to the lovers and the haters.

I have a tab on the blog that says "Let's Chat." People use it. A lot. I get emails daily. I love it. 

Most of the time. 

I got an email this week from a stranger who took it upon herself to tell me that I am disgustingly prideful. She talked and talked about my "hubris", my vanity, my self-importance, my self-promotion. 

A while back a reader told me that my hallmark is my humility and willingness to be transparent about weaknesses. 

Someone called me an "uppity" woman, like we're stuck in the middle of the 18th century. 

Others tell me I'm too nice, too flowery, too kind. That I should learn to take a stand for something. 

Yet some believe I'm too passionate, too fire-y, too motivated. 

I've had people straight up tell me I'm a terrible follower of Jesus. 

Then others come and pick up those pieces and tell me I'm doing just fine, that they're praying for me. 

Here's the thing, you guys: 

My identity can't be found in the accusations or the accolades. 

My best friends can attest to the fact that I have agonized over the emails, the comments. I have cried sad, angry, hurt tears over the mean ones and cried joyous, overwhelmed, encouraged tears over the sweet ones. 

I just can't do it anymore. I can't listen to the one who thinks I'm terribly wrong or the one who thinks I'm spot on. Both of them are right, and both of them are wrong. I am refusing to find my identity or my voice or my worth in the words and opinions of others. 

Don't get me wrong or misunderstand me. I am absolutely open to criticism. There are faithful friends and beloved leaders who I value and trust. I love hearing their thoughts- harsh or not. (and trust me, they hold my feet to the fire sometimes.) But there's a HUGE difference between someone who speaks from an earned place of love and trust in your life, and the drive-by critics with an ax to grind against you and no genuine investment in the outcome. 

Here is the thing about standing up against something, or FOR something: some people would just rather you sit back down. 

People prefer status quo. Boat-rockers make us incredibly nervous. 

But I will not sit down. I will not back down. I won't be silenced by imperfection or opposition. 

My prayer in the midst of this is that my weakness will showcase the strength and power of Christ and His Kingdom. 

I will call attention to my feet of clay and my own frailty over and over and over again because no one is more aware than me that I was born sinful and have been saved by the blood of the lamb. I carry a priceless treasure, and I will gladly boast in my weaknesses so that His power may rest on me (2 Corinthians 12:9). 

The depth and validity of my writing and work can't be dependant on my ability to please everyone. My list of failures and short-comings are real, and number FAR more than the ones my readers enjoy pin-pointing. 

I believe in being a student, a sister, a daughter, a friend the way Jesus would be all those things. I believe in justice, in vulnerability, in truth. I believe that our HOW matters just as much as our WHAT and our WHY. I want everything I do to reflect the heart of God. I want to walk faithfully in His footsteps and be a good vessel for His Kingdom. 

From the moment man was spoken into existence, we have been called to be warriors. The Bible is flooded with calls to battle and descriptions of the necessary armor. We have in no way been called to the people-pleasing life, the approval-seeking life, the shrink-back-and-give-up life. Instead, we've been called to the peace-making life, the truth-telling life, the he-who-the-Son-sets-free-is-free-indeed life (John 8:36). 

We've been called to the Spirit-filled and God-breathed life, living out the ways of the Kingdom and the love of Christ in every corner of our humanity. 

We've been called to the life of the beloved, the life of the disciple. And sometimes that means people love what we do, while sometimes it means they hate what we do. 

But friends, you and I can't engage in life from a place of worthiness without having a core belief about that worthiness: We are loved. We are redeemed. We are whole in Christ. Your true identity is beloved. Start there. And then we can live out our lives and our callings from a deep well of love and freedom and wholeness. 

Even- maybe even especially- our imperfect, filled-with-weaknesses lives are singing a beautiful song of invitation to the lost and the hurting: Come. It's beautiful, this life with Jesus. Breathe free. You are loved. 

So, stand up. Even when you feel like sitting down. 

I promise it will be worth it. 

bless the merciful.

