5

A little over five years ago, we were sitting under the lights on our favorite spot on campus. I was probably fidgeting with the railing and changing my seating positions way too often. I definitely had fifty thoughts running through my head. We had finally said it: you liked me and I liked you, and we were trying to figure out what the heck that meant now.

Each year September rolls around and I'm in disbelief. The years have brought us way more of the unexpected than our 19- and 20-year-old selves could have thought: distances, delayed graduations, extravagant surprises, gross misunderstandings, messy families, and a shared love of Giants baseball.

I've changed a lot in these past five years, and you've seen me through it all. I scroll through our shared dropbox folder we made last year (our first anniversary apart), and I can tell just by my photos: my casual hoodies and club t-shirts of undergrad, the first couple summer dresses I owned, nicer tanks and tops in the post-grad life. I remember when you loved me through my capstone engineering project, through my cynical first semester back from six weeks in India, when you were completely unsurprised I went on to work with InterVarsity, when we revisted the camp where we first met (not that there are any memories of that time--we didn't exactly have awesome first impressions). You tell me that I've made you get better at talking about feelings, small talk, or just talking in general. We laugh that we're both still very different people who have managed to grow a little bit more into each other, only to find that we land on opposite ends of the spectrum (again).

I still can't believe it sometimes: life with you and who you are. how much you love me, support me, deal with my crap and make me better. Listen to my ramblings as I can't sort between personal life and ministry. Bounce back my ideas about faith and hypothesis and theories. Your existence and lifestyle remind me that faith looks different, that "living out faith" really does need to be contextualized. That you and I live witness and relationships in different ways, and it reminds me to open my eyes to pay attention to the perfect moments where God has put people like you in very specific places. That you may not throw your friendship net in wide, wide circles like I do, but when you give loyalty and depth with one who does make it in your circle, it comes with a deep commitment.

And for someone who loves giant parties and energy and adventures, my favorite times with you are our "nothing" days that involve sitting around, enjoying each other's company, talking (sometimes me just telling stories...), and maybe cups of hot chocolate or likely some ice cream. Somehow with everything chaotic in my life, the best things I love with you are simple. Like walks after dinner. Or sunsets. No one loves sunsets daily quite like you and I do.

I love the hundreds (I'm sorry, am I exaggerating again?) of things that have become life with you and me: passing the camera across the table at dinnertime, taking walks, predicting responses, laughing at predictability, the string of nonsense from either of us that leads to laughs and giggles. Your puns and my unrelated stories. My persistence and your patience. And lots more, but you're already laughing that I've written almost 600 words about this, though I'll insist that no one reads my blog anyway.

So hey. Here's to more words and more us and more years.

Pursuing Perfection

I am a perfectionist.

I live my life in constant comparison to those who are the best. I have an arbitrary standard for most things, and that standard is often too high and determined solely by me comparing to people and things that are better than me. I don't think I'm a fast runner because I should be faster. I don't think I'm an excellent photographer because I see many people who do it better. I enjoy cooking but think I could do better. I give a talk or a training, and even if other people tell me it was good, something in the back of my head knows there is room to improve. I make graphics and flyers and visuals look great, but that's just because no one else on my team has a high standard for it.  I should stop dropping passes on the Ultimate field.

My room can be cleaner. My papers can be more organized. I can be more efficient. I can be more responsible. I need to stop dropping the ball on things, I should stop forgetting things.

This is how my brain naturally thinks. I find myself in the "jack of all trades, master of none" categories, which, if not careful, can tear you apart. On one hand, you take pride that you can competently accomplish a lot of things. On the other hand, in my insecurity, I wonder: what is there that I am really excellent at?

I am a perfectionist. And if I'm not careful, the lies in my head circle over and over again, telling me to step it up, do better, produce the work of professionals even when you have the resource and experience of a hobbyist. If I don't fight it, everywhere I look, I fall at average or below average. (Part of that is also because I notice every misstep of mine but not every fall of everyone else: sometimes I can count how many passes I missed in a game, but of course, I never count the number of times our team captain causes us to lose a point.) It gets hard for me to recognize my gifts and my abilities, which makes it even harder to step in, serve, and contribute where God has placed me.

On one hand, I will never be good enough: I won't ever be fastest runner, I won't ever be the most eloquent or the most learned. I will never be a perfect staff worker, I'll never be a perfect friend. I'm always going to mess up, as much as I hate that truth.

On the other hand: I was never expected to be. I started typing, "The beauty of grace..." and realized that Relient K had finished that line for me awhile ago: "...is that it makes life not fair." Not fair! The fact that I will never be perfect but God's perfect love covers me is not fair. The fact that I will fall and screw up and hurt and fail but that God looks at me and calls me his Perfect Daughter is not fair. If I am dead honest, I hate the fact that perfection will never be achieved. But there is freedom in knowing that that was never the goal.

That was never the goal. Perfection was never the goal.

Somewhere in my life, in my history, I thought I needed perfection. I remember distinctly thinking that I had to be the "perfect child" amid some family turmoil. What did that even mean for me? It meant I didn't cause waves. It meant no one had to worry about me, spend "extra" energy on me. It meant I didn't have 'issues'.

Lies, oh lies. Because the God who loves me is the God who pours energy, love, grace on me. Who picks up my broken pieces and my tears--he is the one who is Perfect. He never expected me to be perfect. And he is waiting to catch me in my waves, to pour love and more love on me. He expects me to have issues, and he expects to be the one who heals them.

This perfectionist thing...this is a very broken part of me. Ironic, huh? That maybe the most messed up thing about me is how perfect I want to be...but God, you make all things whole.

Deep Waters

Last week, I sat in the Union staring at the spreadsheet of nearly 140 students who filled out contact cards wanting more information about our fellowship. All I see are fish, I thought, as the abundance of interested students reminded of the huge catch Jesus brought the disciples in Luke 5. And I wanted to tell them all of our first meeting that night, but my texts via google voice ran out. And my nets are breaking. Unable to hold the capacity of this catch.

When the most chaotic week of New Student Outreach possible ended, I read through Luke 5 again for the hundredth time. I remember this passage: we kept returning to it over and over again the first year I led a small group. I was a junior back then, leading my first round of students. Five years later, I'm still leading students. I'm still reading through the story of Jesus walking into Peter's boat and calling him out to deep waters. This passage has returned over and over again (admittedly, it is an InterVarsity-favorite, so there you go). I remember discussing this at APA 2012: What does deep waters represent? Unknown, potential, danger. What were the nets supposed to do? Hold fish. Yet they failed to do the job they were designed for. I remember Urbana 12: "Leave your boats. Drop your nets. Come and follow me...I've come to rescue the world from the chaos of the deep."

Deep waters. Risk. Jesus inviting for more, and more. Making decisions on the fly. Crying in the car thinking I can't believe this week is over. Looking around and seeing leaders hungry for more. Sending students to do things they are naturally gifted at. Needing to nap and sleep and nap because my body is tired. Encouraging students, sending them out again. Feeling rested enough after the weekend, and then today hits.

What a joke to think it would calm down this week. A phone call from a friend, emotional energy pouring to someone you love, a student walking on shaky ground in terms of her ministry and authority, planning an event that's happening in three days, missing someone dearly.

I followed, Jesus. And now I'm in deep, so deep.

So I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior