Where I sat this week.

The hills of Texas are around me now. Around the birdhouse, various forms of beautiful flyers are fluttering, then stopping to eat. A hawk soars, wings outstretched, in the distance - the backdrop of its canvas are small white puffy clouds against a bright blue sky, massive as only Texas sky can be. The sounds of air force jets and helicopters humming are lost in the buzzings of hummingbirds and bumblebees. And I sit in one of many rocking chairs on the open front porch of my grandparents' house, silent and listening.

It's good to be home. I lived here with Mimi and Papa for a summer... maybe three years ago now. The summer before had been spent in Nepal. The year after coming back from such an amazing place was hard. I had fallen in love with a country and a people, and was heartbroken to leave. My best friend at the time had disappeared from my life, leaving me heartbroken again. Living with my grandparents in this beautiful place was just what I needed. On this porch, God began to speak to me again. And between the love of my God and the love of my grandparents, a healing process began in my life.

Looking back now, I can see so clearly what this Saviour has done in my life - so clearly that he was always there. I sit content, thinking of all he's given me - the peace in this heart that was once hurting and broken, the purpose in this mind that was once confused and obstinate. I questioned him so much that summer, and when I reached out for help from my Christian peers here, they changed the subject and joked flippantly about things that don't matter. But he was there, listening to my cries for help, loving me as he has always done. And always does. And always will do.

It's been a good week at this home. My brother (who is my hero) surprised me at the airport when I came in late last Tuesday night. He drove to Arkansas with my parents and I for my old roommate's wedding. My parents drove me through three states this week, and we got to spend loads of quality time in the car. We all worshiped to songs from Gunnar's ipod, and laughed to the country songs that came up between. In Oklahoma, I got to see some of my favourite friends, and visit with my fellow English majors. I saw my grandma at her new home in Wichita Falls a few times, then we came to my grandparents' house in Belton. My youngest cousins were here, so we've been doing skits for the "grown-ups", as we always do.

So here I sit now, and here I live. But going home to New Zealand comes in a few hours. And I can't wait to continue sitting and living and loving.

me in my favourite tree - Shawnee, OK

me & my bubba with a bison

family at our alma mater

English major friends. :)

Christmas in Arkansas

Dad opening the Marmite

dad's kiwi tie

Gunnar playing with the balancing kiwi blocks

hummingbirds at Mimi & Papa's house

um... north Texas scenery. 

sitting down for dishwasher brisket

Lucky

Every day for the past six months, whether waking up to silence or to screaming kids, this thought is always present: I must be the luckiest girl alive. It’s always worded differently in my mind, and it’s not always felt with the same sense of contentment and satisfaction, but, no matter how tired or rested I am, it’s always there. There is no single reason for this recurring realization. Or perhaps there is, but words don’t express the sense of peace a person can have in every moment once Jesus has begun the ripples of redemption in the life that once gasped for air.

Last Sunday was not only Mother’s Day – it was also my dad’s birthday. My parents are the most wonderful parents in the world. My mom has taught me what it means to be comfortable in my own skin, and how to be a woman that continually seeks after the heart of God. What’s more – she has taught me both through the way she lives and in the way she carries herself what a strong woman looks like. How to be both feminine and beautiful and gentle, but also never becoming less in value than anyone else. Despite all my wack hippie ideas about peace and vegetarianism, against all my ultra-conservative ideas about feminism and the church, she has kept me grounded and questioned me at every level. Without her, my life would be a confused jumble of feelings and ideas rather than the truth that I now know how to seek. As for my dad, he has taught me through his silent wisdom and his loving service to my mom, me, and my brother, what it means to show people love and to show them Jesus. Through the way he lives out what he says behind our church’s pulpit, he teaches me to be genuine – that with God, I can be real, and I can live out my faith with fear and trembling. Even when no one else does. And even when everything else seems to be crashing down. He has taught me to serve by taking me visiting in nursing homes and in hospitals, and he has taught me that it is normal and beautiful to pray with people in both helpless in hopeful situations. Last Sunday, I missed them both tremendously.

My family here is gone to Australia on holiday this week. Which reminds me of other reasons why I am so lucky. I get to wake up in New Zealand every day. The most beautiful country on earth. And I get to wake up to two wonderful little girls that make me laugh a minimum of five days a week. They’ll be back in a few days, and I will be very glad to see them. It means I’ll stop having to talk to the cat to fill up empty space.