We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully. Romans 12:-6-8

My junior high Bible teacher was amazing. I loved her. Still do, actually. She taught me more about grace and about boldness and about freedom in those two years than anyone ever before. Her classroom was inviting, safe, and always smelled good; I spent most days lunching on her corner couches. She was a rather unconventional teacher, focusing on heart and relationship much more than curriculum or agendas. 

We did a spiritual gifts unit one quarter. We came in the classroom, and she handed us a packet of questions to answer. You know the drill. I remember so vividly doing my best to pick answers that would lend a particular result: Leader. Evangelical culture values the hero, celebrates the leader, praises the head of the pack. In our weird little hierarchy of heroes, clearly the most spiritual among us would be the leaders, right? After repeated (and I mean repeated) multiple choice testings, my own results always came out NOT leadership. Of course. 

I was less than thrilled to say the least. 

So, the last several years have been an intentional pursuit of what it means to walk in my giftings, to represent Christ in the best possible way. 

Part of that journey has been a parallel intentionality to discover and appreciate the gifts of those around me. I am surrounded by helpers, encouragers, teachers and leaders. I am overwhelmed by others' wisdom and faith, and have been blessed time and time again by the givers. I'm grateful. 

But today, I'd like to say thank you to the Mercy people. To those of you that have been given such a sweet, yet often looked-over gift.

Bless the merciful. Those who refrain from giving us what we deserve.

Bless the hospital chaplains who cry and pray in trauma rooms with the scared and the hurting. Bless the elderly woman who folds the young mother's laundry. Bless the cookie bakers and the smoothie makers who deliver to the lonely or forgotten. Bless the father who scrapes puke up off the floor only after he's gently washes and dressed and comforted the sick child. 

Bless the ones who cry too much and feel too much. Bless the wounded healers. 

Bless the kind ones, who speak words of life and gentleness. Bless the benefit-of-the-doubt givers, the one-more-chance lavishers. Bless the holders and the kleenex-passers. Bless the walkers-in-another-shoes. Bless the wheelchair pushers. Bless the ones there waiting after the chips fall, and the edifice crumbles, and the truth comes out. Bless them for their grace for both the flyers and thud-ere, for the fury and for the glory. 

Bless the ones who pardon the unforgivable, and bandage wounds. Bless them for the dignity they somehow give the rest of us. Bless them for seeing us, and loving us anyway. 

Bless them for standing in our thin places between too-much and not-enough, the places where our hearts are breaking and our fears are manifesting and we are scared and alone. Bless them for showing up in the fault lines to hold our hands and pray. 

Bless them for weeping with those who weep. 

Bless them for their patience, for their supernatural ability to stop rolling their eyes, for their ability to be present. Bless them for their joy in the face of suffering, and their faith in our always-changing story. 

Bless them for their heart to smooth the edges and widen the roads. Bless them for their cups of cold water, their hot plates of food. Bless them for their prison visiting, their preemie-baby hat knitting, their nursery rocking so tired mommas can worship in community. Bless them when they smell of salty tears. 

Bless the merciful as they carry our own burdens with us, and we cannot know how low they are bowed with the grief of the whole world groaning for justice and peace. Bless the ones who love without fanfare or book deals or conference attention. Bless the ones running toward the hurting, instead of running away like the rest of us. 

Bless them because it takes more gut to be merciful, compassionate and kind than we could have ever imagined. 

Bless you, merciful ones. 

and dear Jesus, give me a more merciful heart.

you don't need to change the world.

