I’m Sorry

28 Apr 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in God, Grace, Hurt

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Six time in half as many days. Not little sorries, either. Not apologizing for stepping on toes, for not having gum, for an oversight. No, this is bigger.

I’m sorry for yelling at you.

I’m sorry for ignoring you.

I’m sorry for hurting you.

Say it because you’re supposed to say it. Sometimes. Say it because you mean it. Sometimes.

I went to church today. Mostly because that’s what I’m supposed to do, and also because my mother would have had words for me, had I not. I thought, as I was walking home, that I’d not apologize. At least not then, anyways.

Too stubborn.

But I came back and before I had time to harden my heart, to balk at obedience, I realized that I had apologized. I meant it, too. There was forgiveness. And it was done.

Relationship restored.

But it’s not undone, unsaid.

Because sorry doesn’t wipe away already said. Already done. Already not done. Those things happened. And their memory holds strong, unbidden.

It’s said that God doesn’t remember these things. Doesn’t remember when I yell, at her or Him. Doesn’t remember when I say what I shouldn’t, don’t say what I should. When I hated. When I fume. When I withdraw. When I ignore.

This is fascinating because it’s also said that He forgives them all. Or, is willing to, when I repent. When my heart breaks over things I shouldn’t have done. Forgives it all, forgets it all.

It’s a perfect set-up to keep on yelling, hurting, falling. To keep on saying I’m sorry.

It’ll all be forgiven, forgotten, anyway.

But instead of giving me freedom- license- to say what I know I should not, and do what I know ends in hurt, this forgiveness offered free turns me away from what I know is wrong.

I suppose it’s because this forgiving, forgetting, came at the price of a death on a cross, and it seems a petty, petty thing to hurt so hard the same ones who come with me to drink in forgiveness.

We’re all together hurting, wronging, receiving forgiveness, and to hurt one of them seems a little thing and a very big thing, all at the same time.

~Natalia

No Reason to Leave

27 Jan 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Chicago, Church, College, Death, God, Hurt, Moody Bible Institute, Need, Train, Trust

I didn’t want to go to church this morning. I woke up to my phone under me and my Bible still open next to my pillow and my first conscious thought was that I didn’t want to go to church. But it’s really not an option, so I got up and got dressed and I like to think that I was quiet, and for once it was her alarm that woke The Roommate up, not my scuffling around the room. I brushed my hair and putting my little notebook in my purse, wrapped a scarf around my neck, pulled on my coat, and went downstairs. And I went to church.

But the feeling I woke up to settled stronger in my heart and I stepped fast down the sidewalk to the train stop and I suddenly realize that I’m scared.

Because I’m three blocks from Michigan Avenue but who’s going to be out at 9am on a Sunday morning? I can count the people I pass from school to the train on one hand. Because someone’s discarded Starbucks cup rolls back and forth in the wind, the spilled contents splashed dirty brown on the already filthy piles of snow. Because the train’s underground and the urine smell is strong today and I’ve never noticed how much garbage lies heaped down there on the tracks.

And yesterday on the train back from a lunch date with The Roommate, I sat at one end of the train car and halfway back to school this train car full of people headed deeper into downtown for an enjoyable Saturday afternoon is struck silent by one man in the corner. I looked at him, I listened to him, but he dropped to his knees as telling became pleading and it seems so ludicrous that I took time to think that it’s illegal to solicit on the CTA. But he’s not soliciting anything, he’s absolutely begging and he says he can’t go on living the way he is, and my cheeks are prickling with emotion I can’t name and I got off the train with my head down and carried my shame all the way back to school, where I put my sweatpants on and crawled into bed.

And I was so relieved to be back in the safe nest of my bed, my room, my dorm, my school.

But The Roommate texts me not two hours later because a freshman from this school, a young man whose sister lived just around the corner last year, has died. And Moody was never a perfect place, never a safe haven, but any illusions that I had come crashing down and I’m frozen in my bed with my computer on my lap, mechanically typing out a paper, but I can hear sobbing in the hallway and the same prickling crawls up my face and suffering is so uncomfortably close.