With the house all to myself, last Friday I invited my friends from church (Ellen, James, & Mark) over for momma’s tortilla soup. Which doesn’t taste the same without Rotel tomatoes, but hey, I tried. After dinner, and a last minute Feijoa cobbler that Ellen & I whipped up, we had tea, looked at all my photos of FBC Holliday youth girls, OBU friends, my entire extended  family, and, of course, my dog, then drove down to Mission Bay. If I haven’t mentioned it before, Mission Bay is the beach that is a five minute drive from my house. Tamaki Drive is the road that goes beside it and some other beaches east of the city centre. We walked along the beach to the playground where the little girls and I go often, and I got to swing on the swings that I’m usually pushing, and twirl on the spinning thing that I’m usually spinning. Ellen & I watched the boys disappear while climbing a massive tree, then teeter-tottered  before deciding to try and reach the first branch. We failed. But when you fail at climbing a tree, there is no shame in deciding to hug the tree instead. He doesn’t care. And so we hugged the tree, then sat on the fence talking until the others came down.

We walked down Tamaki Drive until we reached the yacht club. Then we climbed down onto the rocks. Until is started raining. Then we all ran back the car. Until is stopped raining. Then four little wet friends drove back to my house. We watched VeggieTales and drank my two favourite teas. It’s no wonder why I think I’m lucky with a night like that. Mexican food, photos, talking vegetables, beaches, trees, and tea. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Every so often, friends come into my life that change me forever and make me a better person. These friends challenge me, and they love me no matter who I am. In elementary school, it was Tommy, John Mark, and Dustin. In middle school, it was Angie, Jolynn, and Dawnel. In high school, it was Brad, Bryan, Jeff, and John. In college. It was Reagan, Becky, Elisabeth, and Patrick, along with others. In Nepal, it was Jaben, Mark, Misti, & Aaron. But now I’m in New Zealand. And I’ve met new friends that are already shaping my life.

My friend Ellen took me to Tauranga, her home, on Sunday after church. We had many adventures along the way. Stopping at Waihi Beach, we got wet as the tide snuck up on us unexpectedly. Then at Leisure Island, we climbed rocks to the highest point, watching the waves crash powerfully on the boulders below us. As we drove home two days later, I thought about those waves. We were listening to a Casting Crowns song that means a lot to both of us – Who am I. Here’s a chunk of it: “Not because of who I am/But because of what you’ve done/Not because of what I’ve done/But because of who you are/ I am a flower quickly fading/Here today and gone tomorrow/A wave tossed in the ocean/A vapour in the wind/Still you hear me when I’m calling/Lord, you catch me when I’m falling/And you’ve told me who I am/I am yours”. I thought about that wave tossed in the ocean. Waves come up as they get close to the shore, or close to the rocks – any time of solid ground. They also come up in storms when the wind is raging and tearing at a ship. One wave crashes, then disappears. I watched those waves there on that island, next to my friend. And I thought without words about the power of God, and the littleness of me. I felt the satisfaction of being called a friend of God, a child of God, a lover of God. I am one little wave in a sea of many – one that comes once, then goes away. But this relational God that gives me family and friends calls me his own. He hears me when I scream to him, when I’m pounding against the rocks; and he hears me as I fall backwards into the sea, my purpose done. He tells me that I am his, and that everything is okay.

me frolicking at Waihi Beach

unexpected waves at Waihi Beach

the Mount from Leisure Island

 chillin' on the island

feet. :)

at the top of Leisure Island

waves crashing into Leisure Island

gelato!

sunset at Mount Maunganui beach

On Monday, Ellen and I climbed Mount Maunganui. When we were nearly to the summit, Ellen told me the story of the mountain as I huffed and puffed my way up and up. She said that this mountain and a mountain near New Plymouth called Mount Taranaki were both in love with the same mountain. But she was in love with Taranaki. They fought over her, and when Manunganui lost, he began to tear himself from where he was so he could drown himself in the sea. The mountain was saved and dragged to the place where he is now so that he could be away from the place where he lost his love. He stands there still, looking over the ocean, and we were climbing him that day. Reaching the top, out of breath, face red and puffy, I looked around and smiled. People can connect to stories like that, and reaching the top of that heartbroken mountain, seeing what he sees, and being rescued from a place of failure and ultimate sadness, we were connected to the fact that we had been rescued and replanted. If a mountain like Maunganui can be dragged to safety, so can we, and so can all people.

Mount beach

view from the mountain

me & ellen on Mount Maunganui

me about to eat turkish delight

me & ellen in our secondhand bargains

me in Katikati with my man

on a bridge in Karangahake Gorge

There were so many other things that happened in Tauranga. I had Turkish Delight and Pavlova. We rewarded ourselves for being hardcore mountain climbers with a marvelous Veggie Burger, and we had yummy gelato. We bought secondhand clothes at an op shop. We edited photos like crazy photography fools. We talked about hard times and we talked about Jesus. It was good. All of it. Life is good. And I’m lucky to have my new friends. I’m lucky to have all that I have. Grace has been good to me, and life is not what I deserve. But it’s what I’m given. And I love it.

