself, releasing control over the outcome was by far the most challenging lesson to learn. There are days when my most prized projects have been ruined over silly little mistakes– forgetfulness or clumsiness or both. On the days that my hands work seamlessly with the wheel, I manage to shape the clay into some pretty cool forms. But then I bump it with my clumsy fingers or someone knocks it over as it’s drying on the shelf and I am reminded of the futility of beauty.

As luck would have it, the only kiln explosion to date damaged a handful of pieces– all of them mine, including my favorites and most of them gifts created with care for family and friends. ‘Twas a sad day in the studio.

This craft is frustrating.

Life can be pretty frustrating too. As we’re tossed and mishandled through the stages, none of us makes it out without a few scars. We’re flawed, not one of us exactly like the other. But each of these imperfections are just the fingerprints of our Creator– the Potter, leaving His little marks on His masterpieces.

And masterpieces we are. Even in times of trial, in the middle of the messes we’ve made for ourselves, His work is still being done. He continues to refine and transform us with every season. The clay is transformed with every stage: wet, dark brown to dry, dusty ash, then fired a vibrant orange and, finally, covered in a mosaic of our own creation. Each step in the process reveals something new– sometimes even unexpected.

Our lives can be like that too, if we let them. Every season is its own fire, used to refine us through hardships and changes and blessings and joy. We, like the clay, are never the same, but unlike the clay, that work is never finished in us. God promises constant care and endless growth opportunities for Christians.

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? [Isaiah 43:19]

There is a sense of peace in realizing that we are the clay, not the potter. We don’t always have the power to control– in fact, we rarely do. Yet often we live as if we’re the ones who need to do the shaping and forming of all the little details in life. We stress like it’s our job, when in reality, our only job is to be still. To allow ourselves to be molded.

The clay doesn’t know what it will be made into. It can’t comprehend the beauty that lies in store for its destiny. But the potter does know. He knows how to shape and mold the clay into a new form, something unimaginably beautiful compared to the gob of nothingness out of which it came. The clay is at the mercy of the Potter’s hands just as we rely on God to guide us into His chosen form.

Life will put its pressures on us. It will surely bump and bruise us along the way. To think that God is making beauty out of the most difficult trials, out of the biggest messes– that is hard to believe. But He declares that He is “making all things new,” and that includes you and me.

What patience God has with us, seeing us through from beginning to end. From mess to masterpiece.

[2  Corinthians 4:7-10]  But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.

Centered

Here’s the second installment of my miniseries inspired by the wheel-throwing ceramics course I’m taking this semester! Read my first post here. 

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The first step in the wheel-throwing process is also the most frustrating. Centering is exactly what it sounds like– the act of wrestling the uneven gob of clay into a smooth, uniform mound from which you can begin your work.

I use the term wrestling purposefully; guiding the clay into shape is much harder than it sounds, and I still somewhat dread the task at the beginning of each project. There are days when I just cannot shape the hunk of clay on my wheel into form, days I spend my time cursing the gob of chocolate-brown mud that ends up splattered across the wheel instead of spinning into a perfectly-formed cookie jar.

Wheel-throwing is messy. So are people. But lucky for us, our Potter isn’t afraid to get His hands dirty.

He said, “Can I not do with you, Israel, as this potter does?” declares the Lord. “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand,Israel. [Jeremiah 18:6]

As I mold stubborn clay into workable mounds, I think about God continually shaping me, too. Strong, knowing hands that gave life to dust and transformed mud into beauty, constantly embracing me while also applying pressure, refining the areas that stray from the center.

Clay must be carefully centered before it can ever be transformed. If this integral first step is neglected, the project is doomed. Eventually, the clay will warp in on itself, twisting and falling apart on the wheel. Though to the eye it may look even, under the potter’s hands its discomposure will be painfully obvious, clay precariously wobbling with every rotation.

As Christians, we function the same way. Without Christ at the center of our lives, we’re as flimsy as the clay. Though we want to be made into something worthy and valuable, we will collapse if unbalanced. We may look like we’re holding it together on the outside, but when pressure is applied, there is no avoiding the inevitable crash.

