Where Prayer and Joy Meet, And the Baffling Place that Leaves Me

I watched a man place his faith in Jesus Christ today.

Ok, I didn't actually watch it happen.  But 6 weeks ago, when my plane landed in a foreign country and I while I began to explore a new realm of food and culture, he was not a Christian.  4 weeks ago, when I first met him, he did not believe that Jesus Christ had given him eternal life through His resurrection.  2 weeks ago, he had not laid down his life at the foot of the cross, counting the cost as rubbish for the sake of Jesus.  But today, today we walked along the cobblestone street, admiring the street performers and the blue sky, I was blessed to hear him tell his story: one of how he had decided that Jesus was the Truth, and that He was worth everything.  I cannot begin to describe to you my elation at this moment.

But my elation was not because I had anything to do with his decision.  I, in fact, had absolutely nothing to do with this decision.

It was just blessing lavished upon blessing.

******************************

Sometime in October of last year, I first heard of this young man, Dmitry*.  In email correspondence with a friend living overseas, I was given the opportunity to pray for him as he actively sought truth and light in a dark world.  And so I scribbled his name in the back of my Bible, where I keep a list of others around the world whom I regularly dedicate myself to praying for.  And I started praying.  Some weeks I labored over him every day.  Some weeks I only lifted up a quick prayer while walking down the street.  But every day, I would pick up that Bible and look at that list, and there was his name, staring back at me.   Some days, my fickle heart didn't believe that my praying would do anything.  That I would pray and pray and pray and never see results.   Some days I didn't want to pray.  I selfishly thought that my own problems, my own burdens ought to displace Dmitry's need for a loving savior.  And so, some days, I neglected him.

But his name was always on my list, so I continued to come back to him.  And as the email correspondence between this friend and I picked up, and as I began to hear more and more of his life here, Dmitry kept coming up.

Pray for him, he'd say.  He's growing.  He's getting closer.  

So back to my knees I would go.  Back to petitioning God that he would soften his heart, lift the veil, whatever metaphor or scripture I could find, I'd pray it.  Sometimes it was rote - the same prayer I'd said for the last 12 people on my list.  Sometimes it was genuine, gut-wrenching, searing, sobbing prayer.  The more I prayed, the more it became genuine.  I began to feel that, despite the fact that I couldn't pick him out of a line-up of 2, I was getting to know Dmitry.

Prayer unites people in mysterious ways.  There's a kind of compassion you develop for someone when you truly labor over them in this way.  It's unlike any other kind of servanthood you can conceive. Pouring out your soul at the foot of the throne of God, begging God to do something does not create a negligible bond.

So today, when Dmitry said to me that he had chosen Christ, it wasn't because I had prayed.  Rather, because of these last 10 months of prayer - praying through tears and apathy and love and compassion - God has amplified my joy a hundred fold in rejoicing with a new brother.

God used my [insufficient and altogether lacking] petitions to the Holy Father, by the indwelling of his Spirit, which he gave to me by the death and resurrection of Christ, to amplify my joy at something which he did not even have to include me in, and which he was going to accomplish with or without me.

Seriously?  So basically, God did everything.  The Father sent the Son, even though the world was mightily screwed up.  Who then lived perfectly, willingly suffered and died on the cross, and then proceeded to be raised from the dead.  In order to give me [me!?!] His presence in my life all the time, in the Spirit.  Who then enables me to pray, to the glory of Christ.  In order that the Father might answer my prayers to His glory.  All of which, in turn gives me more joy than my soul can possibly contain.

This is too good to be true.  Seeing the fruit of the Gospel manifested in someone else's life is such sweet balm to my parched and weary soul, which so desperately aches for the promises of Heaven.  God did not have to let me see this fruit.  He graciously chose to anyways.  He did not have to save me.  He graciously did anyways.  He did not have to enable this trip to be a possibility.  He graciously did anyways.  He did not have to give me an opportunity to get to know Dmitry.  He graciously did anyways.