It is the second and final night of the retreat, and the outside amphitheater is filled with crying junior highers and a passionate speaker. The battle cry is "Go!" because the lost souls are circling the earth and there are places where the name of Jesus is not known. 
"Please stand if you feel called to GO!" The music swells, the call is made, and suddenly dozens of student are clutching a 25 page, full-color Missions Trip Guide for the summer of 2005. Someone has grabbed you by the hands and is praying wildly over you, her brow sweaty, her eyebrows furrowed. 
In the worship choruses that follow, you are vowing to be a WorldChanger. You are carried by the crescendoes, hands lifted high above your head, asking to be used, asking for revival. 
There has been a LOT of talk lately about mediocrity. about settling. about being luke-warm, and you are learning to fear it all. You are learning to fear smallness and normalcy. 
At thirteen or fourteen, you have yet to taste alcohol, but you are determined to be "drunk" on all this passion. Your walk with God has taken on the wobbling, lurching quality of the intoxicated. You raise your arms higher, feel a wild hope rise in your heart, promise God that if He'll let you, you'll change the world for Him. 
_____
At 21 years old, my life feels very small. 
Most days, I stay within a fifteen mile radius of my suburban home, orbiting the boundaries of my world. School. Work. Church. Best friend's houses. Target. 
The battles I fight daily are small ones, not for souls but for her to please stop ignoring me or him to please take one bite of your vegetables. I believe that the work of Christ involves standing between the oppressor and the oppressed, but the truth of it is that it's all I can do some days to stand between the six year old and his big brother, who's trying to beat him with a matchbox car. 
I know full well that I have just this one beautiful life on earth and that the days are disappearing fast beneath me. I know what it feels like to ache for my life to mean something, to set the world ablaze. 
But here's the truth: I'm in the middle of working on eight loads of laundry. yep. eight. because the piles got high during this last brutally difficult semester of school. I'm sorting through papers and powerpoint notes and binders, attempting to get organized for the next semester of school. I drive to work and I see my sweet kid's faces, and I ask her again if she needs to go potty. I cut up strawberries, scrawl in my journal, open textbooks again and again, and it all feels so small. 
_____
There has been a shift in our culture and I feel it. Our collective conscience seems to have awakened to the reality of injustice. We are learning that that we can't simply speak about the living water, without also building wells; the good news to the hungry includes both the bread of life and actual, physical loaves. 
I love the ways that people and organizations and ministries are orienting themselves toward clean water and adoptions and food drives and making the world better. 
Remember the whole Kony 2012 thing?? Yeah, I sobbed through that whole video. All those children. All those signs. A generation coming together to change the world. Sex trafficking videos? I bawl my eyes out. Adoption stories? I weep. 
But then, there it is again. That quest for bigness. I feel it in my heart now in the same way I felt it as a fourteen year old. It is intoxicating and burdening and I am impassioned to do something great. Start an organization. Raise a billion dollars. Change. The. World. 
And then my phone chimes again to remind me that I have a pharmacology exam in two days, dinner needs to be made for the children, and I should probably keep working on those laundry loads. I feel the smallness close in on me again. 
_____
Here's the thing, though. As I step into this new year, I am reminding myself of something that I desperately need to remember. 
The usefulness of my life is God's concern. 
Not mine. 
My responsibility is not to change the world. It never has been, and it never will be. 
and it's not yours either. 
Our responsibility is to lean into the wild love of God. To be moved by it. To step humbly and obediently into it's bigness and find ourselves different there. 
Whether the things I do change the world is not my concern. My job is to let my heart expand in His mysterious, perfect love so that when I meet the orphan or the widow or my neighbor or my sister or my enemy, I have something to give them. 
God's love is power and hope and healing, and it has changed the world before. It will change it again. 
It will change the world every day of my small, big life. 
Praying that 2014 is marked by intentional love, radical grace, and the freedom to walk confidently in whatever we are called to. 

if it hurts.

Sparkle, shine, music, and sweetness. 
Laughter, magic, and wonder. 
Parties, peace, togetherness. 
Packages, ribbon, anticipation. 
Hope, birth, and warm scarves. 
They say this is it, don't they? 
This is Christmas. This is the holiday season jam-packed with good things. 