The problem is, it’s so easy to get off center. In the same way that the forces of the wheel naturally want to pull the clay outward, the forces of our world pull us away from center, too. One small thing may have us reeling out of control– and the faster we spin, the further we stray.

When this happens on the wheel, I usually end up scraping the mess of splattered clay off my wheel in frustration, only to abandon it and start fresh with a new piece. But how lucky I am that God never does that with me. He doesn’t look at the mess I’ve made and consider me a lost cause. Instead, He continues working on me, firm and practiced hands lovingly refining and guiding me back to Him. To center.

Sometimes, the clay is stubborn. Sometimes, so are we. It’s our nature to resist, but it’s His nature to persist. There is no clay too far gone to be brought to perfect center.

From the Mud

In my four years of university education, no class has taught me more valuable lessons than Wheel-throwing Ceramics this semester. Through working with clay, making wobbly coffee mugs and uneven cookie jars, I have learned more about myself and more about God than I ever imagined I could from a senior-year “just for fun” class.

Those closest to me were skeptical, and I’ll admit, I had my doubts as well. Impatient, easily frustrated and clumsy with perfectionist tendencies doesn’t exactly fit the persona of a skilled potter. But I like a challenge and despite the aforementioned qualities, my soul has always been drawn to creative pursuits, and I wanted the chance to see what my hands could do in a new medium.

The very first time I handled the clay, it felt right somehow. I was no prodigy by any means, but I wasn’t terrible, either, and that gave me enough confidence to keep practicing until I got the hang of it. Wheel throwing is time-consuming, and while other students gripe about the commitment, I shamelessly spend hours in the studio refining my skills. My time spent in the studio always serves as a “reset” for my restless spirit. Unlike the chaos and confusion of life around me, the clay is something I can control. Throwing sessions are my chance to press pause on the spinning world outside and my own spinning thoughts until the only thing spinning is the wheel.

I think a lot about God when I throw.

I think enough about Him and the ways this art form so closely mirrors His work in us that I can’t even limit myself to just one blog post to cover this topic. I have decided to create a mini series of posts devoted to the lessons I’ve learned on the wheel, because He has too much on my heart these past few months to contain my musings to a single lesson. Ceramics is a process, so this series will be too.

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I’ll say it right now, the clay isn’t pretty. It’s a dark, earthy brown piled high in heaps that look like mud (if we’re putting it nicely). No one would ever imagine that from this gross pile, something beautiful could arise.

We’re a lot the same. On our own, we are like the clay– ugly, messy, a little gross. We’re sin-infested and rebellious. But God looks at us the way the potter does the clay. He sees through the mess and the ugliness to the thing of beauty that is hiding somewhere underneath. Like the clay, our souls are brimming with potential, calling out to be molded into something beautiful.

Viewing the clay from the potter’s perspective has changed my perspective on my own identity as a Christian. I’ve long since wondered how I can be this sinful creature born into rebellion and, at the very same time, be called holy and blameless, chosen and loved [Ephesians 1:4]. But I am beginning to see that it is the same way the clay can be both a messy hunk of mud and a flawless work of art. The Potter has chosen me to be an expression of Himself, the work of His hands and the material through which He will reflect His glory.

The clay, on its own, will never become beautiful. It will spin and spin and spin away on the wheel forever, but it will never be something of worth. The clay cannot mold itself into a vase or spin its way into a bowl. And neither can we. All our striving for greatness and esteem, purpose and success are like spinning endlessly to no avail.

I have seen all the works which have been done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity, a futile grasping and chasing after the wind. [Ecclesiastes 1:14]

But not all hope is lost. Under the right hands, slabs of mud become masterpieces. God may view us as messy hunks of potential beauty, but His work in us has only just begun…

 

Stay tuned for the next post in the series! 

 

 

hands.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but I think I see yours through your hands.

