Dreams and casting cares and classes

It’s been a few sleepless weeks (cause work), but it’s wrapped up with a few sleep-filled days (cause exhausted).

Last night was filled with chaotic dreams, images and words so haunting and real that I woke up disoriented, not sure what was fiction and what was fact.

I launched myself into my first week of ‘teaching’ again this morning, by leading a remote version of the class I’ll be teaching on Sunday nights (starting tonight! join!): grief. loss. disappointment.

Welp.

Welp.  The water looks cold and frigid, so I guess I’ll jump on in.

True story: when I stepped back from ministry it was a relief.  Don’t get me wrong, it coincided with one of the more painful chapters of my life, but there was also a sense of finally being free from the expectations and anticipation of rejection that inevitably come with standing at the front of a room and talking about your life & Jesus.

It’s been a while now, and every now and then people ask me – when will you teach again? Counsel again?

The thing I want most in all the world

Sometimes God and I play the game where I tell Him what I would want most in all the world. If I could ask for any one thing, and I didn’t think about what was best, and if I was just being a kid, what would I even ask for?  For these past few years, the answer has been fairly consistent.

I want unity.

I want unity with a million people and a handful of very specific people.  I want unity with the people I see and the people I’ll never see again.  I want unity within the Church and I want unity with the Church and those outside the Church.

Some thoughts for Harvey helpers

Twelve years ago, I stood in the Astrodome for the first time and began a long weekend of attempting to care.

I wrote and published my first article after that weekend.  I’m a little embarrassed by the words I wrote then, but I still remember what I felt when I typed those words.  I remember how it felt to walk in, adrenalin pumping, ready and eager to help, so desperate to do something and so sure I could.

I learned a few things that weekend, but I learned a lot more in the years after.

Houston, my heart.

I don’t know where I’m from. 

It’s a Third Culture Kid thing.  When someone asks you “where you’re from?” your brain doesn’t know how to compute, how to answer that question.

My friends tease me – I change my answer based on moods. Am I English? American? Texan?  Who do I cheer for at the Olympics?  I’m the classic turn coat.  And it’s a real thing.  The conflict inside. The not knowing where you’re from.

But today, it is clear to me by the tears I can’t stop crying that at least a large chunk of who I am is from Houston.