All so that, standing in the middle of a cobblestone street in a foreign land, on this random August day, God could show me how he has used and woven and molded my prayers for nothing less than my eternal happiness and unity with a brother.  Who knew when I got that email 10 months ago asking for prayer, that I would be the one left speechless and overwhelmed with joy and sweet, abiding love for my God?



*Name changed for security.  

Remembering Haiti

So I saw a woman yesterday.  She was on the metro escalator.  I was in a rush, and I almost missed her in that dingy cement hole, the one that sends reverberating conversation up and down until it becomes indistinguishable from the rush of wind or the roar of the train.  I had to look down, to make sure my racing feet didn't stumble over the awkward metro escalators, or someone's bag, or more likely, my own shoes.  But I did a double take for her.

Her floral dress was simple - old lady-ish, if I may say.  It looked almost like it was taken right out of my grandmother's closet in the 60's.  A tad dirty.  Her hair, short, was greying.  She was carrying a large bag, one that seemed cumbersome and heavy, difficult to get onto the 'up' escalator.  Her body, beleaguered with age, moved at a pace that stands out in this city, and in a way that seemed stiff - as if her whole body were groaning for some rest, and perhaps some new cartilage in her joints, too.   But there was something else - her face.  Her face, it reminded me of someone.

And that was when it went from a double-take to a triple-take, to an awkward half-gaping stare across the metro escalators.  From only about halfway down the escalator, I watched her travel up on the other side until the end of my down escalator forced me off, and my attention forward.

She looked like Justine.  Justine from Haiti.  From a world and a half away, this woman could have been her twin sister - even moving and dressing like her.  And my worlds felt like they were colliding, and then crumbling.

I have done a terrible job of being a friend to Haiti.  From my comfortable bed, and my air-conditioned apartment, and my desk piled high with textbooks and essay outlines, forgetting became the simplest solution.  If I don't think about it, I don't have to pray for them.  I don't have to love them.  I don't have to be a steward of my time and experience, to talk about them or to think of them, or to send them encouragement.  I can just forget.

But the truth is, I can't and shouldn't forget, at least not completely, and the Lord uses moments like this to check me.  That place, those people - they own part of my heart and my soul.  Much as I may try to push those memories down, to separate that part of my experience from everyday life, I can't.  Moments like this come crashing down on me not just because I am realizing that I have forgotten - it's a minor identity crisis to realize how much something has affected you, and in ways you did not realize, and in ways you were ignoring.  I left part of my heart there, and I took part of theirs with me.  Not just a dead part, a past part, but a living, beating, breathing, active part of my soul.   A part of my soul that tugs, that cries out desperately for prayers, for help, for love and for devotion.  So sometimes, re-remembering something you have deliberately forgotten is painful.  But it is also beautiful.  And so I will seek to remember, and to be shaped by those people.

An Open Letter to my Brothers in Christ

Brother,

Thank you.  There have been some videos, some movements, some poems, websites and other media that have sprung up recently from Christian men seeking to encourage us as women - to remain pure, to not settle, to set high standards, to allow ourselves to be served.  Others have asked forgiveness for sins of lust, of abuse, of impurity, of disrespect, of anger, of selfishness, of arrogance, of inflicted pain - intentional or otherwise.

For this I want to thank you.  It is a joy and an honor to call you a brother.  It is good for us to see that there are men out there, pursuing God, loving friends and family well, seeking after the Gospel, waiting for their wife.  It truly is an encouragement to know that not all men are after me for my body.  That not all men are cowards, or are arrogant.  That there are men of Christ, and that someday, Lord willing, I will be able to say that I have a husband who genuinely loves Jesus more than me - because men like that DO exist. It is nice to know that I am not crazy, that I am not waiting on a fairy tale, and that men are seeking healing for the abuses and the pain they have historically or personally caused. 

