I love being able to love people with my whole heart. I can’t imagine trying to hold the world at arm’s-length. I like to think that my loving people deeply makes the world better somehow.

I also have to admit that loving so deeply hurts. A lot. For me, the children in my life have been the most painful. I’ve taken care of a lot of children in the past, and to love them so much and then have to walk away from them… it’s almost like a piece of my heart dies. There are children that I used to take care of that I still dream about at night and wake up wondering where they are, how they are.

It’s not just children, though. It’s people like my friend, Sheila, whose funeral I sang at after breast cancer stole her. And my college roommates, who are now scattered around the world, chasing their dreams.

Last night, an email came that I’ve been expecting for a couple of months now.

Three thousand miles is a LONG way! There’s a lot of real estate between here and there! I am REALLY going to miss you! Are you sad at all?

I’m leaving again. Not just one person, but practically every person I have ever known in my whole life. Am I sad at all? My gosh, yes! I’m also terrified. But I know, in my heart, that it’s what I’m supposed to do. So I am.

Katie says, “We are just called to love with abandon. We are called to enter into our neighbors’ sufferings and love them right there.”

I’ve always loved with abandon. Now, I’m just going to do it in a new neighborhood. Hopefully, this new neighborhood will be a little brighter for it.

And another piece of wisdom from Katie, to close:

“The number of days or weeks we are together isn’t important; what really matters is the way God knits our hearts together during the time he chooses for us to be in one another’s lives.”

This post is part of a weekly discussion that my buddy, Jason Stasyszen and I are having about the memoir, Kisses from Katie. You don’t have to read the book to stick around and discuss, though! But in case you read the chapter and want to post your response, you’ll find the widget below! 

When we had arrived a couple of hours earlier, it had been blatantly obvious that we were going to be dealing with a loud, demanding, desperate, and vocal crowd that day. It was really no surprise when we saw armed soldiers in navy blue uniforms and black berets begin to move through the crowd, grumpily trying to keep the peace, but really creating more discontent than they were alleviating. But as Americans in the midst of a war-torn Sub-Saharan African country, we had no right to ask the soldiers to leave. We did our best to ignore them and continue our work while they continued to stir up our patients.

I tried to focus solely on my patients—there were so many of them and the need was so great. As hot as it was and as much as I was sweating, I hesitated to stop and take a drink of the hot water in the plastic bottle that I kept hidden (so my patients wouldn’t steal it) because I knew that a break for me would be one less patient that could be helped. So I ignored the heat and the thirst, calling patient after patient. Virtie and Sandra, my two partners, worked at least as feverishly as I did. But as we glanced out the window, we saw the line growing instead of shrinking. And as loud as the patients had been all morning, they were now speaking at a deafening volume. It was all we could do to hear our patients answer us as we asked questions.

I guess it was because of the noise that I never heard the gunshots, but Tommy—the American police officer traveling with us—must have heard them. I watched him jump a chair and leap over a five-foot wall to get to the commotion. When I saw Tommy start running, I glanced out the window and watched the crowd surging.

We didn’t know until later what had really happened. There had been an attempted coup of the government, downtown at the Parliament building. When that happened, a riot had broken out there. As word began to spread, the people just became hysterical. Their lives were so empty and broken already—these people who eat an average of three times a week and who subsist on dirty sugar water—most of whom had never seen a doctor and who knew that once we left, they probably never would. The people were pushing at the gates and crying out, until in a misguided attempt to calm the crowd, one of the blue-uniformed guards had begun firing shots into the air.

That was all it took for the crowd to riot. They became a human battering ram, bursting through the high, metal gate and nearly taking down a cement block wall. Tommy jumped the chair, hurdled the wall, and with the help of some of the local pastors and translators, was able to get the gate secured and the bus loaded. Instead of finishing out the day’s clinic, we slipped onto the bus and left.