And I woke up this morning and my first thought was to stay here. I didn’t want to ride the train because you know who else rides the train? Broken people who need Jesus. Broken people who fall to their knees and beg because they can’t keep living this way. And I balked at the dirty in the streets and the dark selfishness of my own heart, the black terror of distrusting Christ, is something I’ll never be able to hide from.

And I don’t have answers and I wished last night that I was little again, when I had much more faith in the world, and much less exposure to the raw pain of a broken earth.

And there’s so very much that I don’t understand, and the human, selfish desire to hide from the fresh, broken, utterly uncomfortable pain that rubs raw everywhere that I turn is so strong. But I think somewhere I’ve heard a command that I trust Christ, and I’ve read before that His grace is sufficient, and I have to believe that He has a plan in everything.

And I hold to trusting Him, because if I don’t, well then, there’s really no reason to leave this dorm.

~Natalia

Come, Lord Jesus

14 Dec 2012 4 Comments

by nataliaria in Hurt, Prayer, Teach

Sometimes I wonder what it will be like to be a teacher.

I like considering the future;

what grade I’ll teach,

what the classroom will be like,

what my students will say, think, do.

The possibility of being a teacher is taking on the tint of reality,

and I’ve come to like thinking, daydreaming, wondering.

But there’s a tragedy in Connecticut

and the very heart of God breaks

with the sorrow that has flooded our nation today.

And I’m still considering, still thinking about the future,

but I can’t stop wondering what I would have done.

There’s a whole world of hypotheticals

for the worst event that could ever happen to a teacher,

to a student, to a family.

But as much as I roll scenarios in my mind,

a future maybe is not what happened;

a this morning horrific is what happened.

Pray and pray and pray,

because there’s a classroom of sweet child hearts

who will never come to school again,

never learn again.

And a family that goes with every single one of those souls.

And I beg comfort over them,

and I hold Jesus courage against the wall of fear

descending all around.

But I wonder deep how did this even happen?

And Come, Lord Jesus never cried so real, so tangible,

until now.

~Natalia

Holding My Heart

27 Oct 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in God, Heal, Hurt, Relationships, Sovereign, Still, Trust

The world is not ending,

my heart keeps on beating,

But in that moment, I’d rather not be feeling what I am.

I’d prefer to feel normal, feel comfortable, feel better.

I’d prefer not to be on the defensive,

sifting through every emotion, every interaction,

weeding out the painful, the hurtful, the hard.

I’d much prefer that.

But weeks pass and things get better.

The sharp wears to dull,

denial rolls into anger, and slowly,

both of them wash away to the soft sadness underneath.

Weeks pass and I’m learning and growing and

things really are getting better.

Right?

But words and a look and hours later,

and I’m frustrated that normal seems so very unattainable.

My way, the way I want things to be, must be the right way,

and I can’t get over that my way might never be.

I’ve set high standards for normalcy,

and the realization that we may never reach those standards

leaves me saddened, and frustrated, too.

I know how to fix this, I think.

When circumstances and wills, minds and hearts, all line up to my way,

things will fall right into place.

But wise words are spoken softly,

wisdom I need to hear.

Wisdom says let it go.

Wisdom says under the hurt and the unsure and the maybe-this-is-awkward,

under all this, through all this, somewhere,

there is reality.

Wisdom says find reality, hold to reality,

and let it go.

And I do.

A little.

I drop impositions,

drop expectations I wish others would take on for themselves,

and I find reality in Christ,

in my own heart,

and to this I cling.

But I’m planning, too.

There are words I’ve never said,

emotions I’ve not let myself own until recently,

and now; now I want to speak.

So I plan and wait and keep my eyes open for just when I’ll say.

Chances and opportunities and not right now and just missed it.