But I think it is time a woman stepped up, to encourage you.

Many of you seek to serve us so well - as friends, as sisters, as wives.  You do so without recognition, without prompting, and with much joy.  Thank you for that.

You have taught me much in the last two years about what I ought to value in men, and how I ought to carry myself.  You have restored much faith, and you have led by example.  As friends, you have taught me about service, and what that looks like, and how I can serve you well.  You have taught me about being served.  You have taught me about brotherly love.

Many of you are already married. We single women (and men, probably) are watching closer than you think, and you have wonderfully led by example. You have taught and shown me much about life, about men, and about marriage.  I have seen what functional, healthy, Christ-centered marriages look like, and where I have much room to grow before I am ready to be yoked together with a man.  I have seen how you fight for your marriages when they are hard, and I have seen how you lead steadfastly when a storm blows in.  I have seen your honesty, and your attempts to destroy the lies the world builds up about marriage - in order that we single women (and men) can avoid some hardships and mistakes you have already walked through.  I see you discipling younger men and I can only hope and pray that my husband would have had this in his life too.  I see you advancing God's kingdom one life at a time, and this is a joy.  I see you honoring and loving your wives well - in a way that reminds me that my standards are not too high, and that I really am waiting for someone like you. 

Many of you are single.  Women watch you, too.  We see how you look at us, how you talk to us, and how you serve us as sisters - with grace, with dignity, with the utmost respect, and with love.  How you do not objectify us, but you value our whole being.  We see that some of you are dating other girls, and that you take the utmost care to protect your purity.   We see that you do not have to be our boyfriends for you to help us move, for you to just hang out with us because you enjoy our company, or for you to do spontaneously kind things for us.  You are willing to love us and serve us as we are, we do not have to earn your favor.  We see you seeking the Lord more than you are seeking a girlfriend, more than you are seeking a job, more than you are seeking influence and power.  We see that you, too, are advancing the Kingdom.  You are devoting time to your relationships, to go deep and to serve your brothers well. We see all of this. I know it is probably harder than you would like.  I know you do not do this perfectly all the time.  I know there are men who are on you to be better men.  Keep pursuing Biblical manhood, but remember that you are already doing a lot of things well. 

I have spent much of the last 6 years hating men - even men like you.  Railing against them.  Fighting for my own independence, despite all indications that I am entirely unable.  Propping up images and illusions of my own glory, my own sufficiency, and my own perfection, while lamenting, coddling, and nursing the wounds that had been deeply cut.  I have spent years convinced that all men are cowards, afraid of any sort of relationship because of the damage that might be done.  Afraid of touching scars that might cause me pain, and instead choosing to shut you out, to secretly be disgusted with you, to find flaws where they needn't be found.  Arming myself against "the patriarchy", which included all men and all forms of chivalry, meanwhile complaining that there were no "good men".  Resigning myself to the fact that I would be miserably alone forever, because "nobody was good enough for me", when really I was too afraid of you to give you a chance.  

I have simultaneously spent that time longing for someone to hold me, to validate my insecure conceptions of beauty, to affirm me in my comfortable state.  What I have really been looking for is the companionship one might typically find in a dog, I was just looking for it in a man that I could call "boyfriend" - one who would not challenge, who would not push back, who would only serve me, but not need to be served.  Who would require no labor and love beyond that of a cuddle-buddy.  I have been degrading your companionship, your friendship, and your very person to something that made me comfortable, instead of conforming myself to the designs of God, and admiring you for the way God has made you - and the way He intended for us to interact. 


For all of the hateful things I have said, for all of the hurtful things I have thought, and for all of the disgustingly un-Christlike things I have done (and they are plenty), brother I am sorry.  I truly am.  I cannot and will not continue to treat men this way - you are my brother!  Please forgive me, friend. 