The Other Weekend I Went West.

A month has passed since I last blogged. Since then, my car has died, new friends have been made, new foods have been tried, and adventures have been had. In the following, I will attempt to uncover, at the very least, the events of Easter Weekend. Ah, Easter.

It was Good Friday. Waking up early, I put on my favourite dress, then grabbed my "new" canvas coat (which is cool if you like old, secondhand stuff), and walked out the door to take my host mum to the gym before setting off down the motorway to church. Mt Albert, the section of Auckland where I go Sundays and Wednesdays to church and house-church, had organised a Good Friday walk. Beginning at the Catholic church, we walked for a  while between the Methodist church, the Presbyterian church, and the Anglican church before concluding at our church. Each stop took about fifteen minutes, and each church presented a portion of the Good Friday story. From the Last Supper at the Catholic church to the Mourning of Jesus' death at our Baptist church, we walked through the rain as we remembered what Jesus did for us. Remembering it like this, it was obvious how relevant the events of that day a couple thousand years ago were to us in this rainy day.

When I was a little girl, I remember vividly seeing a Sunday School picture of Jesus on the cross for what I suppose was the first time. This man that I had always known to love me (as I was told by my parents and my grandparents and by everyone else in my life) was dying. What is a little girl supposed to do with something like that? I couldn't go to the service that day after seeing the picture. Someone had to sit with me outside while my dad preached. The memory of the cross and the pain of Jesus having to die has never left me, and I remember that day as the day I really knew that I loved Jesus back. Maybe it was the day I really discovered what it felt to love.

You probably have a story like this as well - when you first realized Love. When you first realized Jesus and the reality of the story. To this day, I can't look at photos of Jesus on a cross. I look away in houses that have the little ceramic Jesuses on the cute little pastel crosses. Yesterday, I re-watched Louie Giglio's "Indescribable" and closed my eyes when he showed an aged photo of my God bleeding for me.

We sing the songs like "Oh, the Wonderful Cross" and "The Old Rugged Cross", and there were times when I tried so hard to mean the words that say things like "I love that old cross", and "I'll cherish the old rugged cross", "O that old rugged cross, so despised by the world, has a wondrous attraction for me". The tears would squeeze out of my eyes with the pain in my heart that wanted to love the cross, but there was always a bitterness of some sort perhaps. Maybe it was the bitterness and the anger toward myself - you know, that I was so bad that someone had to die so that I could live. I don't want someone to die for me. Especially someone I love. How can I love something that caused so much pain to the one person I know will always, always love me? I hope you can relate to this - that I'm not rambling simply because I can't go to sleep. May these words be relevant to you.

Good Friday was precious this time around. It wasn't a day that I spent hunched over, feeling guilty, closing my eyes, and straining to recognise every detail of the story as a mirror of my failures. If you've read the "Pan Pilgrimage" book I wrote a few months ago, you'll probably know now that this was a special Easter for me. About six months ago, a friend sat down with me and re-told me the simple gospel. He told it in two sentences. That gospel changed everything. That simple truth - the truth of what Jesus covered for me - has brought healing into my broken life. It has brought confidence and courage. It has brought peace and security. My friend told me that Jesus was my sacrifice. He told me that I didn't have to sacrifice anymore.

Six months ago, I had struggled with self-mutilation for six years. This Easter, all I wanted to do was sit in Jesus' lap and pour out to him endless "thank you's" for covering my blood with his. All the pain I've ever felt, he felt for me on that wonderful cross. The wrists that were pierced for me are symbols of the sacrifice that I don't have to give anymore. They are symbols of the burdens he never wanted me to carry. They are pictures of the love that will never die, but will teach me to live. I'll never be the person I was. And it's because of the old rugged cross that made a difference in this little girl's life.

After the Mt Albert Good Friday Walk, a friend's family invited me over for lunch. We ended up driving west to the sand dunes and the beaches. And then they ended up inviting me for a three-course dinner. And then we ended up going to our other friend's house to say goodbye to Bro Lai, a pastor from Fiji who flew home the next day. 

giant black sand dune

parkour!

jumpin' in the sand

me and footprints 

 at Bethells Beach

yoga on water

cave jumping

me trying to pull the sword out of the stone

tons of tiny mussels along the rocks

Saturday night, I took my sick friend some peppermint tea and received lovely conversation in return. Easter Sunday, I stayed for both services just because I could, then had lunch again with my friends from house church. Monday was much the same (four day weekends are great). I went to a giant thrift store, bought some souvenirs for Gunnar, Ryan, and Dad, and then ate dinner and enjoyed conversation at my friend's sister's house. 