Nervous, nervous. Nervous and determined.

I know the words and I’m determined to fix this well.

But chapel hour and an illuminated phone,

contact and a conversation and God says,

I’m in this more than you think.

Nervous all over again,

but peace grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me still.

Hours later, words spoken; hearts months hurt sit across from each other

and I catch a glimpse of healed, and I feel healing in me.

And it’s over and over, and God’s so real to me,

I can feel Him breathing on my face.

Why do you doubt, child?

Why is what’s now not enough for you; why am I not enough?

Be still and know means be still and know;

I am who I say, and I keep my promises

and I’m the One holding your heart.

And when healing is meant to come,

it will come.

~Natalia

Locked Out

17 Oct 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in God, Grow, Hurt, Prayer

There’s a time each week

once a week, a Wednesday night,

at the end of the meeting.

And we all sit around,

on couch, on bed, on floor, on chair,

and we go around,

around the circle,

and share prayer requests.

And I shared this week and

I shared last week.

It’s really just kind of expected that we will.

But I didn’t talk about me, really,

or about my own heart.

Because it’s been a while that I just don’t know what to say.

My heart, soul, has been floating unanchored for lengthening days

and I just couldn’t figure out

what was in my heart, what was wrong with my heart,

until just this very night.

And as prayer requests went around, and then prayers went up,

I slowly began to realize

that the reason I don’t know where my heart is at

is because

it’s everything and nothing, really.

Talked about it before and I’ll say it again;

I’m using everything I can lay hands on

to try to give my heart purpose and grip.

And nothing holds, nothing I cling to clings right back to me.

But tonight I began to realize

that the reason I can’t figure anything out

is that it’s been rather a while

since I let God in.

Really in.

He’s been just on the other side of the door;

the outside door,

of the heart deep within me,

for a growing collection of days.

And I can’t make heads or tails of what’s inside me now

because the One who gives true perspective

and understanding,

is the very One I’ve locked out

for now.

And I want Him in,

want to see what’s up and what’s down once more.

But at the same time,

I’m scared because

I have a growing suspicion

that if my heart softens once again to all that He is,

the resulting growth will just

hurt too very much.

~Natalia

To Him

18 Sep 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Friends, God, Hurt

There are people all around me. I’m surrounded by individuals. Guys and girls, professors, teachers, students. Every second that I’m on this campus, I can only be feet away from the next closest person. Living, breathing, feeling souls are everywhere that I am.

Take a step off this campus and I’m still surrounded, only differently. The people all around me now do not share the faith I have. They do not worship who I worship, adore who I adore. They don’t believe what I do, but they’re still all around me. Hearts, minds, and the physical bodies they inhabit.

We’re all here and we’re all together.

God created us that way, created us to be in community, in relationship with other people. He created our hearts to long for close relationships with those we love. Created us to speak, to laugh, to whisper, to communicate with the hearts around us; to share ourselves with those we’re surrounded by.

But it’s not meant to be all horizontal communication. I’m missing something, we’re missing something, desperately if there is nothing but me to you, you to me, us to her. There’s another part there.

Rows of couches have been rearranged to line the cafe. Students have long since filled the area, sitting on couches, propped on chairs, standing in the back. There’s a little stage at the front, and we’re listening, watching. Open Mic Night tonight, and we’re basking in the talent of the collective student body.

It’s a full room and hearts are beating and voices are speaking and we’re all living right here in this moment.

But these hearts that live and beat are not perfect hearts. We make mistakes and we hurt each other and we fall shockingly short of the standard God has set for us.

Completely surrounded, the hearts and minds and wills that surround me bleed over onto my own and suddenly I’m aware of creeping pain, jealousy playing around the edges of my own heart. I’m completely entrenched in all that is around me, and even as I fight the rising anger and hurt, I’m mentally reeling for someone to talk to.

There are people everywhere, and just now, my instant reaction is to bring someone in. I’m mentally flipping through those closest, sorting out who’ll hear, who I’ll pull into the heart-break of living life, of this very moment.

But there’s a whisper, even as the life unfolds on every side, there’s a whisper that I barely catch. Pausing, I quiet my heart and listen again, and this time it’s louder;

Give it to me.

Because that’s what’s missing. You to me and me to you is good; we all thrive on community that is healthy, wise, and drenched in the love that only God can give us in the first place. But if we stop there, we’re missing something great. The greatest thing.

God whispers, bring it to me. He’s deeply involved in every aspect of my life. He knows it all already, and I’m not informing Him when I come running with my frustration, or come dragging my feet with my concern and hurt. He already knows, because He’s God.

But I have a relationship with this God of the universe. And when the living and moving and breathing that goes on all around me, that I am a deep part of, when all this life knocks me back to my knees, my first response should not be to turn right around to those around me, to the hearts right here on earth with me.

It’s not wrong to share, sometimes. Older sister figures, mentors, teachers, parents, friends; the ones who are closest to me and whose hearts are most intimately tied to my own. I tell them, and I share with them, and they know my heart.

That’s good, and that’s as He meant it to be.

But there’s more, too. There’s telling Him. Because He cares, He knows, and He’s holding this community, this whole world, in His hands.

And when it comes down to it, He whispers, Come to me. Tell me.

~Natalia

Glorify

29 Aug 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Feel, God, Happiness, Hurt

Three days into the school year and it feels a little bit like someone took small doses of nearly every emotion known to mankind, stirred them together, and has been pouring them in small doses into my life every day.

Happy. Sad. Confused. Angry. Scared. Nervous. Amused. Frustrated. Guilty. Humble.

I’ve been all over the place, and I’m honestly not sure why.

But actually, maybe I do know why. Because God didn’t create blocks of wood with stone hearts. The Creator of the Earth and of you and of me didn’t create us as passive objects, emotionless mannequins.

I’m all over the place because God created my heart and mind, and yours too, with a vast capacity for emotion. For feeling. For joy and hurt and brokenness.

Sometimes, I hate the real, the soft, the feeling. I know that God has created us to feel, created us to learn and grow and experience, and I doubt His ability to have done so wisely.

I feel some of the depth, a slice of the breadth, of emotion and feeling, a cracked reflection of God’s ingenuity and glory, and I shrug.

More than shrug, I recoil.

Because there is so much vulnerable, so much real, so much depth in all that feeling, and surely a God who is so powerful, so real, could have invented some way to spare all that, to avoid all that.

He didn’t do well, didn’t plan wisely, and the vast array of human emotion is the result of His lack of foresight on the whole issue.

But that’s not true.

Not true at all.

I’m a creation, and treasured Child of God, and you are, too.

The up and down, in and out, of what I feel, what I experience day after day, is not a punishment, or a fluke that God let slip when He crafted human beings.

It’s a way to glorify Him.

Glorify Him when words cut and jealousy burns.

Glorify Him when I’m excited, sucking in breath and grinning.

Glorify Him when there’s a big pile of books and the pit of silent stress pulls my stomach down.

Glorify Him when my abs ache from laughing and I hold my sides and brace myself, because it really is funny.

God didn’t screw up when He created my heart, your heart; He knew exactly what He was doing.

He created, He knows.

There’s a trace of Him in each thought, each wondering, each feeling,

and for that, I glorify Him.

~Natalia

Not the Only One

23 Aug 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in College, God, Grow, Hurt, Summer, Tired, Trust

I like to think I’m the only one.

And even if I don’t like that I think that way, I tend to think that way.

I’m not whining and moping, reveling in the individuality of whatever minor calamity has befallen me, but I am thinking about it.

The end of last school year, dragging my feet, and truly my whole body, through the final days, weeks, of a long, busy, full semester. Sleeping much less than I should have, and forcing myself to do things well, do things right, during the day.

