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natrohne · 7 years

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Ya Win Some, Ya Lose Some

Ya win some, ya lose some. About eight weeks ago, I was pretty positive I had won something big. And I wasn’t wrong. I have been blessed by an amazing support group who have faithfully supported me and my adventurous spirit. I have been blessed with a father willing to leave home a few days a week so that I can travel for free, or almost free internationally. I have been blessed to meet and befriend people all over the world. This has come to me by the grace of God and the work ethic He placed in me to accomplish my dreams and go after my goals. Eight weeks ago I marched onto Lufthansa flight 447- service to Dusseldorf, Germany. The flight went without a hitch. I even made friends with the girl next to me, who was, ironically enough, also visiting her past German foreign exchange student. The weeklong visit with Franzi, my wonderful friend who lived with my family six years ago, and her wonderful boyfriend, Fabio, who was extremely friendly and hospitable, was awesome. They were perfect hosts and I was so incredibly blessed to finally see Franzi’s life and home.

The next few days were spent south of Manchester, England with my good Triangle Y Ranch Camp counselor friend, Tim. We have talked for years about him giving me the grand tour of Sheffield and I was so blessed to finally partake in that tour. He took care of everything and was a gracious host and friend as always! I’ve been blessed with some real winner friends. Then the fire came.

On the way to the Manchester Airport, Tim and I ran into some traffic and did not get to the airport nearly as early as I had hoped. Then once I tried to check into my flight at the front with RyanAir, they charged me extra fees for my bag (which I had already paid for once) and for my carryon (which I didn’t know was even a thing) and for printing out my boarding pass (just a few extra dollars, but still!) So after figuring all that out, I headed to security, thinking the hard part was over. Not so.

Once at security, I pulled off my shoes and pulled out my small Ziploc of toiletries and laptop as I’ve done hundreds, if not thousands, of times. My bag got pulled to the side to be double-checked, behind about 20 other bags. I was starting to sweat at this point. They were going so slowly through each bag and I was wracking my brain for what else could be hidden in there I didn’t remember to check or pull out. When it was finally my turn for them to look through my bag, they took 20 minutes to find a tube of chapstick. Yup, my little tube of Burt’s Bees set it off. Once the threatening chapstick was removed they scanned my bag once again. And again, it rang red! So they had to pull out all the contents AND check through my other bag just in case, even though it had gone through without a hitch. Meanwhile, they pull me to the side and two different women patted me up and down, in addition to the two who had already patted me down. Finally, they gave me the all clear and barely said sorry as I flew off to the gate. With heaving breaths as I neared the gate, I saw the jetway pull away from the plane and the gate agent shut the jetway door. I had missed my flight. Something I had never, ever done before. I could not believe it. RyanAir does not believe in rolling a passenger over to the next flight (nor do they believe in anything being their fault) so they said they would either charge me €150 simply to roll me over to the next flight (not including the baggage cost, which I had officially paid for no reason at this point) or they would walk me back out to the front of the airport so I could list myself on a different flight. I started to ask about other airlines and ran off to Aer Lingus. After a few hours of arguing and frantically trying to figure out the Manchester Airport, all on only a few hours of sleep and 30 minutes of free wifi, I finally had myself listed on a different flight on a different airline with all new fees and a whole other security checkpoint. Of course, this security check went without a hitch. How typical is that! But hey, I got to Ireland and only a couple hours after I was supposed to. It could have been way worse, but I definitely lost that one.

Dublin was a bit difficult to adjust to with such a rocky start. My roommates posed an interesting group of people to live with which has been both fun and insightful. After this trip, I think I will have officially covered all the bases when it comes to types of people to live with… But nevertheless, the first few days were stressful and frantic. I found myself not trusting anyone, not even myself. I have traveled. I should have known. I could have done better. But I did not transition well at all. As I wrote in my last blog, I packed my last semester as much as I possibly could! I was completely burnt out from the way I conducted my life but once I had some time to rest, I had no idea what to do with it. My motto on gap year two years (can you believe it’s been two years?!) was, “don’t waste it.” And I was determined to apply that to my stay in Dublin even though I was simply exhausted, and honestly, (as much as I hate to admit it) scared.

My internship while in Dublin consists of me working for our in-country supervisor (basically our Dublin Mom) Ms. Olwyn Mannix. She is an independent travel agent aspiring to start, or continue to pursue her own travel company. She needed help to boost her Internet presence, so, with my blogging and general computer experience (which is limited to be fair), she hired me for the semester. Two weeks in, Olwyn paid for me to attend a workshop across town where I would acquire beginner and intermediate knowledge about Wordpress, a commonly used blogging and website design site. The workshop was incredible and I am now nearly fully capable of building a website all on my own, which I am hoping to do for small businesses or charities back home. On the way home, I was taking a train I used for the first time that day called the LUAS. It runs from the North to the South side of Dublin and I rode it the entire way, getting on at the farthest south stop and getting off at the farthest north stop. On my return trip, however, I apparently did not correctly scan my student charge card to pay for my ride. I know this because only two stops into the ride back, a large man with a heavy, non-Irish accent with a bright orange vest approached asking to see my ticket. I presented my card for him to scan but he began to write me a ticket saying I had not paid to be on the train but I definitely thought I had. It had been raining at the stop and there was no awning so I rushed to make it on the train before the door closed and I guess I didn’t wait for the card to scan long enough to fully pay for the ride. So now I was in trouble with the Irish law and had a ticket looming over my head. I tried to appeal it but there was no sympathy for the rushed, stupid American. I definitely lost that one!

Two nights later, I was with two of my roommates and another friend trying to blow off some steam at a live local concert at the famous Dublin venue, Whelans. I was leaning against the railing overlooking the unique and cool venue, my jacket along with my roommates on the chair right behind me. One minute it was there, the next we were relocating and my jacket was completely gone. My roommates’ was there but mine was taken. Thankfully there was nothing in it but it was the only nice jacket I owned and it was stolen. I called a few times in the days to follow but got nowhere. I lost that one for sure.

I’m intrigued by the art of travel. Don’t you just see and experience the most random and interesting situations and people at airports or when in other cultures? If you have ever sat in an airport for more than 30 minutes and simply watched what was happening around you, you probably saw a person running to catch a flight. You have no idea where they are going or where they came from or why they are running. They desperately run past you and are out of your life forever. You’ll never know their name or if that day was really as rough as it seemed in that single shared moment. Have compassion on those poor people. No one I ran past in the Manchester Airport had any idea that I was about to live alone in a foreign country I had never been to for four months. No one had any idea what January 25 was supposed to look like for me. I lost that day. I had a terrible attitude and I let it affect the first few weeks of my disgruntled and disjointed trip. Things just got weirder and harder as the time went on in Dublin. Life is expensive. Mistakes are expensive. Expenses are stressful. Stress is torment to an injured brain and good for absolutely no one.

But as I sit here, sipping on a delicious margarita given to me by a random flight attendant, I am reminded of what I have won. Today has been one of the smoothest, cheapest, and easiest travel days of my life, even though based on the destinations; it should have been very stressful. Today should have been WAY harder than that one-hour flight to Dublin nine weeks ago but here we are, an easy couple flights, a free margarita, and an excellent Spotify playlist to make for an incredible day. It’s the incredible days that are the most forgettable. Why is that? As humans we remember the days that sucked beyond all compare. We remember when we got screwed over or scammed. We remember the stuff that went wrong. We remember the times we lost.

But here’s a cheers (or slainte) to appreciating this time among many that I have won! I am blessed by the life I have. I am blessed by the people in it- JC, for being the home I have always wanted, Rachel, for being my best friend no matter how many times I leave and what country I end up in, Katja and Isaac, for emailing me and including me in their lives, my parents for letting me take advantage of Dad’s job so much ;), Kelly, for being a stellar direct roommate, and Madison for being an incredible other roommate ;). You girls are the highlight of Dublin. Along with the very random St. Patrick’s Day parades and pub outtings, and day trip excursions, this journey has been incredible. There are so many others but I just wanted to thank you. We have all won some and lost some. I hope all of you win some today!

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natrohne · 7 years

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Ya Win Some, Ya Lose Some

#travel dublin slainte winningandlosing

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natrohne · 7 years

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Maxed Out

When I was in 6th grade, my elementary school did a fundraiser, which involved the students running laps around the school in order to raise money with sponsors paying per lap each kid ran. My dad is an athletic and in-shape individual and was in town for this event so he ran it with my brother and I in both our respective “heats.” I, like most of my family, am not really built like a runner so to say I was dreading this day is quite the understatement. Dad and I had made our way around the school yet another time when the two-minute mark was called. I caught just enough breath to ask my dad how many laps my four-years-younger brother had run. I thought I couldn’t run any longer and would just be done there, but apparently, he had run one more than me. I may not be very competitive but I just could not stand for that. So I mustered some hidden inner strength and busted my butt all the way around the school. I ran two full laps in under two minutes (which, trust me, is not actually impressive. I think we ran for like ten minutes.) As soon as the time was up, I crossed the finish line for my last lap. Then I puked. Everywhere. My dad was more proud of me than I had maybe ever seen him! I ran so hard I threw up! Just to prove to myself, my brother, and my dad that I could do it, that I had it in me to do more.