A beautiful weekend, indeed. 

The best weekend.

*So, I have started to write several times in the past month, and only wrote part of what wanted to be blogged. This one is a fairly completed post that began March 30.*

Nana's birthday was last Thursday night, and it rocked. It involved catching scrambled eggs in our mouths. 'Nuf said.

No really. It was one of the most fun parties I have ever attended. We went to this really nice Japanese restaurant, and the guy cooked in front of us (like at Samarai for those of you in Holliday), and we had several courses. The adults all caught whole eggs in their bowls, and most of us caught pieces of scrambled eggs in our mouths. Even the kids. This family that I get to be a part of for a year is great.

The next night, I got to go to the party of a German au pair that has been helping me find things to do and people to do them with in Auckland. It was a really nice Persian restaurant, and I got to wear my new fair-trade dress. It was nice to see people I had met on my first evening out to a Catholic young adult function, and to see other people I had met through bowling or cricket. On the way home, I got to discuss Robert Frost with one of them. Not a bad deal.

The next next day, I spent the morning painting an elephant on a library mural. One of the reasons why I really like the church I'm going to is that they do a lot to channel relationships in the community. Saturday and Sunday, they spent their time worshipping  by fixing up a school a few kilometers away from the church building. Service is a form of real, true, pure worship, and I love that the entire church came and used their separate gifts to do different things around the school - gardening, painting, building, cooking, etc. It was wonderful. That afternoon, I spent a bit of time on my favourite street in Auckland - K Road. One of the people from my house church texted to see if I wanted to grab dinner before we stopped by our other friend's birthday party on the same street. Talking to my friend, it occurred to me that I was starving for conversation. And my friend allowed me to have a wonderful amount of quality time. Post-sushi, we stopped by the third birthday of the weekend, then tried to wipe the lipstick someone had smeared on of a replica of Michaelangelo's "Moses" statue. It's a beautiful thing, trying to preserve art - caring about it so much that you climb up in Moses' lap to wipe the red off his lips with your bare hands, then finding traces of perfect marble underneath. I think I would want someone to do that for me. Wipe off the mess that life throws at me. I suppose that's what Jesus did, though - wiped away the blood-stained mess to show me the beautiful person he created me to be. He does that every day. Sometimes gently, and sometimes ferociously. Some of the mess is hard to get off. But he rubs it away no matter how long it takes, and pursues the art beneath the dirt that my life becomes.

My friend walked me to the train station, and we listened to a street musician play a good song. Getting off the train, I walked in the rain to an end-of-season cricket bbq. Someone from the first birthday party had invited me, and they were still going when I stepped off the train. Cricket players drink a bit apparently, so a friend and I played ping-pong, made sure our friend was driven home, then left.

The next day was Sunday. The best day of the week. But this day was spent at the school we were fixing up instead of in a church building. After working on a dragon's wings for the library mural, I got to pick up tree limbs in the mud. And I was barefoot. Most definitely a perfect end to a great weekend.

me at the only place I remembered to take my camera.

The Weekend I went West.

Five months ago, there was a guy from New Zealand in Niagara Falls. He got a ride with me to Toronto. Now I am driving his car around Auckland. Odd how things turn around, huh?

Last Saturday, a train (and, later, a bus) took me to the west side of Auckland City where I journeyed to pick up said car. An older couple waited for me at the bus stop and waved, smiling me off to join them. They have been hosting the girls that were driving the car before me, but those girls have left for Germany. So this couple had the car. They drove me around to make sure I knew the safest way back to the motorway before taking me to their house and making me come in for tea and scones. Yes, New Zealand hospitality is perfectly suited for my tastes.

It's beautiful having tea and scones and conversation with complete strangers. There's not much better in the world probably.

The remainder of my day was spent driving the car to some beaches out west I had been aching to visit. One of the perks of coming to New Zealand was to be able to see the sun set over the ocean. A good reason to head west. Black sand beaches, deep rock caves, giant seaweed, quicksand, and rolling blue-green waves as far out as a short girl could see. Waterfalls in a fairy forest, massive trees, and streams you can hear all around you. The only thing more I could want was a camera. And, luckily, I have one. So here are some photos.

the sand walk to Bethells Beach

unfocused love & a log

No swimming. Don't even think about it. 

seaweed & people among the hills

Bethells waves & a gull

keeping watch

one of few Bethells seashells

The trail to the falls.

Fairy Circle

Fairy Falls

Piha Beach

sky in the water

sitting on a log

watching the waves

Piha at sunset

This country is beautiful.