But as the crowd rioted and everyone—medical team and patients alike—had rushed to the windows to see what was going on, I looked back inside and noticed a little old lady, seemingly oblivious to what was going on. She was merely sitting in one of those cheap, flimsy plastic chairs, wearing the new reading glasses we had given her, and reading her little pocket Bible. And I knew that on that day, in spite of the heat, the noise, and even the riot, she was why we were there.

Katie says, “Stop and love the ones right in front of [you] and trust Him with the rest.”

That cacophonous day in Congo, we wanted to help so many people and we drove away crying about the ones we couldn’t help. But on that day, one little woman’s life was changed.

In high school, I had a young friend named Daniel. One day, while I was flirting with a cute boy in my car at school, Daniel came up and interrupted. He seemed upset and asked to talk, but I was too involved with my cute boy and was too wrapped up in myself, so I sent Daniel away. And when they found his body in the river several days later, I would have given anything in the world to have been able to rewind time. To put my arms around Daniel and say, “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

We may not be able to change the entire world. But we can love the one right in front of us. And to that one, it might mean the world.

This post is part of a weekly discussion that my friend, Jason Stasyszen and I are having about the memoir, Kisses from Katie. Feel free to stick around and chat, whether you’ve read or not! If you’ve written a response to this week’s chapter, however, you can find a widget over at Jason’s place to link it up. And say Hi while you’re over there, okay? Thanks for coming by!

Many of my churched friends tend to watch my life with fear and trepidation that one day, I will spin off into oblivion, while a lot of my unchurched friends wonder why I remain so inhibited.

I’m an outsider.

Several of my Christian friends see me spending time with non-Christians and murmur among themselves that I’m “backslidden” or that I’ve “fallen away from Christ.”

My non-Christian friends sometimes feel that I can’t possibly understand how alienated they feel and how much they dislike The Church or why they are indifferent to God or matters of faith.

I don’t really fit into either camp. And so I dance along the fringes—loving Jesus and loving people, but never really knowing how to articulate that to either group.

Many years ago, I was a dancer. One Wednesday evening, at a church service, I felt a compulsion to dance during the singing. I didn’t really care if anyone saw me. I wasn’t looking for attention. There was just this passion inside of me that needed to express itself to God. And so as the music played and as the people sang, I went to the back of the sanctuary and danced until one of the wives of one of the deacons came back and told me to sit down and stop being disruptive. Funny, I think God was enjoying seeing and feeling my passion for Him. But it discomforted others and so, when asked, I stopped. Because who am I to make people uncomfortable by showing my love for God? Today, I’m disgusted with myself for that and I wish I still had that young, innocent passion that just wanted to show in any and every way possible that I love God and that I worship Him.

And right now, reading this, there are religious people thinking about how out of order I was to dance in church.

And there are unchurched people thinking about how weird and awkward and ridiculous it was that I wanted to.

I don’t fit in.

Yesterday, I drove miles down I-40 West, crying, because I know a lot of people on both sides that don’t fit in, either. And I know how much they hurt.

I know people who have been beaten and kicked and neglected and unloved so much and so often in their lives that they don’t believe God exists. Or they think that if He does exist, He’s never done a damn thing for them.

These feelings are valid.

I remember a song from my childhood…

Jesus is the answer for the world today…

The world doesn’t believe that anymore. Why should they when they see The Church standing in an ivory tower, pretending to have all of the answers, while alienating everyone that doesn’t meet their “holy” standard?

The Church—The Selfish Church—found a loving God who, in His hands, holds peace and joy and healing. And they tried to put Him in a cage to keep everyone else out. They tried to horde the treasure.

The world has been force-fed lies about God. That He is a caged God. Or that He doesn’t care about them. Or that they aren’t worthy of all of the gifts He has. Or that they don’t want anything He has.

One day, the Selfish Church is going to answer for helping to enable the world to believe that.