I grew up with this mentality (placed completely on myself by myself) that unless I was running as hard as I could, I wasn’t running fast enough. I figured that unless I was pushing myself to the absolute max I wasn’t doing enough. In a way, I placed this expectation on myself that unless I was exhausted and dripping with sweat at each and every finish line, I wasn’t holding something worth being proud of.

Rest is something not heavily encouraged in our world. High school students are driven to the ground with homework and other school expectations, extracurricular activities, household and family expectations, and yet high school students are supposed to get an average nights sleep of 9-10 hours in order to keep their growing, changing brains satisfactorily rested. How the heck is any high school student supposed to achieve that kind of time management? How do people succeed living with so much to do and keep it together without falling apart? I got really good at it for a while. I knew how to run myself into the ground and succeed and make it look like I was close to “fine.” I think to an extent everyone knows how to do this. People know how to do so much in any given day. People, myself included, however, do not know how to rest. Rest is often mentioned but how often does anyone actually learn how to do that? It is one of the 10 Commandments and still humans aren’t sure how to adhere to that command. Sleep and actual peace are vital to human success; one would think we would figure out how to do it well in that case! But alas, we don’t!

This past summer I ran myself into the ground more than I thought humanly possible. Any given day I would walk 15 minutes to the campus gym and workout early in the morning and walk another 15 minutes back to my dorm to shower and get ready for the day. Then I would walk back to campus to work 8 hours in the Admissions Office on campus, sometimes walking an additional 30 minutes to go home and grab lunch really fast. As I sat at my desk job on campus, I would edit articles for The Odyssey Online as I was the summer’s Editor-in-Chief for the region. In between articles, I would memorize more of the Gospel of Matthew for the scholarship as a “break.” After work, I would walk back to my dorm to change for my next job. Then I would walk 45 minutes to Chick-Fil-A where I would work the closing shift and then walk back in the middle of the night. But my day was still not over. I spent the last hour or two or my day trying to cram more of Matthew into my brain and review everything I had memorized so far. Then after a few hours of sleep, I would get up and do it all over again.

Three months- one full-time job, two part-time jobs, and memorizing one whole book of the Bible, and trying to maintain a healthy dating relationship all without a car, is NOT rest.

My beloved fiancé hoped I would finally calm down once my semester started. But I refused to quit two of my jobs and took on 19 credit hours of school. My only day off was Sundays (thanks to Chick-Fil-A’s No-Sunday policy, I wasn’t even allowed to work on Sundays and I know that if I was allowed, I would have.) But even Sundays were heavy and packed with trying to assist leading worship at JC’s church and doing the whole week’s homework that afternoon. By the end of the semester, I was so frustrated and exhausted and my head hurt so bad I felt like I was lashing out at just about anything. I have a brain injury and am supposed to sleep even more than the average person. But I chose to forget that little detail and fit as much into my life as I possibly could. On one hand, I did what I (thought) I had to do. Because of the Scripture Memorization Scholarship, I was able to pay to accomplish a dream and study abroad in Ireland, which is where I currently am. Because of the work I had put in I was able to build the life I wanted for myself. However, somewhere along the way, my goals became more important than my health and I ignored everyone’s advice to slow down and take a breather. I forgot the importance of rest.

Have you ever noticed the more tired you are the more things seem to go wrong? When you’re exhausted just about anything can set you off. The past few weeks in Ireland have been challenging to say the least. This is nothing like the KIVU Gap Year I did a few years ago. This is nothing like I’ve ever done before. It’s harder. But it’s harder because it’s slower. I find I don’t have very many pressing obligations. I’m not pulling my hair out trying to figure out how to get from one thing to the next and how I am possibly going to eat, workout, or sleep in the short 24 hours I’m given. Instead, I have time, something I’ve never really had.

For years I’ve heard people, mostly pastors or small group leaders encourage the congregation or group to take at least one day a week to rest. My mentor, Lindsey, has said countless times to take an hour a day to simply be. Even though I respect and admire her advice more than nearly everyone else’s, I still didn’t get it. One hour out of only 24 is so much time! An hour is worth $9.75. And $9.75 is worth a meal and a half. And a meal and a half is what most broke college kids live on! Thinking of life in this way though is one of the most unhealthy habits I have. Not everything is money. Not everything is timed. And not everything should be timed.

There’s an old Irish saying that goes, “What is for you will not pass by you.” In Ireland, things are slow. People show up a little bit late. Professors come into class and set up when they get around to it. Nothing seems very pressing or urgent here. It is often forgotten that Ireland is an island country and I have learned since being here that even though it’s not exactly tropical, Ireland very much exists on “island time.” While that may have stressed me out at the beginning due to me used to being so busy, I am learning how healthy and freeing it is. My classes don’t start earlier than 10:30am. My internship begins after my classes are done for the day. I hate mornings so this practice is very much appreciated. I’ve journaled, read books, worked on my own book, and just sat and listened to music so much. And while part of me is ashamed simply for feeling lazy, I am beginning to understand the importance of rest. I am thinking more clearly. My brain is beginning to feel better now that it has the sleep necessary to finally heal the injury. I am able to focus in class more. I find myself being friendlier and more personable. Everything is changing simply because my life has been forced to just slow down and soak it in.

If you are working yourself to the bone and getting frustrated with the people you love the most for absolutely no reason, you’re working yourself too hard. You may have to do this to make ends meet like I did. But find at least ten minutes a day to do what you love. At least try it and watch what changes. You are worth more than what you do. You are worth more than the money you make. You are worth more than simply what you bring to the table. You are human and you innately have value. Working hard is an admirable trait and I applaud you for getting stuff done. But do not forget that what you accomplish is not all that you are. You are so much more than that. Your life will work out. Things will be provided. Maybe not in the way you wanted or had asked for and certainly not on a silver platter. Work for what you want but don’t feel you have to be completely maxed out to be worth something. Run as hard as you can but know that you have value simply for running, not just for winning. Work hard, pray hard, and sleep often.

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air. They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. And are you not of more value than they?” (Matthew 6:25)

#rest peace maxedout

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natrohne · 8 years

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And Still He Called Him Friend...

When you are told to love something, forced into a way of thinking, coerced into passion, you end up feeling just the opposite. Rather than loving it, you begrudge it. Rather than thinking and agreeing with it, your rebellious brain finds a way to disprove and ultimately disregard it. You feel no passion towards it, only frustration, discomfort, or apathy.

The Bible has been a textbook my entire life. Family, schools, churches and my social environment’s expectations forced God’s Word on me, to the point where I never recognized it’s beauty and wisdom. As a student at a private Christian school for my entire academic career, of course, I knew the famous verses every “Christian kid” knows and could spout any number of them off at the drop of a hat. That was all the Bible was to me- proof I “knew” God and “knew” His Word. And that was good enough for a while. It got me good grades in my Bible classes in high school and then helped again when I took both required Bible classes at Colorado Christian University. Knowledge of the Bible has served me well in one way and that is to pass classes. I had no love for the Bible. I hardly even had an appreciation towards it. It is a required textbook at both my high school and now college. I felt no passion for His Word. I was told to feel it, so I didn’t. Rather than taking advantage of the Bible classes I am required to take here at CCU, I relied heavily on my formerly acquired knowledge of the Bible to simply pass. I did not dive deeper and did not care to change that attitude. I just needed the A.

When I learned that CCU offers a scholarship to memorize certain books of the Bible and recite them, I jumped at the chance. I am paying tuition by myself and am trying to study abroad and working two jobs this summer still was not cutting it. The scholarship seemed a simple enough way to make money. And I need the money. So, of course, I took advantage of it. So was the decision to memorize the first book of the New Testament, Matthew. It is the first book listed on the flyer hung up around campus promoting the scholarship. Memorizing Matthew and being able to recite it all the way through in one sitting with no helps and then be tested on 9-12 random parts of the book in front of a panel of faculty would grant me $4,400 in scholarship money. It is the third highest paying scholarship book offered. I did not research the book. I did not even consider a different book. I saw the first one listed and that was good enough.

I started this summer with only two jobs; one in the Admissions Office on campus as the Call Team Member for the student contact call center, and one as the editor-in-chief for the Odyssey Online blog team. I sat in the Admissions Office making my phone calls and listening to an audio reading of Matthew on Spotify. My study breaks from Matthew consisted of editing articles for the Odyssey. When I realized I was not making enough to continue making payments for tuition, I acquired a job at Chick-Fil-A. My entire life was work this summer. Matthew was my fourth part-time job. And that’s all it was- a job. Memorizing anything is difficult. Memorizing something you’re passionate about is hard. Memorizing something you do not wish to dive deeper into is nearly impossible. I learned this as I listened to the audios and quizzed myself all day at work and each night before I went to bed. I crammed what I could into my brain and tried to leave God out of it. I did not expect or even want, a personal experience or a revival. As selfish and greedy as it sounds, I just wanted the money.

I was limiting myself, which was a shame. But I was limiting God, too, which is even worse. I out Him in a box. I pinned a price value to Him, $4,400. I did not want Him, I just wanted the money His Word could get me. Maybe the reiteration of this statement sounds extreme, dramatic, and self-destructive. I just want to show you the black heart I possessed going into this endeavor. I had no idea what God had in store for me. I could not even imagine what He could possibly do with this experience.