I was exhausted and drained and you know what? I thought about how exhausted and drained I was quite frequently. I wouldn’t have ever said it, because deep down somewhere I know it to be false, but I supposed rather fancifully that I was the only one struggling just as I was, in the areas that I was battling.

Back at school this week, I’ve been busy, yes. My teeth have been giving me a little bit of pain here and there, yes. But there’s more there, too. Deep down, I’m thinking about and processing things, lessons, happenings, from this summer and beyond.

I’m going through my days, helping with orientation sessions, working with the team to plan new student events, meeting and spending time with new students. I’m going through all those movement, and I’m loving it.

But on the inside, under the name tag that says “Staff” and the floral lanyard with my Moody-issued ID and keys, I’m thinking and wondering and sorting out, and I just might be growing.

That’s good. That’s very good.

Growing and thinking and even sometimes hurting, is a sign that God is working. God is working in my heart. He’s molding me to be more like Him and teaching me to trust Him more and opening my eyes to see things that I had not seen before. It stretches and hurts a little sometimes, but I trust Him.

But I’m not the only one.

I’m not the only one who is learning, seeing, stretching. I’m not the only one whose balled up fists God is slowly uncurling, until my fingers, stiff from clinging to things I can’t hold, stretch completely flat.

There are girls here, the very girls I live and work and play with, who are learning, too. Hurting. Questioning. Unsure.

Girls who I interact with every day; riding the elevator, lining up in the SDR, saying hi and spending time together on the floor. Girls whose lives are so much deeper than where are you from and how many siblings do you have and what are you excited about this year.

They think and they feel and they wonder and they doubt. They read and they write and they learn and they struggle. They celebrate and rejoice and sometimes, when no one’s looking, they cry, too.

They’re not the only one, and I’m not, either.

There is a God and a plan so much greater than any of us can imagine, and I want to see that. I want to open my eyes, look up from the ground I’ve been watching my feet plod along, look out from the internal conversations I’ve been watching myself have, and learn to see.

See the world, the hearts around me, the way God sees them.

Because I’m not the only one.

~Natalia

Watching Dinner

28 Jul 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, Family, Food, Hurt, Love, Sovereign

Dinner’s been served, and I’m not in the kitchen anymore. I don’t know why, actually. Usually, after serving the food, I stay behind the long, white tile counter. I lean my elbows on the high counter and watch the meal unfold.

But not right now. Now I’m just outside of the reach of the countertop, leaning against the pale green wall of the dining room. I’m still watching, still listening, I’m just not in the kitchen.

Two tables over, directly across from me, she sits silently. She dutifully eats her food, wordlessly scraping arroz con leche out of the beige dish in front of her. I watch her, and I’m not the only one, but she avoids my gaze, her dark eyes fixed vacantly on the bowl.

The scraping of metal spoons on hard plastic gradually diminishes, and the rush and murmur of conversation begins to grow. Dinner is done, but we’re still here in the dining room. Still standing, still sitting, still here.

Suddenly, a voice to my right calls our attention. Hermana Tere steps out from behind the counter, moves into the open space between the sliding door and the five long tables. She begins talking, but my eyes remain riveted on the girl across from me.

Hermana Tere continues. She’s talking about the same girl I watch. Tells the littles ones that the girl’s received some bad news, that she’s hurting, she’s sad. My eyes flick briefly to Hermana Tere, then back to the girl. Head down, tears glisten in a wet path down her dark cheeks. I can’t see her eyes, but I know they are red; I saw them this morning.

Hermana Tere’s words are the only sound heard in the kitchen. That and the soft sniff of a girl who’s cried much that day. In front of the room, Hermana Tere reminds us what we are. We are a family. We are a support. We love each other and encourage each other. Hurt for each other and pray for each other.

Soon, she’s done talking, and slowly, the dining room begins to move. First one, then another, then a whole table, stands up to make their way over to the girl. The room is filled with the scraping sound of chairs being pushed back across tiled floor.