Today, I went to church and stood between men and women, Hispanics and Anglos, straight folks and gay folks, alcoholics and addicts and farmers and teachers and lawyers and together, without judging each other, we worshiped God and sang, “When we all get to Heaven, what a day of rejoicing that will be!” The deacons stood in the back and hugged people instead of judging them. Everyone was welcomed. God came in and hung out with us. For that hour, I wasn’t an outsider. For that hour, I wasn’t judged. For that hour, we were all loved. And in my heart, I danced.

Last week, I wrote a blog post that I summed up this way:

When we sow judgment, we reap judgment. What if we sowed love?

This spawned a pretty cool discussion, but since that discussion happened elsewhere in social media, you might have missed it. And since I think it’s a pretty valid discussion, I thought I would highlight it here. (And I promise it will fit into this week’s discussion on Kisses for Katie, if you’ll bear with me!)

My darling friend’s very valid point was that the Bible is very clear that as Christians, when we see each other walking dangerous paths, we must love one another enough to point out the danger on the way. I love this point and completely agree with it. If you see me stumbling into a minefield, I surely hope that you love me enough to warn me of what’s ahead!

I would also submit that it’s not just that simple.

Several years ago now, I spent some time lurking around bars in and around Greenville, NC. I put on my clubbing clothes, added some glitter to my makeup, invited some of my friends, and we went. We would go in and order a drink and listen to the band play until closing time on Saturday nights.

I was very careful not to let anybody “back home” know. Not because I was ashamed. Not because I felt that I was sinning. But because I knew that I would be judged. And I knew that because I worked for a religious organization, if people knew my activities, it could even possibly affect my employment.

From the outside looking in, maybe I did just look like a party-girl having fun on a Saturday night. But the people that might have judged me would never have known my true motive unless they asked me.

What was my true motive?

My brother’s band was the band playing in these bars. And because I knew that it was important to him—because I knew that it had the potential to heal our fractured relationship and to make him feel loved—I went. I drove the couple of hours up there. I sat in bars where the smoke was so heavy that it made my eyes burn and tear. And I sang along with every song from “Soulshine” to “Blue on Black” to “Cocaine.” And honestly, my brother’s and my relationship has never been stronger than it was during that time. Because he knew that he was worth more to me than my “religious” comfort zone—and if it came to it, even my job.

I was sowing love.

Now, what in the world does this have to do with Katie?

This week, Katie tells about getting to know a group of about three thousand people, living in a slum community called Masese. She tells about how when she first met them, they were strange, brash, and held her at arm’s length. At first, she wanted to help them because she could tell they needed help. But because there was no trust or relationship between them, she couldn’t really help them. Slowly, she began to become friends with them, one by one. And once their relationships started to grow, she wanted to help them not just because they needed help, but because she loved them. And because they trusted her, they would let her help.

Katie learned one of the most important lessons of all: you have to really know someone to earn the right to speak into their life.

Until you know someone—until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes—how can you even pretend to speak into their lives? How can you imagine that you know what’s best for them or what they need?

When we don’t know people or we don’t know a situation, yet we make a decision about who they are or how they should deal with their situation, that’s judgment. And that’s not sowing love.

How do you sow love instead of judgment, in your own life?

This post is part of a weekly discussion that my friend Jason Stasyszen and I are co-facilitating about the memoir, Kisses from Katie. You don’t have to read the book to stick around and chat with us—we love to hear what you have to say! If you’ve written a post on this topic, feel free to link up at the widget below. And make sure you drop by Jason’s place to see what he has to say!

For about a year after that, I remained single. I stayed home and licked my wounds. Tried to reestablish myself as the good girl with the level head. I worked hard at my full time job, went to community college part time, and volunteered about forty hours a week. Went to church three times a week. And thought I had healed.

The next fall, I started dating Owen. Owen was a big bear of a guy. He was a football player—strong, tall, broad shoulders, thick arms, and solid hands. But he really had a gentle heart. I knew I would never face beatings from him. Yet, at the oddest times, when he would move a hand too quickly or come up beside me unexpectedly, I would flinch or pull away out of an instinctive fear—like a puppy that’s been beaten. It had only taken three months to teach me that fear and over a year of “healing” hadn’t taken it away.

Recently, a minister-friend was expressing to me some of his frustration about the reaction of unchurched folks to his faith. Specifically, he shared how he’s tired of getting accused of being judgmental by people who, in his perspective, are judging him for his faith. As a Christian, this is disheartening. We, as Christians, aren’t perfect. People—especially those who aren’t Christians—are going to sometimes see our faults amplified way more than any good motives or intentions we have. But on the other hand, as one who has been judged by folks in the church, I was able to say to my minister-friend, ”It doesn’t matter how much folks judge you, misunderstand you, ridicule you, hate you, persecute you, spit at you—you don’t have the luxury of stomping away mad. You are called to love.”

What we sow, we reap. For so long, religious folks have sowed judgment into the world. Why does the church now expect not to reap that judgment, in return?

If all we ever show the world is judgment, that is what they’re going to come to expect. What if we choose to show them unconditional love instead?

How do I tell a child I love her when she doesn’t know love? How do I expect her to trust me when all she has ever known is broken trust? I prove it. I earn it. I remind them over and over again with words, actions, hugs, and kisses. –Katie Davis, from Kisses from Katie (emphasis mine)

Let’s go out and love one another.

This post is part of a series of discussions on the memoir Kisses from Katie. To see more of the discussion, please go visit my friend and co-facilitator, Jason Stasyszen at Connecting to Impact. 

Sometimes, it feels like I live my entire life in this state. There’s too much to do. Not enough time to do it. No appreciation for any of it. Not enough money to make it happen. Not enough sleep to make it bearable. And just when you think you’ve hit your breaking point, the car won’t start, the dog vomits on your best Liz Claiborne black leather flats, and you remember that you forgot your dentist appointment, only to learn you have to wait three months to get in to see her again.

Oh, Lord, it’s too much!

My friend, Cecille, once told me that the only things worth doing are the God-sized tasks. That’s a hard thing for me because I like the easy road. I like to find my comfort zone and stay in it. But that comfort zone is a dark, selfish place where instead of growing and becoming better, you become smaller, harder, and weaker. And it’s impossible to help anyone else when you’re hiding in your comfort zone.

Last week, I was reading Romans 4:5 in The Message and it really spoke to me in this place of being overwhelmed.

“If you see that the job is too big for you, that it’s something only God can do, and you trust him to do it—you could never do it for yourself no matter how hard and long you worked—well, that trusting-him-to-do-it is what gets you set right with God, by God.”

It reminded me of what my old friend, Tommy Tyson, used to say that we aren’t supposed to fight the battle; we’re just supposed to be victorious.

But how does that work for a performance-driven girl like me? How does that work for someone like me who has always believed that people only love me for what I do? How does that work for a girl like me who finds her identity in what she does? Don’t I have to do it all? Be everything for everyone?

And in the midst of this raging insecurity and under the pain of these crushing burdens, I recognize that it’s all impossible. If love is waiting on me to earn it, it will always be unattainable. If life is waiting on me to live it, it will always be unreachable. If the problems are all waiting for me to fix them, they are going to remain broken forever.

Katie knows what it’s like to be overwhelmed. My gosh, she’s the single mother of 13 little girls, how could she not be overwhelmed?! When I look at Katie’s life and I look at mine, I’m really even ashamed to say that I feel overwhelmed. I mean, at least I have dependable water and electricity! But in the face of this great, God-sized task that Katie has been given, she chooses to live one day at a time, letting God do miracle after miracle to get her through each day.

Have you ever been overwhelmed? How do you face it? What’s the last God-sized task you faced?

This post is part of a weekly book discussion that me, Jason Stasyszen, and some of our friends are having about the memoir, Kisses from Katie. Please feel free to stick around and chat, whether you’ve read the chapter or not! If you have written a response to this week’s chapter, please link up at the widget below. And please everybody, go see what Jason has to say on the topic!