Friend.  I am so honored to call you that.  Friend.  Please, please keep doing what you are doing.  Keep seeking the Lord.  Keep serving your brothers and sisters in Christ with humility, and with love.  Keep advancing the Kingdom, keep seeking purity, keep fighting for the good name of Christian men.  We know you are out there (even if we do not believe it or act like it all the time).  You have, in the last two years, taken my broken, terrified, and angry heart and turned it into one that is in the process of being restored.  Without knowing my story, without knowing my anger, my frustration, or my scars, you have simply lived out Christ-like servanthood and attitudes to me, and it has changed me profoundly.  Thank you.  Please, brother, in all humility, continue to walk with me as my heart is conformed to God's.  I am sure I will stumble.  Please call me out, but recognize that I am still recovering from the lies of the world and my own fickle heart. 

Thank you, brother, for doing what you are already doing.  Continue to do it.  We women are watching, and we are learning.  I am more thankful for the men in my life now than I ever have been before.

Affectionately in Christ,
K

If only...

If only it were easier.  

Some days, I want to step into my home and for life to be easy.  I want a dog to play with and cuddle with and a large bookshelf set up in the corner, I want a cabinet full of tea and coffee, and roommates who never irk one another with their silly habits - or perhaps, a husband as a roomate.  One who is tall and broad, a powerful and commanding man of God, but who is sensitive and enjoys my chick flicks and thinks my Ben & Jerry's addiction is "cute" or "sweet".  I want perfect weather all year, and to be able to go hiking whenever I want.  I want to have the kind of time that allows me to have two or three hours in the Word every day, and then hours more pouring into those around me.  I want big windows, and only one job. I want to have the motivation I need, to be joyfully immersed in what I do, to be able to pour into children and young men and women, to instill the Gospel in them.  I want to be able to throw dinner parties with dear friends, and to do spontaneous things like take a glass-blowing class or decide that it's a great day for outdoor portraiture on the mall, because I can.

And I wonder when my life will look like this.  After school?  After I get settled in a "real" job?  After I am retired? 

*****

And then I step back and I realize - never.  Never will my life look like that.  My life will probably always be fraying around the edges.   There will probably always be laundry on the floor, kitchens to be swept, and work to be done.  There will always be moments of frustration, of exhaustion, and of sadness.  I will never have an apartment that is big "enough" (at least not in this city), and I will never be put together. I will never have that much free time, I will probably never not have a job, and I will probably always be a little bit tired.

I am a mess. I will probably always be a mess. 

But I am, and will be, a holy mess.  It is the moments when I stay up all night working on a paper, and then look out the window to see the glorious sunrise, painted by my Creator.  It is the moments when, although I am exhausted, someone still asks me about Jesus, and I am renewed.  When I get to carry a tired, frightened little girl up the stairs when I, too, am tired and frightened and she whispers in my ear, "don't put me down!" and I snuggle her closer and we are both reassured.  When that same little girl says to prayer requests, "I'll pray.  I want to pray for that!" with an enthusiasm that makes my heart leap with joy, and restores in me the sense of peace I lacked.  When I get to watch my dearest friends and sisters have victories, both small and large.  When I can set aside my pain to celebrate with them, when they reciprocate, and when we can celebrate together, each of our victories.  The moment when I am crushed in humility by a sister's teaching, and restored by their fellowship and undying love.

Those moments are all the more precious because of my chaos.

In the midst of my chaos, I want it to disappear.  The stormy seas, I want them to go away, to magically be smooth and simple.  Because life would be so much easier if it were smooth sailing the whole way.  And easy equals happy, right?

But it would be too easy.  It would be worthless.  And un-holy.  Without having to wrestle, what is life purposed for?  Comfort?  God does not call us to comfort.  God calls us to HIM.

And after the storm is over, I have always - ALWAYS - been able to look back, and say that I am thankful for it.  God has always been faithful.  And he will always be faithful.  And I will always be dependent.

I can trust in my God.  Some days I know this with all my heart.  Some days I know this in my head.  Some days I question.