About a month in, my memorization partner backed out and I was on my own. I thought I could do it by myself no problem. Then one of the most loyal, loving, caring people in the world, Jamie Treat, an Admissions Office co-worker of mine asked me for a verse from Matthew. I was able to give it to her with no hints but could hardly go on. It was then that I realized I needed her help. I do not often enjoy asking for assistance, but there was no denying it- I needed Jamie. Jamie began to come over and quiz me at night on the chapter that I memorized that day. I barely had half of it memorized by the halfway mark of the summer. I was running out of time.

About that time, I started working at Chick-Fil-A. Again, I looked at this as simply work experience and extra income. Little did I know what I was getting myself into. My shifts at Chick-Fil-A became study sessions. My managers and co-workers quizzed me while we restacked cups and in-between taking guests orders. The love and support I received at Chick-Fil-A was unparalleled. As the deadline for the scholarship drew nearer and nearer, my manager and friend, Rebekah, started coming over to my apartment to quiz me. Like Jamie, she had such enthusiasm and interest in the Bible. Where I simply spoke the right words, they felt God’s meaning and presence. It was their passion and their interest that showed me the depth and importance of the words I was reciting. I remember the day I shared the whole Sermon on the Mount (chapters 5-7) with Rebekah. The deadline was looming over my head and I was tripping over the words, so anxious I could hardly keep anything straight. She made me pause after I said the words, “Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is it’s own trouble.” (6:31) I zoomed right over the words, trying to figure out how chapter 7, the last section of the Sermon starts, and Rebekah just stared at me and said, “You don’t even know what you just said, do you?” Puzzled, I looked at her, “What? Why?” She told me to repeat the last verse:

“Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is it’s own trouble.”

(Sermon on the Mount location)

God was, obviously, interspersed throughout the whole book. His gifts of reassurance and encouragement lay all throughout the first gospel. His face and goodness peaked out from under rugs of words and fear. He was there the whole time and He just wanted me to trust Him with tomorrow. But trusting Him has always been the scariest thing. So even though I had those aforementioned words memorized, I could not listen to them. I did not know how to. So I went on stressing about the deadline, without actually listening to the words I was learning.

Late July, I was trying to memorize chapter 14. It should have been an easy one based on it’s length but for whatever reason, I could not get the words to stick. Over and over I said the same words but I could not do it. I couldn’t sleep for fear that I was losing time I would never get back. I started to panic, frantically flipping the pages back and forth, almost begging the words of chapter 14 to climb into my brain and reside there, at least until the deadline had passed. Chapter 14 is exactly halfway through the book. Once I had that chapter memorized I would be halfway done. Only one more half to go. But I could not get that one chapter. In angst I called the only other person I knew who would be awake at absurd hours, my mom. I cried over the phone as I told her I was quitting and that I could not do it. Mom listened to me and let me express the vast amounts of frustration and nervousness I was experiencing. All of my excuses poured out of me, overwhelming me even more. “I have a brain injury and this much intellectual stress is bad for me. $4,400 isn’t that much money. I don’t have time to work all of these jobs and take on such a daunting task. I’m not smart enough to do this.” Mom calmly prompted to repeat chapter 14 yet again. In this chapter, Peter sees Jesus on the beach and is scared that He may be a ghost. He tests the ghost by getting out of the boat to see if Jesus will let him walk on water. Peter walks on the water toward Jesus. But when he sees the massive waves and storm, he freaks out and begins to sink. “Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took of him saying to him, ‘O you of little faith, why did you doubt?’”

(Sea of Galilee)

Peter started to drown because he took his eyes off Jesus. He started to be overcome by the waves because the waves were all he cared about in that moment. His focus was clouded by his fear and his fear nearly caused his demise. Are we not all Peter? I feel like Peter gets a bad reputation for being impulsive and distrusting. I am Peter. Even though, I was walking on water, I doubted and nearly sank. But the beautiful thing is the immediacy of Jesus’ reaction. He does not let Peter drown, even though Peter foolishly lost faith in Him. He does not refuse help to Peter even thought Peter failed him in that moment. Jesus immediately reached out his hand then chastised him for his lack of faith. Jesus loved him first, and then taught him how to be better. I was walking on water. I was doing the impossible by memorizing this whole book. But I realized that crazy, stressful night that I was not doing it alone. Jesus was right there on the water with me. Jesus reached out his hand in the form of community and social support with Jamie, Rebekah, and my family. It was that night that I realized I was never in this alone.

I flew through the parables, the whole middle section of the book. Jesus was such a powerful and intentional being and if you have not studied those parables and stories I would highly encourage you to do so. It was not until this stage of the memorization that it hit that I have been to the places where these miracles happened. Two years ago on my gap year program, we travelled through Israel and I spent the entire tour frustrated and confused. I had only just become a Christian and all I wanted was to feel the presence of God. It wasn’t until a year and a half later that I realized his presence was all around me in the group I travelled with, specifically my friends Kaitlyn and Margaret while in Israel. God was in them as we were in the place where Jesus walked. And God was not just in the book I held as I memorized the words, He was in the people that went on the journey alongside me.

(Capernum overlooking Sea of Galilee)

Then came the last three chapters where Jesus holds the Last Supper, prays with his disciples, predicts His betrayal, and then prays in Gethsemane. Even Jesus asks for “this cup to pass from him.” While he is praying and his friends fall asleep instead of keeping watch, “his betrayer is upon him.” Judas comes with a whole crowd of people with clubs and swords. He had told the mob that “the man I kiss is the one; seize him.” He called Jesus, “Rabbi” and approached him with a kiss. Then Jesus looked him in the eye and said, “Friend, do what you came to do.” My heart broke when I realized the significance of what just happened. Judas Iscariot was about to do the most rotten, evil, cruel thing you can do to a person- turn them in to be crucified- and still Jesus called him friend. Jesus knew all things and was aware of the pain Judas was about to subject him to and still he called him friend. Are we not all Judas? Do we not all turn our backs on him, occasionally deciding that money and fame and personal gain is more important than the worship and love of Jesus? Is that not exactly the heart I had when beginning this project? I all but turned in Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. Judas was fighting to survive. For whatever reason, he felt he needed more money and jumped at the chance to get it. Do we not do the same thing? Maybe we have not all subjected a friend to death, but have we not put our own needs and self-indulgences before those of others? I am Judas. But I have hope because even when I lack faith and stress about money, Jesus still calls me “Friend.” How beautiful is the God we have? How beautiful is His love and mercy? Even in the midst of death, there is still life and that life still knew how to love.

(Near Jericho where David wrote Psalm 23)

While Jesus is on the cross, he is in a terrible, excruciating pain and he cries out, “Eli Eli lema sabachthani,” that is, “my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” My heart broke when I learned these words. Do we not all feel forsaken at times? Do we not all at times feel as if the entire world and everyone in it has turned away from us, leaving us to deal with our own pain and our own misfortune? I hesitate to mention that I relate to this because the pain of the cross is likely nothing like memorizing a bunch of words, but even still there were moments where I felt God had left me with this impossible task. But then He would loop back around and sweep me in His arms by sending friends like Haley down from Greeley to quiz me for a few hours. He sent me to staff of Chick-Fil-A and Jamie from the office. He sent me the community I needed to be his arms and his love. I have never seen nor thought I would experience such love from Christ in the form of His people. To most of them it was not even a chore. My parents and friends loved quizzing me. They loved seeing what was in God’s Word. Their love of learning made the reciting that much sweeter. Though I cried out many a time, “Eli eli lema sabachthani,” He was with me the whole time. As the last verse of the book states, “Behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

(Garden of Gethsemane)

By the time the deadline came around, I had to say the entire book from memory to two witnesses. Once I passed that round, I was scheduled for a panel two weeks later to be quizzed on it by various faculty members. In this panel, they stated a few words (not even whole verses) from random parts throughout the book and I was to continue on from there. They restarted me 11 times. At the end of the session, the panel instructed me to wait in the hallway as they deliberated about my performance. When I was finally allowed back into the room, they were standing and clapping. I burst into tears. I passed and received the scholarship. I did not have to stress and fret about working on it anymore. I could focus on learning other parts of the Bible and seeing what else God had to offer. It was no longer about the money. It was about loving the Bible for what it is- God’s Word. It was about having God’s Word written on my heart. He is in me and His Words are with me and they will be with me always, even to the end of the age.

God’s Word has the power to bless and carry you in ways you never thought possible. His truth and love shower over you when you read and grapple with His Word. In some area of your life or another, you are walking on water. You are doing something hard, impossible even. But his hand and his community are right there for you. All you have to do is hold on to it. Let Him hold you too. Let Him be there for you. Let His people be there for you too. For He is with you always.

#matthew memorization israel godiswithyou

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natrohne · 8 years

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If you wish you were still a kid, please share!! https://www.theodysseyonline.com/8-things-kids-adults-cannot

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natrohne · 8 years

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natrohne · 8 years

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natrohne · 8 years

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natrohne · 8 years

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natrohne · 8 years

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love your neighbor.