Little ones stand on tiptoe to wrap their arms around her neck, and older ones, her siblings and friends, lean down to where she is seated. Hug her. Whisper words of encouragement. Tell her they love her. Build her up. Wrap her even tighter in the blanket of God’s love and sovereignty.

A line forms, and I’m not leaning against the wall anymore, I’m in line. Beki’s in front of me, and ten more are in front of her, with that many and more behind us.

After my turn, my turn to show love, support, family, I slide into the empty seat next to her. Hermano Manuel’s speaking now, the kitchen once again hushed to stillness. He speaks, then Rubí joins him in front of the gathered group, the gathered family. We’re going to sing a hymn, he explains. God Doesn’t Make Mistakes, it’s called. You all know it, right?

And we sing. Next to me, she sits, eyes lifted now. Watching. Every so often, a blink sends tears overflowing over lids and other wet path is traced down her cheeks.

Blink, drip, slide.

Tear. Cry. Sing.

God Doesn’t Make Mistakes.

~Natalia

Stand in the Middle

17 Jun 2012 2 Comments

by nataliaria in God, Hurt, Kiddos, Love, Need

Stand right smack dab in the middle of striking need. Need which spills over onto layers of hurt, with both of them slowly hardening into a thick sheen of anger and bitterness. Stand there and look around. Take in the desperate. The hard. The disengaged. Drink in the sadness and then pause; what’s next?

What’s to be done next? What can you do? What project can you tackle, which assignment can you confront that will fix it, that will knock everything back onto place; jagged pieces fitting together tightly, just as before they broke apart so completely.

Now try.

Go ahead and work. Work to fix and reform and replace what was missing. Do, struggle, work.

And then step back.

Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t. You can’t know. It is, after all, human effort, and human effort can only get you so far. You’re just as broken, just as sinful, as the next person, and I’m right there with you. I don’t know what to do any more than you do, and what I see around me knocks me to my knees just as it does you.

We can build buildings. Create programs. Put on a week-long summer camp. We can do that.

But hearts are not healed by human efforts.

She’s come every year for four years. She’s smart and funny and has a little bit more energy than we often know what to do with. She talks about Girl Scout camping and her cats and growing her hair out long. Listen; listen to her words and listen to the cry of her heart. You blinked, and now she’s chattering about how she doesn’t like to eat and how her older sister is getting kicked out for cussing out her mom.

You can’t fix that.

He’s been around a couple years, too. You can remember him as a little boy, wrapped in a green hooded towel on Water Day, waiting patiently for his grandma to come collect him and his older brothers. He’s bigger than that now, but still a little boy. You sit next to him during lunch, sinking cross-legged to the cold cement next to the round-faced young boy. And you talk about school and playing and camp and home. He likes to play on the trampoline, and he can’t cover up how desperate he is to gain the approval of his brothers. His father’s not around, and their constant rejection is leaving scars on his 8-year-old soul.

What is there that you can do?

Stay where you are on the cold cement. Look all around. Children running around inside, bouncing basketballs and twirling hoola hoops. Outside on the grass, a hundred more young children run and sit and play and yell and be.

There’s so much need here. Need and hunger and desperation that flows out of hearts and floods the landscape. It’s overwhelming. Overpowering. Incapacitating, sometimes.

But there’s a deep assurance there, too. Because where you can’t heal, where I can’t reach out and touch hearts, is where He can. Right there in the messy trenches of scars and hopelessness is where God takes delight in stepping in. Invited by our desperate cries for mercy, grace, healing, He reaches down and takes hold of hearts.

He breaks through the dark, the desperate, the unwieldy. He breaks through and He sticks around. Grace and love and rich healing pour over parched, cracked hearts, slowly sealing together the previously shattered pieces of hearts young and old.

Stand in the middle of a perpetual downpour, a constant, unceasing, flow of dark, hopeless, hurting and know that you can do nothing.

But He can do everything.

~Natalia

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