... but what about when it isn't. 
What about when the sparkle can't be found and the laughter stings? What about the moment when the music ceases to play and the room full of people becomes a foggy blur?
I'm thinking about those of you today that know pain. Pain that comes like fog and just wraps itself around you. 
Mourning what was. Wishing for what might have been. Aching for what is or what should be. 
The clocks stops for no man. The calendar days march on. And sometimes along the way, hearts are trampled under the resounding drummer boy's beats. 
Jesus sees you, sweet hurting ones. 
Oh, He sees you. 
That baby. The one wrapped in nothing but dust-stained cloth and lying in a manger?
He grew. 
He grew, that wee little baby, into a man. God wrapped in human flesh. 
He loved. He healed. He carried. 
He died. 
He hung, back against splintering wood. 
and He thought of you. 
He thought of your hurt. 
He felt it. 
He knew the cause. He knew the loss. He knew the weight. 
He breathed His last breath. 
And He took it. 
He took the pain. He took the load you carry. 
He didn't cause it's existence to cease. He didn't blot it out of history's ledger. 
But He pulled it to Himself. He brought it upon His own shoulders, and He wrapped you in grace. in perfected love. He took your hand and gave you His strength. 
He whispered, gently, convincingly, "Take my yolk upon you, dear one, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light." 
Your pain is real. I want to recognize that. I see it filling you, seeping from your pores, attempting to suck the life from your heart. 
But that baby?? The newborn Messiah, held close in His momma's arms on that cold night two thousand years ago?
He is power. He is strength. He is comfort. He is love. 
And He came to give it to you. 
To those who are hurting this Christmas season, I pray you will let Him hold you. 
You are loved. 

blueberries.

This weekend was not fun. And when I say not fun, I mean really not fun. like at all. 
There was no fun in this weekend. 
It did not exist. 
and then I dropped a whole quart of blueberries on the ground today. bam. right on the floor. 
Standing alone in the kitchen I looked down at my feet and shouted, "you have GOT to be kidding me." 
It was my fault: I put the carton in the door on the refrigerator and they took flight as soon as I opened it. An entire quart spilled, little berries rolling to the the furthest corner of the kitchen. So I did what any frustrated woman would do: I took a bowl from the cupboard and I bent down on the wood to pick up each pretty little berry. 
Each one was so delicate and just a tiny bit bruised. I couldn't sweep them up. Not even with my hand making wide swooping motions like I would with spilled rice or beans. Nope. Blueberries are far too tender. I knew I needed to save them. Precious berries spread all over the dusty fall floor doesn't mean they are fit for the trash. 
I chose each one by hand, dropping them carefully into the bowl. 
One by one, one by one. 
Into a colander they went. I washed them with cool water, freeing them of whatever they'd picked up on the floor. Who wants to eat dusty fruit? Even more, who wants to eat bruised berries?
I popped one into my mouth. Even slightly bruised, they were perfect. 
Sometimes, I think about my own journey. There have been many times when I have felt like it might have been better if I had been swept up and poured into the garbage. If not better, then at the very least, easier. 
But that just isn't true. 
Each one of us has fallen out of the door. And instead of a wide sweep and an I'm-done-with-you, we've been picked up carefully. Chosen, even. Purposefully, and with extreme care. 
And slowly and gently, we've been made okay again. 
Bruised, and broken perhaps, makes the journey even sweeter, I think. 
Wishing you a Monday filled with love reminders, patience, and maybe even some blueberries.

wherever your feet may go.

Christian University: a place of higher education with the goal of integrating faith into learning and fostering spiritual growth. 