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natrohne · 8 years

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When I Gave Up

Something about quitting just does not sit well with me. Maybe it’s the fact that I have done it so often, or maybe it’s the fact that it leaves something undone. Something unfinished is as painful to me as stepping on sidewalk cracks. It does nothing to me physically, but the unrest burns inside of me as if I had been slapped. I must finish a task. It must be done correctly. Or at least it must be done. I have not always been like this. In high school, concussion after concussion occurred and one by one I was not able to finish the sports I loved so much. I tried to appear to anyone with their eyes on me (which at the time I figured was everyone) that I was this brave, strong, persevering person. And maybe to an extent, I was. But mostly I just quit and made myself out to be the victim of some great injustice; that my head injuries were God’s personal attack on me. I hated the pain but reveled in the attention. The thing I probably dislike most about myself. I acted liked I was dealing with the entire weight of the world on my shoulders. For a time, I truly thought that weight was solely on me and me alone. It was bad; my attitude made it worse. I was told I could not play basketball anymore in the eighth grade. I loved that sport. At the time I was decently good at the sport. But I used my head against too many balls, players, court floors, and walls and lost the priviledge of playing it. I did not know how much I loved the sport until it was gone. That happens with most things. I was told I could not play volleyball anymore halfway through my senior year. By then I was a dramatic wreck who dealt with issues by blaming my parents, their God, myself, and the world I’m stuck in. It was never my fault. I cannot say I was surprised to hear I could no longer play the sport I came to love so much, but it hurt. Not only my head but my pride. I was humiliated. I think one of the most defining moments in my life was the last game of the season. They let me dress down for the game and enter the gym, a privilege I had hardly been allowed all season due to the severity of the concussion. We were winning. Only had one serve to go and we would win. My coach did the most beautiful thing and let me serve that final point. The perfect scenario. I took the ball from the line judge, I bounced it and twisted my shoulders around, preparing myself for the moment my amazing serve would reach the ground on the other side of the net, untouched by our unassuming opponents. I grinned to myself and reveled in the joy that moment would bring me; the moment, I, the brain damaged one, would be the hero of the game, the sad soul who could not play but pulled herself together for one final serve. Ah, that moment would be great! Then I served. The ball flew to the left, something I had not planned for. It bounced into the net. On our side of the court. I missed the serve. I was given one moment to show my greatness and I screwed it up. I cost our team a point because I was not focused enough on the task at hand to simply get the job done. I was focused on my glory, my attention, my everything. It was all about me. I am not sure this is something I will ever truly grow out of. The dramatic flair is simply a part of me. For that I am almost just as embarrassed as when that ball came down from the air on our side of the net. But I have learned something about moments. They come again and again and again and if I maybe stop hating myself and the world long enough to grab on to one of them, something truly beautiful and inspiring, something bigger than myself and anything I could have dreamed of could happen. I did not know that would take getting myself out of the way first. As many of my readers know, I hiked Mount Kilimanjaro last year. I get a lot of wide eyed looks of fascination and wonder when I say this. Usually I revel in those looks and ask for them to hold the applause. Yes, I did something fantastic. Point for Nat. That mountain was the hardest thing I have ever done physically. By then I had gotten so used to quitting when the going got tough that I would just refuse to go altogether. By the time I was a senior I could not run without getting a massive headache. So I chose not to even walk. I would not do anything. I went to track practice and hardly broke a sweat, even with practice being held outside in Tucson, Arizona in April and May. I think I hardly moved. Sure my head hurt. I acted like it was falling off my body. My coaches probably rolled their eyes but they did not question it. Everyone knew my head injury history. That was both the best and the worst part. I wanted everyone to think I was impressive for it. No one is very impressed by the girl sitting on the bench while the team does a single measly warm-up lap. Which is what made the mountain so different. I told myself that for once, I was going to finish something. No matter how badly it hurt, no matter how much I thought I was going to die, no matter how much it sucked, I was going to get to the top of that freaking thing. I was determined to prove everyone wrong. I wanted to show my parents that I was capable of finishing something. I wanted to prove to my dad that I am still trying. I wanted to prove to my mom I am still athletic. I wanted to prove to my brother that finishing the job is important. But mostly, I wanted to prove it to myself. I have gotten so used to being disappointed in myself. I did dumb things in high school, things that make me physically cringe when I think of them, things that made people’s eyes roll, if of course, they were actually watching. I am embarrassed and ashamed of who I was. This mountain was going to change that. I was going to prove to myself that I am now different. I thought that was to be an individual journey. I even told one of my best friends on the trip that she was not allowed to help me. She is one of the strongest and most loyal people I know and would have carried me up the mountain if I asked her to. I told her not to so that I could do it by myself. To an extent that was a healthy request. I need to be independent and not hold myself as a victim in the arms of a friend who could have carried me. But to an extent, my request was selfish and rude. I wanted to do the mountain all on my own strength. Sure, our group of 25 hiked as a group; meaning we slept in tents and ate together, even occasionally talked as we walked together. But my hike was all about me and what I could do. I could not wait to get back and revel in that moment where I could tell my parents that I, the quitter, the victim, the complainer, finished such a massive feat. It was like grinning to myself as I bounced the ball and prepared to serve. I got ahead of myself. Hopefully, you are familiar with the way the mountain ended. (If not, feel free to check it out and come back to this later) I fell on the summit night and hit my head on a rock. One of the most painful moments of my life I can assure you. It was freezing and snowing like I had never seen before. It was dark and miserable. When I was stable and back on solid ground, my leader asked me if I wanted to keep going. That moment of decision was another of the most critical moments of my life. Deciding whether or not to quit. I had every reason. We all did. The mountain that night simply sucked. But I decided it would have sucked more having to come back down and tell everyone, yet again, that I could not do something because my head hurt. I told myself in that moment that even if it killed me, I would get to the top of the mountain. I told God, my first prayer in a long while, that if He got me there, I would get to the top and surrender. If He got me through the next 12 hours, I would be His Child. And He did. I got to the top. I lifted my arms and got a great picture for Instagram. I came back down, told my parents and got admitted to the hospital the next day. The next few weeks are a blur. The following month in Rwanda is still very fuzzy to me. I made a deal with God that if He let me live, if I got to the top, I would be His. What an ultimatum. I did not understand why I was not very different after I accepted Christ. Even in Israel, the land where Jesus Christ walked the Earth and where His footprints are so evident even now, I could not trust in Him or what He has done for me. I thought that journey, too, had to be done alone. Same occurred when I came to college. Even though my “testimony” is a pretty cool story, (Especially for these Colorado kids I go to school with. Became a Christian hiking the second largest mountain in the world?? They eat that stuff up.) I chose not to tell it very often. For almost two full months I did not tell a single person about my mountaintop experience. I did not want to be that anymore. I did not want to be a person that uses struggles and stories to get people to think I am cool and worth hanging out with. I did not want to be a person that uses weakness to pity people into being my friend. I did not want to be the brain damaged one anymore. So I pretended none of that existed and found a way to make friends other ways. I figured I learned what I could from my time of being brain damaged and now that time is over. I figured I had found a way to do life on my own and now I was healthier because I did not need anybody. I did not need someone to carry me up the mountain so I would not let anyone carry me through college. I could do it on my own. I thought I was proving myself to be healthier, more mature, and tougher by doing so. What a joke. Even after God saved my life on Mount Kilimanjaro, even though I recommitted my life to Him and acted like He and I were now super tight, we weren’t. There was still a part of me that was convinced that I am the strong one. That I did that mountain on my own and God really didn’t have anything to do with it, though He did reveal Himself a little. I told myself that He didn’t literally carry me up the mountain; it was my own two feet that did the dirty work. I also thought my group had nothing to do with it either. What a joke. Zac was doing great on the hike but he hung out with five of us girls on the third day of the hike anyway. We spent the whole time laughing as we scaled a massive rockface, probably the most technical part of the mountain. He held my bag for a while and gave us hands over the larger rocks. Haley checked in on me every once and a while and kept me distracted while we hiked. She is always a good one for a laugh and she helped keep my spirits up when things got tougher. My personal Sherpa, Ben, barely spoke any English but I journaled about conversations he and I had. He made sure I drank enough water and that I was peeing. He asked about my sleep every morning to make sure I was rested. He carried my bag the whole time. Ben made sure I got to the top. I did not know it until recently, but that mountain had nothing to do with me and my strength. It had everything to do with teamwork and encouragement and support. It is not healthy to hike alone. Same goes with college. This past month has been brutal. Though I healed extremely quickly from Mount Kilimanjaro and was basically fine only a month or two later, I am having issues with my brain now. Doctors have said some brain injuries take years to develop and become prevalent. Mine showed symptoms exactly a year, almost to the day, later. I am having a problem with brain hemoraghing. My brain is swelling and is looking for a way out to get relief. It is registering a soft spot in my skull at the back of my head as a hole and it trying to push it’s way out there. Because it has no place to go, it is just repeatedly banging into the lining of my skull over and over and over again. I feel it constantly. There’s a throbbing behind my left eye and in the back where that internal bruise is constantly. I have a concussion from the inside because my brain is trying to fight its way out. Not the most fun experience in the world, I will tell you that. I am on a lot of medication and am seeing a little bit of progress and a little less pain. I am also very foggy and confused some of the time, which may be due to the drugs or the brain. School has suffered from it. I came into this month thinking I had to do it alone. God had other plans. Hopefully you have read my most recent blog about how God provided for me and my impending music opportunities. God has given me the greatest roommates in the world and I could not have asked for a better support system. They make sure I take care of myself and that I take my medicine. They pick me up from the music center so I do not have to walk very far. They make me tea when I am in pain. They let me vent if I need to, though I try my best not to complain. It has been hell, but the love I have been shown here is the most beautiful thing in the world and makes all this almost worth it. He is showing me that college, like hiking Mount Kilimanjaro, is a group effort and requires teamwork and support of other people. I cannot do this alone. And because of the love of Christ and the people He so graciously put into my life, I don’t need to. I could have given up. I could have told myself it was too hard and left the mountain when I had the chance. I could give up now. I could tell myself college and school work is too much stress and is too painful and I don’t need to do it. But I refuse to give up. I say that not to make myself out as the hero. I am not the hero of my story; God is. As far as I am concerned, I have not done a whole lot right in His eyes. At least I am seeing one thing clearly, and that is- that God SO has my back and my best interests at heart. He wants the greatest things for me and has the most stellar life planned out for me. I am foolish to think I could have gotten to do the great things CCU and this first year of college has provided all on my own strength. There is simply no way I earned this for myself and got here with my own two feet. I did not summit Mount Kilimanjaro with my own strength and I will not get through this year and the next three on my own either. He, and the people He has given me, will help carry me to the top. And that is ok. The thing is- none of that makes the pain today, the throbbing and dizziness and nausea right at this moment, go away. It does not make things easier. But it makes things bearable. It makes things worth it. I am still in a heck of a lot of pain. Classes are still hard. I still get frustrated and confused and dazed sometimes. God does not make life easier for us. But he makes it livable by giving us each other. If you know someone who might be having a hard time, reach out to them. It does not take much to pick up the phone and give someone a call. It takes even less to send a text telling someone you are thinking of them. A cup of tea to a sick friend goes a long way. A car ride to prevent a walk goes a long way to a brain damaged person. Do not fail to show someone you love them. Do not quit. Do not leave something unfinished or broken. Do your best to hike the mountain with each other; it will all be worth it in the end.