I pray that I have the faith of Paul, that someday I will look around in the midst of a storm and say,

"Take heart, for the God to whom I belong and whom I worship has promised his protection! He has promised his never-ending grace!  Take heart, friend." 

For it will be exactly as it was told.  (Acts 27:22-25, my paraphrase).

My God, the creator of the universe.  He is worthy of trust. 

What a beautiful thing, that I am not dependent on myself, but on Him who can do all things, and in whom all things hold together.

Through the Looking Glass: Haiti Part I

I have spent most of today talking about Haiti.  Reflecting on it with different people, through breakfast, lunch, a meeting with a professor, outreach, and a car ride home.  Much of my thought today has been spent either attempting to process and articulate that experience, or avoiding it.

I plan, over the coming weeks, to share some of my favorite stories with you.  This trip is full of God, and there is much to tell.

It feels that although I recount this experience from the view of a person who was there, a first-hand knowledge, in reflecting on it in my own, quiet moments of solitude and thought, that I was not actually there.  I am telling someone else's story.

That girl in the pictures who looks like me - she cannot be me.  I am looking at a mirage, a doppelganger.  I feel as though I am a diver, peering into a submarine in the vast, wide ocean.  Through a misty, cracked glass window pane, from this world into that one, this lifetime into someone else's experience.  I did not experience that just one week ago. 

There were moments when my heart cried out in blackened despair, Lord, where are you?!  Do you see this? How can this be?  There were moments where I wanted to throw my hands up and walk away.  There were moments when I wanted to cry, and to shake my fists at God.  There were moments that disheartened me in ways that reminded me of the deep, deep wretchedness of people and the reign that Satan (temporarily) holds over so much of the world. 

But even as I cried these prayers of hopelessness out to my God, prayers of bleak and shadowy circumstance, of parched souls craving water, and of hardened hearts needing grace, I was also so greatly encouraged.  By the team that accompanied, and in many ways carried me through this trip - their prayerful-ness, their servanthood, their joy, their flexibility, and their humor.  By the organization we are working with (http://HaitiLove.net), and its founder, who has significantly changed and molded my understanding of missiology and international work, simply by sharing his experience and wrestling with the hardest of issues in true humility.  By my Haitian brothers and sisters who are already alive in Christ, craving goodness and mercy.  These are men and women who taught me, through their own example (and most often without a single word) about love, mercy, leadership, dignity, compassion, and devotion.  Things that I am still understanding, and searching for in my own life.  God was mighty in the ways he provided, and was gracious in the way He showed Himself. He provided for our team far above and beyond the necessities of this trip, but out of His delight in us, His blessings overflowed. 

This cannot possibly have been only 5 days ago.

I do not know how to hold on to this experience in a way that allows it to change and shape me, but to let go enough to be faithful to the things God has placed in front of me right now.  I do not know that I have the strength to return from living out something that my heart so deeply desires, that my soul delights in, to something that I do not admire or love.  From the one thing I want to be doing, to my actual, real life...  So I will rest in this promise instead:

Whom have I in heaven but you?  And there is nothing on earth that I desire other than you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever... But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, to tell of all your works.  ~ Ps. 73:25-26; 28

The Finals Week from Hell: Fall Semester in Retrospect

So here we are, on the brink of a new semester, and all the blogging I had planned for christmas break didn't get done at all.  Oops.  I guess I was too busy having fun.  :)

There are lots of things I had planned on blogging about.  Tim Tebow and the Broncos.  Skiing.  Fun times with the family.  The meaning of Christmas.  Sin.  Joy.  Beautiful baby boys and girls who giggle and make me (momentarily) rethink my "plan" that I don't want children.  But the one thing that I can't shake, the one thing that I think I just HAVE to share, is finals.  Not because it was glorious, but because it was extraordinarily ugly.  And so, so magnificent. 

