This summer I've been working at the church that I typically attended throughout the school year. It wasn't my original plan for this summer. During the year, I had master plans of living abroad, loving those I couldn't verbally communicate with, fighting to make God known where His name was cursed, and then finally lying down to a warrior's rest each night under stars that beamed at my existence. Essentially, I was to be Indiana Jones with a Bible.
Funny how it didn't end up that way. Instead, I find myself in a rather tame situation. I live in a modest house with a basement. I make dinner for one each night. On occasion, I spend time with friends. More often that not, I spend time writing, reading, or watching romantic comedies.
Domesticated in cages framed by bills, flat tires, and unfinished dreams. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever fear for my life more than saving accounts. If I'll ever find my way to the peak of a mountain, instead of referencing mall directories. If I'll ever carry a child for miles in the night so that she might receive medical attention and know the security in God's sovereignty.
But leave it to elementary kids to bring me back to reality. Last night, I felt loved and needed. I felt like I was being spread over the youth at church. Strawberry jam thinned over dried toast.
Snaggle-toothed snickers. Nodding affirmations. Tightly squeezed embraces. Yes, my God is alive. He's constantly reminding me of that. He is understanding of my fears, convicting in my disbelief, warm when I choose to sleep face-down in the snow. And sometimes, He makes me feel like Dr. Jones, himself.
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