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natrohne · 8 years

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Provide.

I am astounded by humanity. Life often happens in such a way where humans forget each other’s humanity. We walk past humans on campus, we push past people in grocery stores, we brush up against them and jump during concerts. We muddle through life next to each other. But are humans truly living together? We are surrounded by humanity. So how is it that we so easily forget the innate factors that make humans who they are? We forget the inevitability of weakness. We forget the power of vulnerability. We forget the necessity for honesty. We forget the depth of pain in tears. We forget what it looks like to be anything other than strong. We have chosen to forget because some circles have told humans that life is easier that way. I am a member of one of those circles. I desperately hate tears. I attempted to enter into college life and not tell anyone about those inevitable human qualities that I, too, possess. I aspired to be “the admired one,” the one girls in my dorm could hear and want to hear more of. I desired to be “the strong one,” someone who appeared confident and independent. However, I have learned recently that dependency is one of the most beautiful requirements of the human life. Christianity has a way of cheapening the phrases humans say to one another when one has experienced both true joy and true pain. In times of hurting, Christians whisper breathily with an empty, outstretched hand, “I’ll pray for you.” What good does pray do when the freezing man needs a jacket? Sure, the Lord will provide. But does He not need humans to do the physically providing part. If it is true that He has asked us to be the hands and feet of Jesus that means that He has asked us to provide for each other in a physical, tangible sense. We have the ability, though not often the gift, to provide for each other emotionally, maybe even spiritually. The service we provide to our fellow humans is a calling we all must answer to, whether or not we are missionaries, church leaders, or even leaders in any sense. Humans must be comfortable with the art of being dependent. The world has bent in such a way that we ask each other to be more private, more “protected,” more secluded, more independent, when in reality, the depravity of our human nature cries for us to respond to life in an exact opposite manner. I have recently been sucked into this mentality that my own independent strength is what will make people like me. I believed this whole year that weakness is a thing I can, and should, avoid. I figured that I could not be a human others looked up to if they knew my brain is as bruised as it is, or that I am not as financially sound as I would like to be. I learned last week how very wrong I was. I have been brought to my knees. Last week I had an incident with my head and was put in a position where I had to be vulnerable in front of my roommates and RA because I simply could not function without them. Even in my delirious, pained state, I was asking them repeatedly not to look at me because I was crying. All I wanted was to be strong. All I wanted was to put aside my past reputation of a flair for drama. In the days that followed, my roommates poured out a love and care I would never have asked for and did not expect. The compassion and thoroughness with which they loved me was astonishing. They made sure I was not alone in the apartment. When I had to be taken to the nurse, all three of them went with me. They took care of me. And though it was one of the hardest things in the world to be doted on, I know now that I needed it. Also this past week, I was granted the amazing opportunity to perform for a music festival in downtown Denver. As fun and exciting this opportunity was, I struggled to attain peace about it because of the effort it took and the terrible timing with which it fell. I was too sick, too busy, too broke to do the festival well. However, I had already paid to participate and figured it would be foolish to back out, even if my performance was terrible. I did not expect anything very positive to come from this experience. After my set, a recording producer who had attended my show told me that she wanted to record an EP, and maybe even an album, for me. She apologized she could not do it for free but mentioned a very low cost. I told her, regretfully that even though she offered an amazing deal to record an album in her studio, there was no way I could come up with that kind of money. I drove away from the event last night alone in the car praying (for the first time in weeks). Except for it did not feel like praying. All I did was talk. I told God that if He wanted something to come from this experience and wanted me to pursue the recording deal, He would make it happen. I repeated the word, “Provide.” And I left it at that. I did not stress about it. I did not ask Him to do this for me to test His love for me. I simply asked. Today, just two days after the festival (also the last day to sign up for the recording deal) a friend stopped me in the dining hall on campus and asked about the potential recording opportunity. I mentioned that I could not afford it and he asked me how much it would cost. I gave him the amount and we shrugged our shoulders and moved on. After telling someone out loud that I could not record the album, even at such a low cost, because I could not afford it broke my heart for the first time. It hurt so much in that moment because just before this, I had received an email from my college reminding me to turn in a check tomorrow to pay for tuition. I was so disheartened because that check will strip my account of everything it has. I was frustrated to the point of loneliness because even though I am working so much and working so hard, everything I have is still being taken straight away. Not only do I have to give away the money I have worked for, I do not have enough of it to pay for the opportunity that I am actually passionate about. After work, I walked back to my dorm and was intercepted by the friend I had spoken to earlier. All he did was slip a check into my pocket and smile. He said four simple, life-changing words, “I believe in you.” Then he walked away. I was astonished. As I continued my walk back to my dorm, trudging through the blanket of snow that now envelopes our campus, I opened the check to find an amount written out not for the cheaper recording deal, but rather the EXACT amount I needed for tuition. I stared in awe at the number I saw before me, the number that I had not mentioned to anyone. I gave him the amount of the recording and he gave me way above and beyond that. And just so happened to give me the exact amount I need to turn in tomorrow for school. Life has a beautiful way of doing this to us- of turning us upside down to the point where our brains are full of blood and our palms are thick with tasks and all we can see before us is the emanate threat that the light there at the end of our tunnel grows ever smaller. Then, in that sudden, random, horrifying moment of desperate need, flipping us around and we see the beauty of the world again, with eyes no longer stained by the intense red of focus humans ask of themselves. The key to these moments is understanding who the glory can be attributed to. The key is to remember whom to thank when the going gets tough and someone carries the load for a while. In this moment, it would be easy to thank my roommates for the care and concern they so willingly expressed to me lately. Obviously, I should thank my dear friend for the financial aid he provided. I do not understand at all where he got that number from or why he gave me so much more than I had mentioned, but I am incredibly thankful. These people provided for me. They took care of my physical needs and lightened the load. They were, and are, the hands and feet of Jesus. But Jesus is at the center of their love. Jesus is at the center of any love. It is evident to most people in my current surroundings that humans desperately need God. He constructed humanity in such a way that we cannot do life without Him. But the beautiful thing about His construction is that He made us need each other as well. My friend could easily have ignored this call from God and kept the money for himself. He needs to pay for college just as much as I do. My roommates are busy, social people and had plenty better things to do with their time than to make me tea and keep me from being alone. These people listened to the call of Christ and acted on it and their actions have blessed me immensely. And God is up there sitting and smiling at His handy-work because He knows that He made this happen and He also knows that without the people He made (and so kindly put in my life) that this would not have happened. He needs us to need each other because then we can understand how much we need Him. With all the issues in my brain and my bank account, it is easy to forget the beautiful things happening all around me. God uses the small things because those are what bring us the most joy. Recording an album this year is not exactly necessary. No one will die if I was not able to do it. But embarking on this new endeavor has given me such joy that I cannot wait to begin working on it! (Stay tuned!;) God gave me this because He can. God will provide. As I close out my story, I implore each of you to think of someone in your life that needs something from you. Whether that is a hug for someone you would not normally show such affection, whether that is a call to a long lost friend or relative, whether that is a check for someone you know is in need, do it. Love them. The effort will not kill you. Let yourself need someone else as well. If you need a favor done, ask someone for it. They cannot serve you unless you let them know what they can do. We all have needs. We are all human. We are all weak and incompetent. We are all scared. Go to the depths of your humanity and pull out the ragged chains clutched around your heart. Love and be loved. Provide.

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natrohne · 9 years

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It may not be Thursday, but I was feeling nostalgic and missing gap year. So here's me riding a camel at Petra. (at Petra Jordan)

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natrohne · 9 years

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Life Thesis!!