I was nine years old when “cancer” was introduced into our home. It was more than just a word. It was fear. It was pain. It was a way of life. My mother didn’t tell me and my younger brother right away. She kept it to herself and to our grandparents. She was only 33 and the doctors were optimistic, so there was no point in putting her young children through so much worry. She had the tumor removed (Hodgkins Lymphoma) and began radiation treatment.

Being so young, I can’t remember too much of that earlier time, but I remember Mommy being sad and crying a lot. I remember Grandma and Grandpa spending more time with us, and my brother and I spending longer nights and weekends with our Dad (our parents had divorced several years earlier). Despite these oddities, everything seemed okay—until her oncologist found a second tumor. At this time, all bets were off. My brother and I finally learned the news and what all of the changes had meant.

It was a scary time. My memory isn’t crystal clear but the emotions all remain. It’s the little things that can dredge them back up. I remember Mommy meeting with my teacher after school while I sat at my desk and drew pictures. I can’t recall hearing them, but there were tears and concern. I remember hugs being exchanged; from everyone we knew really. Whenever we (my mother or my brother and I) were around, people got a little quieter, became more affectionate and compassionate. It was nice to have the support, but it always made me worry more.

There are also things I don’t remember, but my Mother is always happy to remind me about. When talking to her a few weeks ago, she reminded me about how I helped her when she was sick. After the second tumor, she was switched from radiation therapy to chemo. Anyone who has seen or experienced chemo knows the hell it puts your body through. But my brother and I were there to help. When Mommy was too sick to cook for us, I’d make dinner, make sure my brother and I had food and Mommy had some available if she could stomach it. Every day I’d ask “Did you remember to take your medicine, Mommy? Can I get you anything, Mommy? I brought your blanket, Mommy. I’m sorry you’re sick; please don’t be sad, Mommy.” Every time she reminds me of these things, I can’t help but cry all over again. I was her rock. Even at nine and ten years old, I was the man in her life that helped her keep it together. We made each other strong, and that time is part of the reason we are so close today. There’s no one in this world that I love more. And it doesn’t make me a “momma’s boy” or a “sissy” – it’s just hard not to strengthen bonds of love when you’re put through so much.

It was a long year, but finally we got through it. After two tumors, radiation, chemo and countless tears, my Mother was in remission. Everything was good again and we were out of the woods. The funny thing about feeling safe though, is it can make you forget the pain you went through to get to that safe place.

One night I got a call from my Mother, just one of our usually weekly check-ins. There was something in her voice though. Being so close, I can always tell when something is wrong. She held her tongue though, long enough to go through our usual chat. And then she said those words—the words I hadn’t heard since I was a little kid and had hoped I’d never hear again: “I went to the doctor this week and they found a lump. They ran some tests . . . and it’s breast cancer.”

I didn’t know what to say. We had come so far, but it wasn’t far enough. After a brief silence and a few tears, I mustered up the words we both needed. I told her that’s too bad, because I’m certainly not letting her go. We’d gone through this before and we’re going to do it again. Cancer tried and failed twice before, it was not going to take her away from me this time. That was my resolve and that became her resolve.

It has been a year and a half since I received that call. It took a handful of surgeries and a fair amount of worry, but my Mother is doing well. Things are definitely different now. For one, my Mother can now say she’s undergone a double mastectomy. I can say she is the bionic woman (there is a Kevlar mesh in her abdomen due to reconstruction). And our family can really say we’ve done it all. We are done, for the most part. All that’s left now is to fight. I’m no longer fighting to keep my Mother alive, she has proven time and time again that she is one tough broad and can handle that one. But now is my time to fight for others, for those that can’t help themselves.

This autumn I will be participating in the Susan G. Komen 3-Day. For anyone that is not familiar, it is a fundraising event, similar to the Race for The Cure marathons or American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life. What sets the 3-Day apart from these other events is the scale. This event spans three full days and has a walking course of 60 total miles. I have had friends participate, and I have always been happy to donate to cancer organizations and research, but I wanted to do something more.