An honest letter to high school students considering Christian school: 
First of all, let me just say this: it's not what you are expecting it to be. 
I know all about the glossy ads. The campus lawns are meticulously, perfectly maintained. They almost look like the green pastures straight out of the 23rd Psalm, and you just can't wait to lie down and rest. A few yards away, there's several hipster college boys lazily throwing a football back and forth in the glorious sun. I know. I know, I know. 
Maybe high school has been hard for you. You just want to belong somewhere. Or maybe it's the total opposite. You are filled to the brim with excitement and expectation, looking forward, full of hope. 
You think "Christian College" and you picture smiley students lit like candles from the inside out, glowing brightly in our dark, dark world. Instant friendships are formed over 2-in-the-morning conversations and boxes of donuts. It feels safe. It feels simple. 
Here's the truth, guys: 
Where Jesus-followers gather, there is love, wildly beautiful and full of grace. 
AND. 
Where Jesus-followers gather, there is pettiness. gossip. pain. 
They are, after all, human. We are, after all, human. Young, searching. Making big mistakes, taking big leaps, just trying to figure out where we all fit in the world. 
It will look like hypocrisy at times, unfortunately. It will make you want to double back. Maybe even question the truth. 
At some point, the scripture themed hallways will inevitably feel like a cliche, and the Bible you carry to class may feel heavy on your back. 
There's a good chance someone will scrawl a bible verse on your whiteboard or slip some scripture on a notecard underneath your door in an effort to insult you or guilt you. It's just part of it. 
The rules you agreed to when you signed on the dotted line will tighten around your neck; you will tire. It's just part of it. 
Friends, sweet friends. This is what it means to grow up. To jump bravely and fearlessly into your future and come down hard on the unyielding ground. You may find yourself a little broken, a little sad, a little lonely. and that's just part of it, too. 
But here's the real big thing I want to tell you: don't give up. 
You will most likely find yourself at a fork in the road of your Christian campus journey: perform or disappear. Prove that your faith is strong and steadfast, or shrink back and hide. 
Choose neither. 
Choose stillness. Choose love. 
Always love. 
Don't fear the darkness. I promise you, it will come. Even in a place that promises light. It's okay to question. It's okay to wrestle. It's okay to discuss. I encourage you not to accept the easy answer or give into monotonous routine that carries little meaning. Push toward the hard edges of pain. Be honest. Be a catalyst. 
Eat cold pizza, stay out past curfew, and be intentional. 
Make friends from outside this place; find them in coffee shops or bookstores or the street corner, if you have to. Listen to their stories. I mean really listen. 
Get connected in community. Find those few people that will battle alongside you. Begin to make heart ties. Begin to branch out. 
Breathe in deep breaths. Often. Jump into the lake in the middle of winter, give tight hugs, and laugh as often as possible. Sing horribly at the top of your lungs, bake cookies at midnight, and study hard. 
Know that God is here. He is there. 
He is alive. You are alive. 
... and that, my friends, is a big deal. 
Here's to late nights, breaking through cliches, and living well... wherever your feet may go :)

take heart

I'm already in tears and the first sentence hasn't even been completed. 
Friends, this post has been long-awaited. I have anticipated it's arrival with great joy and great excitement. It's a huge HUGE deal. 
There have been tears. There has been silence. There has been challenges. There has been opposition.There has also been perfect peace, rest, and victory. Sweet, sweet victory. 
Let me back up a bit. Give you some background. 
She has deep brown eyes and the sweetest little dimples. She has been broken and hurt and bullied, yet has remained eagerly ready to learn how to listen and balance and love. She is absolutely beautiful in both body and soul, and she is one of my most favorite people ever created.  I see good in her heart for a million and more miles, and I love watching her chambers beat hard and fast after God's. She is what good women are made of. 
Is it any wonder that when I met her scared and lonely and confused self...
...and I saw the turmoil raging in her heart
... and I heard the lies being poured out over her
... and I saw the mental, physical, and spiritual repercussions of battling without armor
... is it any wonder that I actually imagined taking the devil by the collar and throwing him across some big imaginary field so he could never attempt to steal, lie, or hurt again? 
I spent many months with her simply consoling, speaking of grace and what Jesus has for those who suffer well. But internally, there were many times where my oven was at the burnt bread level. 
I watched her, day after day, slip her tiny arm under her messenger bag and head out into the world. and my mind just reeled at how much I have to learn. Jesus made no bones about the trouble we have coming in this world.
"In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."   What does that even look like?? 
Take heart. 
I can tell you that at the beginning of this year, neither of us really knew. But I knew something had to be done. 
Her world was flat. I mean really, really flat. Flat in color, flat in song, flat in hope. There was a lot of hurt, a lot of anger, and a lot of sorrow. Heart-wrenching sobs and apathy came in waves, darkness heavy and scary. There were several long nights of continuous pleading with Jesus, and several nights where the only option seemed to be sleep. She was deep in a pit. It was unrelenting. 
And it was time she got out. 
So I began to explore on her behalf.
Take heart.   
How do I do that, in the midst of incredible suffering. What am I saying to my sister when I ask her to cling tightly to Jesus? 
As I sorted through the world, and walked so closely with her as she began to come back to life and into His arms... I discovered that there are two ways to handle suffering. 
One way leads to abundant life. 
and the other way??
It has the sting of death all over it. 
__________