I cried not because I would miss them. I cried because I was scared. Scared of everything; the people I would meet and probably dislike, the places I would go and the discomfort I would probably feel, the person I was and the person that might come out of this, better or not. But I was a person that didn’t cry. Or I pretended to be. I said goodbye to my mom and brother at the Tucson Airport and boarded a plane with heavy black boots, dark eye makeup, and a darkness inside that showed all over a bitterly set face. I was pissed. I was hurt. I was broken. But my year started way before that plane flight. It started when I stared at the five digit number that I had to fundraise with a tear in my eye, disbelief and fear in my brain, and a list of brainstormed fundraising ideas in my hands. For the five months prior to August, fundraising and money was the main thing I stressed about. I never believed it would come through. I worked hard but constantly doubted that the money would come, and even if it did, that this experience wouldn’t be worth the immense stress that went hand-and-hand with making it happen. A very small part of me almost hoped it wouldn’t come in; then I wouldn’t have to go, then I wouldn’t have to face my fears, then I wouldn’t have to do something different, then I wouldn’t do what my parents wanted. I was suspicious of people’s support of me, suspicious of my parents’ reasoning for me doing KIVU and suspicious of my relent to do it. I thought I knew what I wanted, I thought I knew what I didn’t want and I thought KIVU was an example of the latter. How wrong I was. Those two weeks in Durango pulled out a side of me that I am embarrassed to look back on. Bitterness, annoyance, distrust, and ignorance radiated from my being, showing the people I would spend the next nine months a person that even I hated and never expected to fully become. I was angry and hard in high school, but that was something I was never allowed or willing to show. I hid it from my parents, my siblings, my teachers, and my classmates. Well, I thought I did. Looking back I realize that skipping Bible class or walking out of chapel during the sermons every Wednesday was not exactly the way to hide anything. I thought I wanted nothing to do with God and the farther I pushed Him away, the stronger and tougher I thought I was. That brick wall collapsed in Durango and I didn’t cover up my hate for life anymore; however that was anything but a vulnerable collapse. I wore black the whole week, ditched orientation classes, avoided group meals and activities. I refused to talk in group settings and felt stupid the few times I did open my mouth. I hid. I ran away from the group, I fought to prove that I was different. In a way, I was shoving my bitterness in everyone’s face. The fault in that was that I assumed people were actually watching. I figured all eyes were on me because I was the broken one, I was the worst off. But I was determined to be the one who would grow the most, I was the one who would come out of this year being “the one who changed.” I assumed I was the only person with a past, the only one who hated God, the only one who had done stupid things, the only one with pain. As stupid as it may sound, it never crossed my mind that might not be true. After a seven hour van ride to Denver (where I watched Cole brilliantly maneuver a playlist that literally put everyone to sleep) we drove into the city where we would be living together for the next three months. For the first time in the entire process, I was excited about what I was doing. We ran around the Downing House in excitement, the girls I had already decided to dislike made our room assignments and we spent the next few hours setting up beds and organizing closets. And it was fun! For the next few days, our group of 16 drove around the city in the huge white van, listening to Trumpets on repeat because of Coleman. We met Millie and Greg and practiced getting on and off buses. One of our first classes, Millie had us fill up a notecard describing a certain setting and when we read our descriptions to each other we discovered how much those descriptions mirrored a description of ourselves. Mine was full of poetry and drama, pointing out the flaws of the “fountain in the midst of chaos” we were seeing. While my words describing the park were not specifically negative, they had a certain bite to them that left a sour taste in your mouth. And that mirrored my being perfectly at the time. When the Enneagram class showed up, I was still clinging to the hope that I am a lively, spontaneous, fun-loving person who lives in wonder and fantasy I wanted so badly to be a 7, and I was very offended when the group had pinned me down as a 6, the Loyalist, the personality that’s described as distrusting, cautious, and observant. I foolishly blamed my cohorts for squashing the fun out of me. I’ve always struggled with being ok with who I am and have wished I was different and that peaked with the Enneagram. I didn’t want to be suspicious, I wanted to be fun. My first test of maturity came when I needed to switch up my internship situation. The Second Chances Thrift Store was not an efficient ministry and while I learned a lot about the government welfare system and met some very special women in disenfranchised situations, it was not a beneficial place to work. So I tried out a few other internships and was allowed to work at a nutritional food bank called Metro CareRing. One of the best decisions I made on gap year. I understood that not everything this year would go my way and not every internship would be fun or exactly what I wanted but since the rest of the Denver experience, specifically the housing situation, was hard enough on its own, I let myself enjoy my internship. I threw myself into my internship and loved every second of it. I carried boxes up and down steep church basement stairs and packaged donated cans of food for families and worked alongside old people who had nothing better to do with their time. I skipped lunch breaks and stayed late. Work is easy, people are hard. It became apparent very early on that I did not fit in with the people I had lived with. Though I decided in Durango not to like them based on their Chacos and flannels and XL homeless man t-shirts, there came a point where the girls I lived with were just mean. And I gave up on those relationships almost right away. I wrote them off in my mind, assuming they were less mature and figured I didn’t need them. Instead I sought companionship in relationships in the city that were safe and easy to invest in. I constantly left the house and hung out with Jay, the homeless man on our block, or the street musicians on 16th St. Mall. While at first, leaving the house was an escape, it became an adventure. I left not just to run away but more of to see what I would find. And I found a lot! I busked with my guitar on 16th St., I made close friends with the barista, Angie, at Cafe Sanora on the corner across the street from our house, I hung out in parks and talked to strangers, I took advantage of the contacts we had in Millie or Greg and found mentors to meet up with. By the time Parent’s Weekend rolled around I had six people I met up with once a week. I used bus rides as opportunities to talk to people. I visited a ton of different coffee shops, churches, shops and streets and soaked in as much of the city that I could get my hands on. What started as an escape transformed into a passion to discover. I came alive in Denver. I found a courage and confidence and a desire to experience which I never thought I had before. I had a blast with Haley and Kaitlyn and found them to be incredible people I could trust and have fun with. The three of us had a relationship to be admired. We all balanced each other out and beautifully blended profound and light-hearted. They let me be me, melodramatic and bitter and all. We did crazy things like climb to the top of the tallest building in Denver (and got locked in the stairwell in the process), and played frisbee at Cheeseman park at sunset, or found cool restaurants to eat at. They pulled out a goofy side of me that I kept far far away from the rest of the group and that I thought only my best friend at home and boyfriend at the time could get out of me. Though I was alive and doing a good job of living, there was still this deep-rooted bitterness laying underneath the surface. That came to light over Retreat weekend. We told and listened to each other’s stories of childhood places of peace or family background. Some of it was light-hearted and fun. But the night of vulnerability came all too soon and I had no idea what to say or do about it. I watched as Rob poured himself out for all of us to see and was touched by his story and terrified of my own and I knew I would be selected to go next. I predicted correctly. But I couldn’t do it. One by one, everyone else in our group went up and shared their fears and insecurities and I tried to listen and be compassionate but I couldn’t let go of my own issues enough to truly hear theirs. It was so tempting to play a melodramatic song of mine and leave it at that. Music is how I express myself and I wanted so badly to just throw some song of mine at them and move on. Explaining my songs is the hard part and Taylor encouraged me to not take the easy way out. So I didn’t. I gave little snippets of the pain I had experienced throughout high school, never in complete sentences or finished thoughts. I left it all open ended. I didn’t trust them and wanted to test them to see who would come and get it. Who cared enough to hunt me down for my story? That night I threw the excess amount of bracelets I wore on my wrists to cover up scars of the past off the deck. As soon as I started sharing that to the group the next morning, it started snowing outside. Without actual reconciliation deep down, I voiced the connection, “Jesus left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.” I wanted so badly for Him to perform that cleansing on me. I wanted to be as white as the snow falling outside the window, rather than the red scars on my wrists. But I wasn’t ready to be fixed yet. So much of my pain and frustration, especially in the God department, I blamed on my parents and when Parents Weekend came, ironically the same weekend as my birthday, I was overwhelmed by my own selfishness that I didn’t know how to let them in and didn’t know how to feel loved by them. Though I had already grown a lot in some ways, I still couldn’t release myself to them. Similar to how I couldn’t to my fellow gap year students. I wrote almost everyone multiple letters in Denver and stealthily left them on their beds. I told them what they meant to me or what I saw in them or how they did something well. I wrote them letters to bless them. I did this in high school too; mailed letters to my fellow students, pretending that it was actually for the selfless desire to love and bless them. And I was extremely disappointed when my letters to high school peers went so unrecognized. Almost no one said thank you, no one ever responded and wrote me a letter back. I was heartbroken when this happened again with my fellow gap year students. I loved because I wanted to be loved, I blessed because I wanted to be blessed. I lived on such a conditional love basis which I later pinpointed as selfishness. I was equally crushed when only two people (Zac and Kaitlyn) asked to hear my story. I had invited the entire group to come to me and figure me out and only a few took me up on that offer. Instead of being pleased that they came to me and wanted to understand me, I sat in my frustration at the people that didn’t. I wrote letters to get a response, I told vague stories to be asked to explain, I ran away in order to be chased. I made these realizations about myself and discovered truths I had previously ignored and in that way Denver was eye-opening. I wasn’t ready for Denver to be over when it ended. My boyfriend from England came for WAY too long of a visit and I realized how little I wanted him to be around. My best friend came up for the last weekend in Denver and I realized how different our semester had been. She had fallen apart with everything stereotypical college throws out, while I had begun to see the light at the end of my self-inflicted tunnel. I broke up with my boyfriend the day I left Denver and went home to a house that was deep into a remodel project I knew little about. My room was a mess, everything in the house was broken and dirty. And I was only there for two days before heading back to Colorado to spend Thanksgiving with family. I recognized my love for Denver early on and was clamoring to get back to it and it was over the break that I finally consented to apply to Colorado Christian University, a school my sister had dropped out of, my mom had almost worked for, and that I had decided to hate all through high school. Denver was my place and I couldn’t wait to get back to it. Though I was excited to return to Colorado, it was very uprooting to not have any time in Tucson. Arizona may not be what I call “home” but that’s where my house and people are. And I spent no time there over Thanksgiving which made the break restless and tedious and I went into the Bahamas ready for some sort of redemption. The first few days of the Bahamas were way too similar to those in Durango since we were reunited with the Philadelphia group and the entire dynamic changed. I was ecstatic about the ocean and the dock and the cabins and the atmosphere and in a way I felt free. My work team consisted of people I formerly disliked but I opened myself to a newfound appreciation for them. The group was hilarious and fun and we spent the ten days cementing Dougie’s house down the street from Camp Bahamas, all the while creating exaggerated TV episodes of our adventures or teaching Albert, Dougie’s son, random American songs or quotes. I spent the evenings finding seashells or telling stories with Kaitlyn and Haley, wrote guitar songs on the dock at sunset, went on morning swims in the ocean at 4am, and enjoyed sharing my observations in my Quirk Book with the rest of my gap year students. I wish that was all I had to say about our time in the Bahamas. The morning I woke up with an impressive and disgusting amount of sand fly bug bites on my legs was just the start. We found out about some mistakes people made in Denver and I felt very violated and disrespected by the news. Though the person that eventually was asked to leave KIVU was the person that made my living situation in Denver such a nightmare, I still didn’t hate her enough to wish her to leave. The bug bites infested all of us and watching Kaitlyn, my rock and stronghold, be in so much pain from poison wood made things infinitely more dramatic and harder to handle. I prayed for the first time in the Bahamas but only by standing at the edge of the dock, screaming curse words at the vast expanse of ocean and sky before me hoping that a god out there was hearing it. I wanted life to be simple. Why couldn’t we have just had a casual trip to the Bahamas without bug bites or drama? Why does something always have to happen? Because of my anger with God and the way He set up this whole thing called life, I refused to sing worship at the church service we went to. I didn’t sing because I did not feel “Christian enough,” but in a way I didn’t sing in order to get attention. I was still clinging to my victim complex. Being broken was my safety net. It’s so much easier to be messed up and pissed than it is to be content and selfless. Those ten days were long and eventful and fun and productive and in that way, the Bahamas was a rollercoaster of emotions. All I wanted was to come home to a simple, clean, accepting home before our family vacation to Hawaii for Christmas. And still I didn’t get that. Shocker. I came home to find my dog puking up blood and dying of pneumonia and my best friend even more distant and hurting than before. My parents had decided to adopt children and were still in the remodeling process. There was nothing simple about the few days I had in Tucson. I hit rock bottom. Why me? Why now? Why can’t life be this way or that? These are questions I screamed in my car, Phyliss, with a tear-streaked face. I have never released so much emotion in my life and the amount of tears and emotions terrified me. Christmas break turned out better than it started off and the family wedding in Hawaii was a highlight. For the first time, I started to talk to my parents like an adult and was a little more open with them about what I want out of life. They bent over backwards to help me feel loved and have fun and I appreciated it for the first time ever. It was there that I decided what I want to dedicate my life doing. I have always been passionate about children in disenfranchised situations and love the safe haven the camp I worked at provided for kids who were not necessarily financially poor, but rather socially poor. My heart went out to children who have resources and wealth but not love. I recognized in my three years at Triangle Y Ranch Camp how much a camp setting can provide such love and acceptance. It has come to my attention that countries in Europe, and any of the countries we have been to this year, do not have easy access to places like summer camps. So I would like to build a summer camp that is strategically located in such a way that it is available to kids who lack love and appreciation in a foreign country. We learned this year, especially in Denver, the importance of social enterprise rather than just a non-profit ministry and that being said, I want the camp to be completely self-sustaining and not rely on donors or fundraising. The business aspect of the camp will be a resort and events center where people can vacation, use as a wedding venue or conferences center, and events location. The revenue from the hospitality aspect of the center will support the funds for my personal passion, the children’s ministry. In addition, I will have the campgrounds (maintenance, kitchen, etc.) staffed by disenfranchised adults who have come out of prison or prostitution and need a second chance at life. The employees will be enrolled in a two year job training program where they will learn personal responsibility, as well as how to work with a boss and with each other. My parents and I excitedly talked over the many facets this center will include and made lists of places I need to visit and work at in order to chose a location for the camp. That was one of the most relieving moments of gap year; deciding I would attend Colorado Christian University the next year (can’t wait to move back to Denver!!) and that I now have a very specific goal and calling for my life and the years to come. I was ready to go overseas when the time came. It got off to a bumpy start on the relational side of things with some people but I felt like I was finally on the way up. Those few days at the beginning of Christmas break were rock bottom for me but because I let it out and processed my feelings out loud. I was free and was ok with what I was dealing with, rather than not validating my own feelings. We headed to Bohol, Philippines and entered into a month of following ICM staff around to Transform classes. These consisted of long jeepney rides, meeting Filipinos that spoke no English but smiled and waved a lot, and hanging out with other gap year kids. We also got to hang out with some sweet Australians that were on a mission trip at the same time we were there. While much of our day-in, day-out experiences seemed pointless and trivial, I made it my goal to make the most of my time there and to not waste it. That goal stuck with me the whole time we were abroad. Most of our group struggled with being on top of each other all the time, most dealt with intense culture shock and missed the comforts of America, Kaitlyn was in pain and distant. But I was fine. For the first time ever, I was the one with my head above water. It was there that steps to resolving the selfishness I had discovered in Denver became achievable. That month was a series of clicking moments. I finally grasped what it meant to love unconditionally.I wanted to love intentionally and give freely of myself to help out my peers. I sought people out instead of waiting for them to come to me. I wrote letters without expecting or needing a reply. I got close to an ICM staff member named Ruth who was desperately lonely and attempted to create deeper relationships with people like Margaret or Zac or Katie. My role in the Philippines was to support those around me, both in my KIVU group and in the ICM staff. For a short time I was frustrated at my disconnection from what we were doing. The poverty didn’t affect me that much and I was annoyed at how bad I am at playing with kids, which was the main thing we did on our ICM outings. So I applied myself to the culture in the only way I knew how: music. I connected with Ruth on the first day over a crappy guitar with only five untuned strings as I listened to her sing in Visayan and harmonized to the only English songs she knew how to play, which happened to just consist of worship songs. At one point she played a song in her language that was beautiful and fun and I told her I wanted to learn it. She stared in disbelief. An American singing a Filipino song? What? Why?! Ruth explained that the song was written by a former ICM staff member who was now famous in the Philippines because of this song. The entire office we worked with knew and loved it, which made me all the more determined to learn it. Ruth and I worked together to get the words memorized and pronunciation corrected and at the final night of our time with them, an entire band was assembled to back me up as I sang a song they all knew and loved. I came into this semester dreading not being able to bring my guitar and fearful that I wouldn’t function without it. Also, I wanted to write a song in every destination we went to. But the music came to me. I learned that applying myself to a culture is more than just being in it, it’s about being a part of it. So instead of writing a song about me in their country, I learned a song that came from their country and they were blessed infinitely more by that than anything I could have composed and dedicated to them. That goodbye party was everything Filipino; joyful, childlike, musical, and light-hearted and that night was a highlight of this entire year. And I changed my goal of learning a song of the country’s rather than simply writing a song while in it. Then came the mountain. Hiking Mount Kilimanjaro is something I have never thought I could, should, or would do. That portion of the trip was a huge part of why I didn’t want to do KIVU. My accident proneness, concussion history, and general unathleticism contributed to my fear of the mountain. But I decided long before that I would make it to the top. I joked that I would summit Kilimanjaro even with a battered head and crawling on my hands and knees. The first four days were surprisingly fun! Never thought I’d hear myself say that! I did everything I was told; drank an excessive amount of water and walked “pole pole,” (very pole pole...). I pushed myself the first day and stayed caught up with the first group to give myself a confidence boost, then came in dead last all the other days of the hike. I went at my own pace, I soaked it all in. Summit night was the hardest night of my life. The worst moment was opening the tent to discover inches of snow before evening starting the hike. It was freezing and miserable and terribly unmotivating to attempt to tackle the last stretch to the summit. But it wasn’t only the elements that God had lined up for me to endure that night. Not even 30 minutes in, I slipped and fell and smacked my head on a rock on the way down. I don’t know how or what I did but I remember Kelsi asking me, “Do you want to go down?” Everything in me screamed “YES!” But for the first time in my life, I decided to push past the pain and overcome it. I responded, “No. I’m doing this.” And I did. Less than eight hours later, I crawled up to the summit to join the other 20 of our group that made it up. I tearlessly sobbed of joy and stretched my gloved hands to the sky. I did it. With a concussion and a whole host of others under my belt, I got to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. I recommitted my life to Christ on Mount Kilimanjaro. Now there was no one moment where everything snapped and I forgave Him or felt forgiven and everything was easy and grand. Though it sounds hipster and trendy to say, “I found Jesus in the mountains,” I didn’t. Jesus wasn’t hiding anywhere, least of all Mount Kilimanjaro. He wasn’t playing hide and seek with me. Peek-a-boo is not his style. But in a moment of desperation, He kept my feet going when all my brain wanted to do was shrivel and freeze in the cold. But in a moment of joy, He sang Hakuna Matata with my closest friends, our porters, and I. He took me deeper than my feet could ever wander. And I am forever changed by it. Like all Sunday school kids, I thought following Jesus was popcorn and rainbows, which is why I felt so out of his reach when my life was anything but that. I understood on that mountain and in the weeks to come that life is never like that and for the first time that was ok with me. I understood that pain demands to be felt and that I can either stand at the bottom of the mountain with my laundry list of problems and think it’s too big, or I can suck it up, push to the top, and smile at the world beneath my feet. I spent two days in a hospital in Tanzania after the mountain due to the concussion from my fall and brain swelling as the result. I forgot everyone and everything. Waking up to a find a tall, bearded man (who I should have known to be my leader, Cole) in a hospital bed across the room from me and having no knowledge of who he was, just that he clearly wasn’t African, was a terrifying experience. Then having to pour over pictures of everyone in my group to relearn their names and ask questions to figure out my relationship with them. One of the worst moments was not remembering if I had summited. I spent the first few days in Rwanda pouring over my journals I had thankfully had diligently kept up on the hike and on the vacation to Zanzibar that I have no memory of. My time in Rwanda was a period of testing for me. I refused to let my time in Rwanda get clouded and bogged down by the slow, battered brain in my skull. It was a test to see if I could stay afloat even with my mind lagging behind. I learned the importance of appreciating progress and taking baby steps in the healing process. I was hurt, but not broken. I was walking instead of running, but at least I was moving. I was determined to not let a bad day make me think I have a bad life. So I grabbed Rwanda by the horns. I loved and lived well with my host family and was so blessed by their unconditional care and concern for me. I had both hilarious and profound conversations with the host brothers that were my age and we went on nightly walks up the road to get popcorn from a vendor on the street! I thrived when our group realized that we missed each other and had to be especially intentional to seek each other out and continue being apart of each other’s experiences. My relationships with the group really sprung here. I spent precious hours with Zac and our nightly walks from Papyrus Cafe, Kelsi and our adventures at Kimironko Market or doing music with her host dad, Margaret and our depth and frequency of conversation, and Kaitlyn who grew and thrived in Rwanda which was so fun to watch and be a part of. Even though my internship was slow and pointless, I made the most of it by using the time to journal, work on my memory with old journals, or read books I had put off all year. Within the first few days of our stay in Rwanda, I met an American missionary named Jaime who moved there in August to work with prostitutes in Remera and I spent more time with her than anyone else. She invited me to join on her bible studies and workshops where she taught the Word of God to African prostitutes. I watched the women tell their stories, sing Kinyarwandan worship songs, and hear the Word and grow through Jaime’s instruction. She taught, Nadia translated, and their faces lit up in understanding. It changed me significantly watching the way these women live and seeing how well Jaime loved them and it made my desire to help disenfranchised adults even stronger. I spent most of Rwanda putting myself back together, regaining my memory, and learning my ability to endure. But at that point I left God out of it. I accepted His presence in my life on Kili and no longer blamed Him for the events that have happened but I left it at that. Rwanda was all about individuality. I stuck to my goal of not wasting it and clung to that desire to get the most out of my time there. But in a room full of prostitutes, I felt like the unfaithful one. That was a difficult mindset to have going into the Holy Land tour. I thought seeing the holy sights and being where Jesus was would make me feel something. My “conversion” to Christianity had nothing to do with feelings, it had everything to do with release. But I wanted to actually feel the presence of God and feel the significance of Jesus’ existence and I thought going to all Jesus’ hangout spots and touching rocks he might have died on would make me feel it. But it didn’t. Instead of being overwhelming by His love and mercy, I was overwhelmed by the tourist attraction that Israel has made those holy places. I was so frustrated with myself that I wasn’t getting it. I took pictures of the sites and moved on, disappointed that I wasn’t feeling the gravity of where I was at and felt like I was disappointing my mom and mentor, Mr. Dunning, back home. The moments I came most alive were at the amphitheaters and chapels where our tour guides suggested someone sing due to the grand acoustics of the place. I chose not to bring my guitar this year (and thinking back on those crammed jeepney rides in the Philippines, I know that was the right decision) but music is my main outlet, the way I express my thoughts and feelings. Music is how I function. And I didn’t have hardly any access to it in the past four months. So I leaped at the chance to fill up a beautiful space with my voice, not for attention, but to let out what has been pent up in me this whole semester. I came the most alive at the Shepherd’s Fields when I sang in the chapel. I realized this semester just how important music is to me and how it’s not a passion I can just push to the side and move on from. Music is a part of who I am. And I need to strive to pursue that passion more than I thought going into this year. I decided to attend Hillsong United College in Australia after graduation from CCU and have made goals to put my music out there somehow. Though Israel was a bit of a trying time for me and my faith, it reminded me of a significant aspect of my make up. By the time we were in Jordan and doing the Ithraa Relational Needs Leadership course, I had worked through the issues my counselor or group leader wanted to talk about and I was burned out of talking about myself. I saw tremendous growth in my group though when people started to actively love each other in intentional, specific ways. It began to set in how much I love, need, and rely on these people, the people I had tried so hard to dislike at the beginning of the year. I tried unsuccessfully to have great experiences at both Ithraa and my home stay. I focused so much on not wasting it, but I burned myself out from trying too hard. I learned that not every experience this year is going to be life-changing and not every home stay will be as great as my Rwandan one. While I hoped for better and sought to have a good attitude throughout, the constant effort it took to put a smile on my face made it easy to say goodbye to Jordan and to being overseas. I was ready to leave. I sobbed when our plane touched down on US soil. I cried when I turned on my flip phone and heard my dad’s voice through a device that didn’t require wifi to communicate. I cried when I plugged my phone into the wall to charge and didn’t need a converter for the plug to fit into the socket. I nearly cried when I heard the airport announcements in English first and seeing that the signs didn’t need translation. Being in America feels strange and foreign. I sat by myself at the end of the terminal and watched people move in and out in slow motion. I was in a daze. It was like everything I was seeing was gray and obscure, and I was the only color. Or maybe I was the gray in all of it. A long time ago, a teacher that I looked up to in high school told me that I am beautifully unconventional. That phrase has always stuck with me. Beautifully unconventional. In August, all I could dwell on was the unconventional bit. I was different, I was defective, I was in the way. But I learned that my life can be described in one sentence: it didn’t go as planned, and that’s ok! Throughout this gap year, I have come to embrace the challenges and unconventionality of what makes me who I am. While losing my memory due to a concussion on Kilimanjaro was not exactly convenient or easy, it showed me I can be stronger, I can rise above, I can endure, I can succeed, I can push through, I can make it. It wasn’t just that concussion that I could now appreciate, it was everything in my life that’s been hard, ironic and unconventional. Those things have made me beautiful. I’ve never been much of a crier, but this year I learned to healthily emote and how to accept and give love. Gap year was absolutely the right choice for me because these are things I could have continued to shove to the side throughout college. I needed to face my fears, I needed to learn the art of healthy vulnerability, I needed constructed space to figure out who I am without choking on my own depravity. I needed this year. As life moves on and I head off to camp for the summer and college in the fall, I have tangible goals, both personal and physical that I want to strive to achieve. I want to graduate from CCU with a double major in Business Leadership Management and Music Worship Arts with a minor in Hospitality. As aforementioned, I want to attend at least one semester at Hillsong College and continue on in Australia working with different camps or ministry-based hospitality centers through the Christian Venues Association. I want to travel to Europe and work as a barista at a cafe. I want to stay involved in the girls rehabilitation center my mom works at. There are so many tangible goals that it’s almost overwhelming thinking of all the things I want to do with my life. But I have even more personal goals. I want to continue my relationships with my KIVU people, especially Kaitlyn, Haley, Coleman, Marge, Taylor Zac, and Katie, and practice trusting them even when we are not living together. I want to love my parents and show them the appreciation and respect they deserve. I want to be selfless. I want to be content. And I want the goal I kept in mind all year to stay in tact throughout the rest of my life; to not waste it. I have been given time, resources, connections, potential, motivation, and purpose and I am determined to make the most of what I’ve got and use it for good. As I close out this summary of my year, I want to thank Kaitlyn and Haley for being the best friends in the world and Colby, Zac, and Coleman for being rocks and voices of reason. Thank you to Sandy, Dianne, Angie, Jay, and Elise for being mentors in Denver. Thank you to Shelby, Michael, Randy, Richard, and Katie for being huge inspirations in the Bahamas. Thank you to Ruth who was such a light in the Philippines. Thank you to Benjamin, my sherpa, for his patience and for getting me up the mountain. Thank you to Jonas, Melanie, Daillon, Fredy, Jaime, and Nadia for being a great host family or friend. Thank you to Rasha, Moe, and Amjad for being so fun and hospitable in Jordan. And thank you to all my donors who made this year possible. Thank you for the year where I learned Trust Without Borders.

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