I can recognize anybody by their hands. Go ahead, test me on it. It’s a weird quirk of mine (one of many) but this is the very feature I notice first about a person. It’s a kind of infatuation for me, studying a person’s hands and committing them to memory; I watch them as you speak, punctuating ideas and flying through the air with excitement or fiddling mindlessly. I see hours of work in the callouses that give your hands character, in the dirt that collects under your fingernails and the deep lines on your palms. Rings signify love stories– the inheritance of an ancestor, the reminder of your roots, the promise of a companion.

We wear our life stories on our hands– and in them, we hold the power to change lives.

My own hands are nothing special; they’re small and kind of knuckle-y and my nail polish is usually chipped. The winter air assaults them, leaving them dry and cracked until the summer sun rejuvenates the skin and leaves a warmer shade behind. My hands are not pretty, scarred from my own clumsiness– tiny accidents that leave permanent relics on my skin– always cold, a little shaky. My grandmother’s ring adorns my left middle finger, a steady reminder of her loving presence, even now. There’s nothing special about my hands except what they can do.

My hands can build ramps for the handicap and serve food to the hungry; they can embrace a friend or wipe away tears; they can write, express and encourage. My hands are my tools, given by God, to carry out the purpose He has set for me to do. And though I may not fully know what that purpose is yet, all I can do is lift my hands– empty and ready to be filled– to the One who knows exactly how to use them. This is where we can all begin.

I look around me at this fallen world and I see so much work to be done. And then I look down at my hands and I wonder where on earth to even begin. I see scars and imperfections and think surely God can’t use my hands. But then I remember that I know someone else whose hands are scarred, and I know there is hope for me yet.

I have realized that changing the world is God’s work; I can only change my world. But if each of us changes just one corner of our individual worlds, we can begin to see a revolution until the day that all will be made new. Each of us may feel as if our hands are just too small to carry the whole world, to reach that far, to touch so many. But that’s the beauty of it all: that even one touch ripples outward almost infinitely and can affect more than we ever dare dream.

If we each touch just one life, if we changed just one aspect of this world for the better, I believe the reverberations would echo throughout the universe. It’s a massive feat, too big for any one of us to accomplish, but made entirely possible by the collaboration of tiny, everyday acts that add up to real change. Not one person, but one body.

Billions of hands, reaching toward the same goal, working for the same God.

 

Last Lap

Disclaimer: I am not a runner.

I haven’t laced up the old Nikes in an embarrassingly long time, and even when I do, I can assure you my performance is far from a track star.

But a sermon I listed to this morning by Sadie Roberston had me thinking of life– and more specifically, faith– as somewhat of a race. Sadie shared a personal anecdote of a mortifying high school track meet where she was lapped by everyone in the race and forced to finish the last lap by herself. That is, until her brother stormed the track with a speaker blaring “Heart of a Champion” and began to run alongside his sister. This small act of encouragement was enough to push her to finish the race when she wasn’t sure she was going to make it through and even count the defeat as something of a personal victory.

Her message went on to point out that God uses the lowest points– the toughest laps, if you will– to bring about amazing things for his glory. Getting there can feel unbearable, but when the focus shifts from your defeat to His incredible victory over it, God’s glory shines light even to your dark spaces.

Sadie’s story resonated with me this morning. As a second-semester senior just returning from studying abroad, I feel as if I am on my own “last lap” of sorts. I have run with all I had for so long, and now the end is almost in sight… but getting there feels impossible. So much excitement lies behind me, and the uncertainty of the future brings trepidation to my steps forward.

But the thought never occurred to me before that maybe, just maybe, something amazing might be right around the bend. Sadie’s message hit me hard, and hopefully you can find some truth to it, too. If you’re going through your last lap– or if you’ve counted yourself out of the race entirely– there is always a reason to keep running. When your legs are tired and your lungs are screaming and you want nothing more than to just finish, I promise you: you are just one lap away from the best God’s got in store for you.

How can I make such a bold claim? Because I believe that each of us is a living, breathing miracle. The air in our lungs is the breath of God’s own spirit and the hearts in our chests beat in sync with His. So even when you feel like anything but a miracle, your very existence proves otherwise. And with every new day we rise, God promises amazing redemption.

Moses had counted himself out of the race long before God he heard God’s call. At his lowest, he was nothing but an exiled murdered, but God chose him to lead a nation (Exodus 2:11-15). At Jesus’s command, demons fled from the possessed man (Mark 5:14-20) who was ostracized and hopeless. One touch from Jesus and the sick, hurting and paralyzed rose up and danced on legs once thought useless. In these and countless other examples, there is a common thread: unexpected redemption right when they were at the end of their ropes.

When you think your race is over, God has even more waiting for you at the finish line. From the first lap to the last, He is running alongside you. We have this hope for amazing things to come, because God promises miraculous redemption ahead.

So I ask you today, wherever you are in your own race– what if you were just one lap away from something amazing? 

Will you keep running?

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us,looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. [Hebrews 12:1-2]

**This post was inspired by Sadie Robertson’s message titled “Keep Running.” Because she expresses this idea better than I ever could, you can watch her video here!**

Arabian Nights

My first night in the desert, I realized I’ve never truly seen the stars before.

Away from the lights of our little camp, the uninterrupted night sky was a blanket of black, pierced by shimmering stars like pinpoints of Heaven breaking through.

I felt the air escape my lungs as I leaned back into the cool sand. Side by side, my travel companion and I fell silent. We both wore the intensity of the view, the vastness of our surroundings. Surreal barely scratches the surface.

I thought back to my grade school knowledge of astronomy and remembered learning that the light we see from stars has to travel for years to reach our eyes. The stars we view tonight could very well be burned out by now and we’d never even know it.

The thought of the immeasurable distance between myself and the stars made me feel very small. The expansive sky was light-years away, yet I could feel it’s celestial presence on my skin like a blanket. The milky way’s faint streak of light cut across the night like a ripple, casting an eerie feeling of being both a viewer and a participant of this great big, unstoppable universe.

There, on the cool dune, I felt nothing more than a grain of sand myself. Yet despite my minisculity, I had the distinct feeling of being seen and known. Like even in the darkness in the middle of the most unlikely place, God was looking down on me at that exact moment. Instead of feeling exposed, a sense of peace washed over me, a comfortable sensation of being truly known. A conversation with God without saying a word.

I wasn’t the only one feeling spiritual. My stargazing companion’s voice, low and quiet, broke the silence reminding me of her presence.
“It’s just so amazing…” she began, with a tone that hinted she had more to say.
“I just keep thinking about the verse about God’s love, that it’s greater than the stars in the sky…”

I nodded silently beside her, even though she couldn’t see. There was an unspoken communication there, the heaviness of His glorious creation weighing on our hearts yet somehow freeing them, too.

I ran my fingertips over the cool sand, conjuring up my own image of another famous parable as I felt the innumerable grains of sand slip through my hands.

Each one an earthly reflection of the stars above. Each one a reminder of God’s immeasurable love.

“He counts the number of the stars; He calls them all by name.”
Psalm 147:4

Cuando llueve, jarrea // When it Rains it Pours

Friday.

My weekend started off on the wrong foot. I was prematurely awoken by the furious screeching of an ambulance stopping just down the street from my apartment. Dazed and annoyed, I drifted into a half-sleep only to be jolted awake once again by the alarm I forgot I had set. Shortly after, construction workers began their day much earlier than I intended to begin mine, and the noise ricocheting down the narrow street into my window forced me to resign and rise. I noticed with dismay that it was raining, my terraza pooling with water and the dampness already chilling my bones.

Un día de esos.  

It was one one of those days where you spend the whole day waiting for the clouds to clear. But the rain never ceased and the sky barely shed light over sleepy Sevilla today.