... I'm on a bench outside now. I took a break for a while, picked up my laptop, and headed outside. The shadow around me is a tree, and I have a notebook. There's a bush just right here where bees kiss the sweet nectar all over. It smells of cinnamon sugar and autumn. It sounds like the calming whir of hummingbirds and weed-eater. There's boys in the street boarding, and two little wee ones are having a hula hoop contest. I'm laughing. The sun is sweet, and the breeze is making everything sway just a little. There's just the right amount of quiet. 
As I get older, and I encounter more and more people, hear more and more stories, I know more.  I know more of the crumpled-heart, those who never feel full, those who labor with no fruit, those who feel betrayed and worthless and looked over. 
She was just like that, you know. I met her, and she was knee deep in it. I could see how deep she had fallen into the hopelessness that comes from the trouble of the world. 
Take heart. 
If Jesus Himself told us that we can expect trouble, then we better believe it's coming. 
If Jesus Himself told us that we can take heart, because He has already overcome the world, then we better take it. 
It's the choice to suffer in a way that shouts victory. 
Take heart. 
Because if you don't take it, you'll lose it. 
Now right about here is the point where I would love to bold bullet point some amazing step-by-step instructions, but I have none. 
But there is one hard, beautiful truth that has wrapped itself around and around the both of us during this year. It was there, working it's grace and it's beauty and it's freedom before we even realized it. 
It may sound like the worst of news, but to me? to her? 
It is Salvation. 
I am crucified with Christ, and I myself no longer live, but Christ lives in me. 
Jesus lives in me. He lives in her. and if He has called you to Himself, then He lives in YOU, too. Try to wrap your brain around that one. 
Friends, I watched her this year. Believe me when I say her life was a mess. 
Her life was marked by discontentment, fear, and bondage. 
But then Jesus. 
Jesus moved her into unknown territory, and she became a warrior. A courageous warrior because she knew it was He who moved her and He who had overcome. 
At several points over the last year, she would look at me and say "I wish I weren't so weak." 
But in that VERY weakness, I watched in awe as Jesus began to remind her of her worth, of her power, of her beauty. 
It's a funny thing how trials seem to lead us straight into His arms, into an honest way of peace. The weak pit of her soul, the empty places, the crying out places... they became the place from  which she began to renounce the lies and SHOUT the truth that HE LIVES in her. 
Just imagine her dry bones standing up, fighting back.   That's what happened this year. 
It happened 365 days ago, when my sweet little sister said NO to an eating disorder. 
It happened when she decided that her body was a temple and she was not bound to the lies of the devil, but rather she is a vessel of holiness created perfectly and with extreme care. 
365 days of choosing to eat. 365 days of choosing not to throw up. 365 days of training her body.   Friends, she has a long way to go. I'm not blind to that, and neither is she. 
But today? We're celebrating. 
Because 365 days is a LONG TIME. And she made it. She is healthy. and she is filled with joy. 
So why write about it? 
The answer is simple. To be a voice of the gospel, to confess that there is struggle and doubt and disobedience and terribly broken hearts involved when you decide to follow Jesus. 
But I know I can speak for the both of us when I say this: 
Take heart, sisters. I believe that it's true that He lives in you. All these little deaths we die are just sweet, straight avenues right into His arms. Don't miss it. Take heart. It's a stone-real fact that the very essence of Jesus Christ indwells you. 
Every kind of courage and peace and triumph is in Him, and He has overcome the word.   Guess what that means?? 
It means that courage, peace, and triumph lives in you, too. 
Will you believe it? 
Take heart.   Oh, and baby sister? You're a rockstar. Happy I-have-overcome-an-eating-disorder anniversary.  
P.S.  If you are struggling with an eating disorder, I beg you to tell someone. Don't let yourself battle alone. If you want to hear more of Caitlin's story, or chat with her more about her journey out of bulimia and into freedom, I encourage you to email her! cpeterss26@aol.com