This year is my time to give back. Unfortunately, I can’t do it alone. This event is a fundraiser, first and foremost. To be able to participate, there is a donation minimum that must be met. That is the reason I am writing this blog post – to gain support for the cause and my participation in it. This isn’t something that I want to do; this is something that I need to do. I need to help others and be a voice for those who are touched by this disease. My story is all too common, and my goal is to make stories like mine a distant memory. I want to be a voice for the children, families, and women with breast cancer. I want to stop the fear and tears of every person who has to hear the words “I have cancer. She has cancer. They have cancer.”

My deepest respect, appreciation and love go out to every person that has already supported me with a donation. And that gratitude will continue onto everyone else that will. Please consider making a donation to the cause and to my personal crusade. Every dollar donated goes toward breast cancer screening and research. Together we can stop this disease and put an end to living in fear of it.

Click here to support me!

One of the many, many reasons that Ryan is so special to me is that he was one of my strongest allies when my sister-in-law was diagnosed with cancer last spring. He can’t even know how much it meant to me that when we got the news, he called and talked to me and listened to me for hours. He told me that it was going to be hard, but that it was going to be okay and that we weren’t going through it alone—and he made me believe it. And he was right. It was hard, but it was okay, and we weren’t alone for a minute. Ryan stepped up for me then and now, I’m stepping up for him and asking you guys to search your hearts and give. Through Ryan, we can make a real difference in the lives of some folks that really need someone to make a difference in their lives. And from the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

I put a lot of work into the Sunday school class I was teaching. I didn’t just sit down on Saturday night and slap together a bunch of verses. I studied and worked on my lesson all week—and tried to live it out, as well. I would ask God what He wanted those students to hear on a Sunday and then would listen, painstakingly writing down His answer.

One Sunday morning, I stood up in front of the class and talked to them about Nehemiah. Nehemiah knew that his people were sitting in the middle of the desert, in a busted down city with broken down walls. And he knew that they weren’t safe there. He knew that without walls, they were sitting ducks for whoever wanted to prey on them. He helped the people rebuild the walls so that they would have a safe place to live. A refuge. A sanctuary.

That Sunday morning, I told my class that God wants us to be like Nehemiah. This world isn’t safe. But if we build our hearts into safe places, then people can come to us to be loved and to feel safe. They will have a refuge and a sanctuary. But I warned my class that many of the people that need safe places may not look like us. They may look different or act different than we do. But that’s okay because we all need and deserve a safe place to go. We all deserve to be loved. We are all the same in the eyes of God.

The next week, I got a phone call, relieving me of my Sunday school teaching duties.

I don’t know many people who haven’t, at some time or another, felt unloved and unimportant. I have felt that way many times in my life. Some of the times I remember most were growing up as the only girl in a neighborhood full of boys and usually ending up playing by myself. Or after I was molested, when I didn’t know how to tell anybody what had happened to me. Or when I was eighteen and was date-raped, only to be told subsequently by someone close to me that I had asked for it. Or when I’ve gone through some of the vast depressions I’ve gone through over thirty-four years. But though I’ve often felt unloved or unimportant, I don’t think I’ve ever actually been completely unloved and unimportant. I really am blessed.

Though I haven’t been unloved, I know what unloved feels like and it has always been my goal not to let the people I love feel that way. When I was in tenth grade, I had a friend at school that I completely adored. She is still one of the sweetest, kindest, most gentle people I have ever known. She was raised in a wonderful home with doting parents. She was raised in a small, close-knit church and community. She was a bit introverted, but she was well-liked among her friends. And to this day, I’ve never heard anyone say anything negative about her. Ever. But I was stunned the day she broke down in tears and told me how much she hated herself. I was wishing I was her and she was wishing she was anybody but her!

Oh, I’ve been there. I know me intimately. I know my weaknesses, my areas of selfishness, and my crummy attitudes. There are many days that I don’t want to be me, either!

