Embodiment

Week 8 last summer was my most favorite week of the summer. I was a lifeguard. I was getting paid to sit in the sun all day and eat popsicles. I lived the dream. Week 8 was a week full of families who have been coming to family camp for years and years. Lord knows I love me some consistency and and tradition and week 8 embodied that.

I couldn't wait for week 8 to get here. I expected to get another lifeguarding week. I tend to expect consistency in a life where it rarely exists apart from the Lord Himself. I tend to be a ninny. If there's a picture of why one shouldn't have expectations, it would be my face at meeting last Saturday when we found out what we would be doing during week 8. It's weird now that it's over to even try to explain it. When I found out that I would be a "counselor" to 4 college girls: 1 of which spent years in a death camp in the Congo, 1 of which was separated from her family and thought them dead for 13 years, and 2 of which have been living in chaos since tragedy rocked their lives 8 years ago- Overwhelmed suddenly had a new meaning.

What I didn't know was that a mirror would be held up to my life and struggles all week long and I would be forced to look at my weakness in the lives of others.

There are things I don't like to look at in myself. My insecurity. That I perform and could be the walking and talking, human embodiment of pretense. -Yes I just realized that I have used the word embody twice in one post, as I'm sure you have noticed as well. No I don't use that word often. Yes I'm going to from here on out. - I get embarrassed easily. I'm awkward. Preferably I would like to act like those things don't exist within me. But instead, I normally realize them and then stew over them inside myself until my hamster wheel brain is about to melt out of my head. It's a gift. Not a good gift, like gummy bears and a note in my mailbox. A gift that hurts just as the giver intended. A gift that's not a gift at all from a giver who's not a giver at all.

This week made me openly stare down all those things in the face. From the girl who refused to talk to me because she doesn't speak very clear english and it embarrassed her. Her embarrassment made her feel trapped. From the girl who felt the need to always put on a show because she didn't know who she was. From the girl who had struggled with seeing the Lord as perfectly in control and true.

This girl, This ginger, This human, This child, was given the truth that I needed to hear more than anything. And not only that but was given the chance to immediately tell it to people who needed to hear it too.

On Friday, I had breakfast with one of the girls and she said, "Morgan. You observe a lot. You think a lot. Speak the sweet things you think."

Warning: I'm about to talk to myself.

Self- 4 weeks from now, 2 months from now, 9 months from now, 2 years from now, when you're looking back reading this- because you know you will- because you will need to- because you might forget between now and then-Remember this: Remember what it felt like to have that breakfast after praying for it all week. Remember what it was like to know that you were chosen. Remember what it felt like to know that a herd of people, and more importantly the God of the universe thought you were capable in your incapability. Remember what it felt like to defend your faith. Remember what it felt like to realize you can't experience joy or peace, or healing, or truth apart from the Lord. Remember when you were confided in. Remember the responsibility you hold. Remember defending the Word as the whole, complete truth- and not only defending it but realizing that it really is. Remember what it felt like to realize how undeservedly blessed you are, and the thankfulness that poured from your heart in that moment. Remember how your world perspective grew. Remember when you realized that our need for Christ is deeply the same across humanity, whether in the Congo or in Texas.

Y'all. We're halfway done. I miss you. I love you. Thank you for praying and for reading and for the phone calls and the letters and the visits and the hugs and the encouragement. Thank you for not judging me even though I write run on sentences over and over and over.

This week I'm with 9th grade girls. My soul comes alive around girls that age. Probably because I act like a 9th grade girl 89% of the time. Probably because I live life with some of the coolest 9th grade girls I know at home (Girls. That was something called a "shout out". Bask in it. Miss you, love you, thinking about you always!) I don't hate it.

Lord, bring me to my knees.