If there has ever been a person that hates the rain more than me, I’ve never met them. My closest friends and family know that my attitude is directly related to the weather, and I’ll be the first to admit I am not the most pleasant person to be around when it’s cold and/or rainy. Actually, I chose Sevilla because of the rumored sunshine and warm climate. Not to be mistaken, it is warm here. But we’ve been having some unseasonably chilly days and more rain than usual. Coupled with a week of midterms and a persistent cold that I just can’t quite shake, it’s safe to say I have been having a rough week.

I was lamenting my luck as I trekked through the sodden streets, the rain pelting me despite my umbrella and newly-purchased coat (yes, I had to buy a parka because I did not pack one, naively expecting sunshine and warmth for the whole semester). My mood grew dark like the clouds and I was seriously tempted to cancel the plans I had made with another student for a language exchange.

But I persevered, arriving late to the cafe we chose, grumpy and dripping with rainwater. But the clouds of my humor lifted as I sipped my coffee and swapped stories with two exchange students from Italy. We got to know each other through a jumbled conversation of Spanish, Italian and English that was enough to give me a headache, but our giggling transcended language barriers. I quickly forgot my irritation and by the time I left, the rain had finally ceased.

I give this anecdote to offer a dose of realism from my experience abroad. I am having the time of my life, this is true, but of course, there are some bad days, too. Despite appearances and the carefully constructed image I publish, my life is not all sunshine-y here (literally or figuratively). One day I am fumbling through miscommunication and doubting my Spanish skills; other days, I am beaming with pride at my ability to carry on even the simplest conversations. There are days I am on cloud nine, seeing new sights and marveling at the wonders around every corner; and there are days when I really just want a hug from my mom or a good night’s sleep in my own bed.

But it is my intention not to waste a minute of my limited time here. That means forcing myself to go out in the rain when all I want to do is stay in and read a good book. It means choosing Spanish over English whenever I have the chance even if my brain is tired or I feel foolish in my blundering. It means finding the sunshine even through the rain, and constantly reminding myself to be grateful for every day I spend here, even the imperfect ones.

It’s the imperfection, after all, that reminds me that this is real life and not just a dream. It’s the rain that makes the flower grow.

 

Transitions

There’s no such thing as an easy goodbye.

Even when it’s just for a little while, it’s tough to hug someone you love and know it will be some time before you’re face to face again. I have had several goodbyes in the last few weeks, and my heart is heavy. While it’s all exciting when you and/or your friends move on– to graduate, study abroad and embark on new adventures– these transitions don’t come without their drawbacks, too. As excited as I am about my own summer ahead, it’s the parting part that leaves a knot in my stomach.

For the next 10 weeks, I am separating myself from my support system, my closest friends and loving family. I did this to myself, of course, and I expect no sympathy. But I’d be remiss not to mention the not-so-pretty truth behind pursuing your dreams. This experience of a lifetime doesn’t come without a sacrifice. Of course, I am excited for the summer ahead, but I am torn between the promise of everything to come and the longing for all that I am leaving behind.

But that’s growing up, I suppose. It’s glamorous and messy all at once. It’s moving on and looking back. It’s equal parts hope and nostalgia. Things change. People grow and move. Life is is constant motion. But we cannot stand still as time surges forward. As fun as it is to reminisce, things can’t stay the same forever. Instead, those memories I cherish have shaped me into who I am and they drive me towards who I will become.

In some ways, this summer feels like my coming of age– like the pilot episode of my feature debut. This is just the beginning of the life I’ve always wanted to create for myself. For so long, living in NYC has been the ultimate dream for me. Yesterday, it became my reality. I am humbled by this opportunity I get to live out my dream and I cannot pretend this was all a result of my efforts. Don’t get me wrong, I put a lot of effort into this, but even my hard work alone could not so perfectly orchestrate this whole thing the way it has come together.

So I will give glory where it is due: to God who has blessed me with my wildest dream. And knowing that, I will approach this summer fully surrendered and eager to be used for His purposes. I will rely on Him to bring peace, wisdom and guidance for my every step. This is just one stop in the journey that is life, and I intend to make the most of every last moment.