My friend and I both found safe places to run. But I’ve met so many other people who don’t have safe places to run. They have been unloved and unwanted and unsafe so often, that it’s all they know. When they try to run to God’s people and are told that they can’t come inside the walls—or inside the love—because of how they look or dress or talk or act, the door is being slammed in their faces. Where will their safe place be then? And what will be the penalty for those who slammed the door?

I’ve tried hard over the years to find a safe place to go and I’ve found many doors slammed in my face. When I was on a plane, in January, headed to visit friends in the Pacific Northwest, I asked God where my safe place is to be and He answered, “I am your home.” Over the subsequent weeks and months, the Nehemiah lesson has come back to me and I’ve realized that even as I make my home in Christ and run to Him to love me and to be my safe place, I am to love and be the safe place for all of the people I come into contact with. As I realize this, I find myself slowing down more to ask people how they are and to listen to them. I find myself reaching out more, even to people that I barely know. And I find myself reaching out more to the people I love and saying, “I love you SO much.” Sometimes, it feels awkward. And it may embarrass them or fluster them this moment, but in that moment when they don’t feel safe or loved, my hope is that they’re remember that they are. They are treasured and they have a family—even one that doesn’t share their DNA.

Katie said, “How beautiful it is to watch the unwanted feel loved and important, to watch strangers become family members.”

Amen, Katie. Amen.

This week’s blog post is part of a weekly discussion that some of my friends, my co-facilitator, Jason Stasyszen, and I are having on the fabulous memoir, Kisses from Katie. You don’t have to read the book to join in the discussion—your thoughts are important, feel free to share them! If you have written a response to this chapter, click on over to Jason’s site to find the widget to share it. Thanks for joining us!

“When I was a girl, when you graduated high school, you only had three choices. You could be a wife, a teacher, or a nurse.” My grandmother proudly displayed her nursing degree on the wall of her den.  As her brothers went to war and her other sisters married or went to teacher school, she left North Carolina to go to the University of Maryland—such a long way away from home—away from her Mama and ten brothers and sisters.

I don’t think I’ve ever thought about how brave my Grandmama was. Maybe I’m a little like her.  When I was nineteen, I moved almost three hours away from my parents and lived off of spaghetti and apples for over a year. But I had the luxury of coming home for visits every time I missed my parents. Eighteen-year-old Marie went to Maryland and stayed there. There were no visits home—except at Christmas and the end of the school year. Some of her precious memories were when her Navy brothers would make it up to visit her (as in the picture above, circa 1942.) And with money as tight as it was in wartime, her and her roommates’ greatest delicacy was slices of Vidalia onion with mayonnaise on bread.

Marie didn’t let other people write her life’s script and I hope she would be proud of me for saying the same. I think long and pray hard before I make decisions, but when I make them, I make them with all of my heart—and I make them regardless of what public opinion will be. And that’s not always popular. And it’s not always easy.

I’ve been working my way through the book of Acts recently and I came across a story that I’d surely heard, but never paid attention to before. Paul had traveled all over the Mediterranean and parts of Asia because he knew with all of his heart that he was supposed to. Then came the day that it was time for him to return to Jerusalem. His friends begged, cried, and pleaded for him not to go—they knew he would probably be arrested and maybe even killed. But in Paul’s heart, he knew that he was supposed to. He had a purpose in Jerusalem. So he wiped the tears of his friends and hugged them good-bye—for the last time. And he went.

I haven’t been in the same position as Paul. I’ve never faced imprisonment or death, but I’ve faced fears and major changes. Moving away from my parents at nineteen, when nobody understood. Starting college as a twenty-two-year-old freshman, when I was completely terrified and didn’t know what I was really supposed to do with my life. Buying a house as a single twenty-something woman, when it seemed like the last thing on earth I was qualified to do. But like Marie and like Paul, I did all of those things anyway.

My friend Rick often tells me, “If you have to do it scared, just do it. Do it scared.”

And I do.

This week, Katie tells us about the agonizing struggle inside herself. Her heart was torn between her daughters in Uganda and her parents in America. She—like I—thought long and prayed hard and at the end, realized that her life’s purpose was to do the unpopular thing. She was to do the very thing that didn’t make sense. And she was to do it with all her heart.