There's some basic background you need to this story:  I'm not great at school.  I'm about average on intelligence, but my stubborn level (and thus, when I want it to be, my work ethic) is probably in the 99th percentile.  (Seriously, ask my mom.  She'll tell you the same thing).  I don't get great grades, I really struggle with testing, but high school taught me how to B.S. just about anything, so I manage. I'm not outstandingly organized - I only color-code things because I like for things to look like rainbows, not because it's actually something helpful.  I know where all my crap is, but it's chaos to anyone else.  I know how to plan ahead, but just because I know how, doesn't mean I always do it.

In high school (before I was a Christian), I found my justification, my purpose, and my identity to a large degree in my grades.  Not entirely, some of it was found in my athletic ability, my rebellious phase, my "cool factor", my friendships, and other things.  But a lot of it, probably the majority of it, was in my performance at school, and how much I can be involved in.  Since I've become a Christian, I recognize that this is neither healthy or productive, and I've sought to define my identity in one thing only - Christ.  But this has not always been an easy transition.  And I have come a long way, but there is still a long road in front of me. 

And then, this semester, finals came back to bite me, in a big way.  A really big way.  Ask a couple of the girls from my church, they'll tell you what a mess I was.  I think they probably thought someone kidnapped me and replaced me with a crazed, schitzo, manic-depressive clone who was about to burst into tears and/or throw something through a window at any moment.  I feel bad I imposed my very presence on them, that's how much of a nut-job I was. 

In thinking about it in retrospect (always 20/20, right?), I never really got myself together after Haiti.  I jumped straight into traveling and working and family reunions and new bosses and graduations and friends and family... phew!  And then I moved back to DC, and jumped into classes and reading and new work stuff, and friends and a new living situation, and getting behind in classes through something that truly wasn't any fault of my own.  And then 18 credit-hours (mostly upper-level) and church and working 20 hours and crazy professors.... goodness!  So I'm already 6 months exhausted. 

And then finals hit. I'm not sure when this became acceptable, but I took 6 classes.  And I had 9 finals.  Yes, you read that correctly, it's not a type-o.  9 finals.  In one class in particular, I earned 70% of my grade, through 3 COMPLETELY DIFFERENT assignments in the last WEEK (singular) of classes.... (Ridiculous!)  My finals accumulated to 3 comprehensive exams plus 6 research papers which ended up totaling somewhere between 85-100 pages of papers on 6 completely different topics.  And in 3 of those classes, I needed good (B or higher) grades on the finals, or I'd lose my scholarship.  2 of those tests came from crazy-psycho professor who expected way too much out of us (and that's coming from someone who never says that).  Talk about the finals week from hell.

And to top it all off - AU cut off my internet with 2 1/2 weeks left in the semester, for no apparent reason.  And the nearest 24-hour place with internet to me is a 1 mile walk and then a 3 mile bus ride.  What a delightful icing on an already intimidating cake.  *Thank you, AU OIT, you have no idea how much I appreciate you...*  I spent about 12 hours being mad.  And then I realized my being mad wasn't going to fix it.  So I just had to dive in and figure it out.   And nearly all of figuring it out involved relying on the Lord.  In a way I've never done before. 

***Disclaimer:  I'm not saying this for your sympathy, or to point out how much I can juggle successfully.  I'm pointing this out first so that you understand the obstacles I had in my way to remaining faithful to the Lord's plan.  Because He has made it abundantly clear that I am to remain in school right now.  And that plan, unless God provides a giant bag of money from the sky, is going to require my scholarship.  And second, in order that you might understand how desperate I was for any help from the Lord.  Through circumstances almost entirely out of my control, I ended up in this situation, and I had to fight through the victimization mentality, and through the stubborn "I'm a big girl and I can handle anything" mentality and really, really humble myself.***

I hit a point about a week and a half into it, writing papers, where all I could muster was 10 minutes of writing.  Then I'd go read the Bible and pray for 5.  Then write for ten.  Pray for five.  Repeat.  Over and over.  All.  Night.  Long.  And I just kept saying, "Lord, this is all I've got left.  This is it.  I'm giving it everything, and this is just going to have to be enough.  Because even though it's not much, I really truly don't have anything more than this."  I'm sure the other people at the 24-hour Starbucks thought I was completely crazy looking, frantically writing for ten minutes, spread out over 2 chairs and an entire coffee table, and then pulling out my Bible and my journal at various intervals, fighting off tears.