“A scripture I had memorized for years kept creeping into my heart and mind: ‘No servant can serve two masters’ (Luke 16:13). In context, the verse pertains to serving God versus money, but I realized as I read that I could not serve God’s eternal purpose and man’s earthly desires. I couldn’t fulfill both God’s call on my life and my parents’ desire for me…” – from Kisses from Katie

Ecclesiastes 9:10 says, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.” Marie did. Katie is. And so am I.

This post is part of a weekly discussion my buddy, Jason Stasyszen, some of our friends, and I are having about the fabulous book, Kisses from Katie. You don’t have to read it to join in the convo! The more, the merrier! If you did write a response to the chapter, please link up at the widget below. And definitely be sure to zip by Jason’s place and read his thoughts on the topic. Thanks for stopping by!

I can identify with this verse. As a pastor’s child in a denomination that doesn’t believe in leaving a pastor in one place for too long, I learned not to get too attached to one place, because we wouldn’t be there for long. I learned how to pack up my belongings and adapt to new surroundings and to make a niche for myself in a house full of someone else’s furniture. (Because that’s what a parsonage is—a house full of someone else’s usually ugly and uncomfortable furniture.) But you move. You don’t cry for long over those you leave behind. You make new friends and learn where the closest grocery stores are. Life goes on and you pick up the new purpose in the new place you’ve been planted, and you run with it.

I know people who have lived in the same home their whole lives. I’ve known people who have known for as long as they can remember, exactly what they wanted to do with their lives when they grew up. And while I have envied both sets of people, I have never belonged to either set. When people ask me where I’m from, I don’t really know how to answer them. I was born in a town where my parents didn’t live, went to seven different schools over thirteen years, graduated from a town where I only lived for about four years, and then moved to a city where I moved so many times over a decade that I lost count. The town I live in now has never felt like home to me and I’ve been buying a house here for over five years. Where is “home”? I don’t know.

I can identify with Katie in this week’s chapter of Kisses from Katie. She grew up in a home in the United States—comfortable and safe. But then God asked her to set her plans aside and sent her to Uganda—probably the last place in the world she ever dreamed she would end up. Once she got there, she fell in love with it—the place and the people. She knew she was finally where she belonged; doing what she was created to do. But then, in keeping a promise to her family, she left it again. She finds herself asking the same question I’ve been asking myself for more than thirty years—Where is home? And even at her young age, she finds an answer.

When she said “Welcome home,” it was as though a floodgate broke open from behind my eyes and the tears came in an unstoppable river. “Welcome home.”

I wanted to ask her, “Where is home?”

I have come to the realization that I am somewhat of a nomad on this earth. I am learning to be okay with that. Human beings long for a place to call home, a nest, a sanctuary of their own. I have many and none….

My heart lives in so many places. With so many people. But God whispers to me that I really have only one home, and that is with Him. I will never be content on this earth. I will always be a nomad. It was meant to be that way. My heart was created with a desire for a home, a nest, a sanctuary, and that can be found only with Him in Heaven. And I will continue bouncing from one home to another, loving with everything I have in whatever location I currently reside, excitedly awaiting the day when I am called heavenward and He says to me, “Welcome home.”

-          From Kisses from Katie, by Katie J. Davis

That Sunday morning, half a lifetime ago, I taught that verse to Steven and Mariah, but I didn’t know why. Maybe it’s because God knew I would need to remember it on this Sunday morning, many years and many miles away, to help me remember that wherever I am, Christ is my home.

This post is part of a weekly discussion that my friend and co-facilitator, Jason Stasyszen, a group of our friends, and I have each Wednesday. We’re discussing the book Kisses from Katie. You don’t have to read the book to join the conversation. In fact, the more, the merrier! If you’ve written a response to this week’s chapter, visit Jason’s site to link up at our widget. Thanks for joining us!