I was desperate.  For anything.  For any sense of relief.  The enemy sent so many discouraging thoughts, discouraging people, and discouraging emotions my way, I could hardly bat them off before the next one hit me.   One of my friends, M., kept encouraging me (so well, so wonderfully - what a blessing she was!!).  She kept saying, "You're going to make it!  I promise!" And on a rational level, I knew that was true.  I knew that even an entire week with not a single second of sleep would not actually kill me.  That I was not in any way in danger.  But so often, I didn't believe it - really.  I didn't know if I was going to make it through without being institutionalized.  I thought "Oh, Lord, I'm not sure!  I'm not sure I can! I don't have it in me!"  I didn't see people, I skipped meals and nights of sleep, the only thing I did was work on school.  Without reprieve.  I was so, so very tired.  All I wanted to do was just sit and cry.  But I knew if I let myself do that I wouldn't be able to pick myself up again, and keep going, so I just fought it.  I knew if one tear fell, it would be over.  And so I read the Psalms.  Over and over.  Especially Psalm 25 and Psalm 103.  I just prayed through them over and over, and over and over.  Never have I ever read one chapter of the Bible so many times in such a short span of time.

I honestly can't recall ever being that desperate for the hand and presence of God.  And you know what? That saying that says, "God won't ever give you more than you can handle"?  I'm here to tell you that's CRAP.  Blarney.  Hogwash.  Hooey.  Absolute bullshit.  God OFTEN gives us more than we can handle.  But you know what?  He NEVER gives us more than HE can handle (I mean, He is the God of the Universe.  There's nothing He can't handle!).  And that was where I was.  I could not do what I needed to do alone.  I needed God.  Truly needed Him.  For me and for my grades.  Not for my glory, for His.

I had to fight through the pride that wanted to ask for good grades so that I could build myself up.  But I fought through, to a place where I could honestly say, "Lord, I don't care what grades I get.  I really don't.  But if you want me to stay in school, you're going to have to get me through this, because I don't see a way out.  I can't do this.  Any of it.  If this is where you want me, you're going to have to do the heavy lifting.  And I'll give you the credit you deserve.  But this is ALL you."

And you know what?  God was GOOD!  SO, ABUNDANTLY GOOD TO ME!!!!!!! I ended up with MUCH better grades than I expected, and I hung on to my scholarship by more than the skin of my teeth like I was expecting.  I saw the grace and provision of God in his Body (oh, praise the Lord for His community!!!), in his protection of me, in his great and abiding peace.  In his sovereign provision of internet when I really needed it, and closing time when what I really needed was sleep.  With friends who helped me, both in class and out of it, with coffee that actually helped me, with professors who were graciously understanding of my situation.  Grace beyond my wildest imagination. 

It wasn't at all pretty.  Or fun.  Or an experience I would want to repeat.  Ever.  But the Lord taught me so much - I had to cling so desperately to Him, I had to not just lean on Him, but throw myself at His feet and beg for him to carry me, and through it, I saw and experienced the sanctification of the Spirit in new ways, the continued destruction of idols, the faithfulness of the Father, treasured the propitiation, justification, and redemption of the Son in new and more meaningful ways,  and experienced the rest and peace of the Lord.  And I learned that sometimes the best, most wonderful moments are experienced when there is absolutely nothing else left. 

And there's nobody I'd rather walk through that week with than my Abba.