Proud Father.

David, tell me about college.  Tell me about your life.

Sometimes I imagine Him as a giant rocky cliff.  Or a tree whose crown stretches for miles in every direction, whose roots run deep enough to tap underground streams whose waters have never known human lips.  I imagine Him as something ancient and beautiful, something immense and grand, but ultimately unknowable.

Sometimes I imagine Him as a distant light.  Something brilliant, blinding, and transcendent.  Something holy and untouchable.  Something unattainable.  Something spiritual, but ultimately out of touch with my mundane realities.

This time I imagine Him as a man.  A man with craggy features, whose piercing hawk eyes peer out from behind bushy brows, whose callused hands have long known the hard work of a carpenter's hammer, whose stern visage coerced the planets into their orbit.  A man whose breath over the oceans churns them into ivory foam.

He looks a little bit like Clint Eastwood, now that I think about it.

And I imagine Him and myself warming ourselves next to a small campfire.  The rest of the campers have turned in for the night, and we find ourselves awake in those late hours reserved for hushed voices and the sharing of deep life.  The chorus of crickets has taken an intermission before their early morning cantata, and the only sound is the crackling of the fire.

I tell him about him about my friends, and He tells me about the beach along the Sea of Galilee, and the nights that He and the disciples would spend there, roasting freshly-caught fish over open flame.  He tells me about afternoons they would spend there, dunking themselves in the water to escape the midday Israeli heat.

I tell him about my struggles and the chains that bind my heart.  He tells me about his temptation in the wilderness and on the cross three years later, about those last moments when the pain would turn to numbness and He felt his own life leaving Him.  Because, make no mistake, His temptation did not end in the wilderness.

I tell Him about girls.  And how they constantly bewilder me.  He chuckles.  And then tells me about how He formed, knew, and breathed life into every man, woman, and child.  About the little quirks and gems, the subtle hints and humors He crafted into every beating heart.

And then the conversation takes a turn.

David, tell me about your life.  Tell me about things as they really are.

I would rather not.

"You don't need me to," I reply, holding back a chuckle, "I mean, you were there.  You saw me when I was born, you walked me through my childhood.  When I was sitting back in that orthodontist's chair, you saw them cementing those brackets to my teeth and wiring them all together.  When I came to college, you were there that first night I spent in the dorms, sitting back and soaking in my independence.  You saw me through every step of it.  You're everyWHERE and you know everyTHING.  You walked me through every heartache and heartbreak, every disappointment and every triumph of the past few years.  I hardly think you need me to tell you about the past few years.  I mean, you know it all already, there's no point.

It'd just be a waste of time."

And then he leans in closer.  The firelight is a little lower now, which means the shadows dance a little higher.  And he looks at me, with those knowing eyes, and He repeats Himself.

David, tell me about your life.  Tell me about things as they really are.

And I don't want to.  So I pull a Moses.

"There's no point.  Really.  Like, there's no reason for me to tell these things to you.  I mean, you created me.  You know how bad I am with words, and how I'm terrible at talking and communicating.  It takes like fifteen minutes to get a coherent thought out of me, and ninety percent of the time I end up repeating myself.  God, if you wanted me to tell you about my life, then why didn't you make me a better communicator?  Someone who could just speak eloquently, someone with charm and flair?  All I do is just stumble over my words, and get things out of order and all that.  Really, for your sake, we'd be here all night if I tried to tell you about my life.  So let me just spare you the pain."

He looks a little sad.  He peers at the treeline, looks back at me, scratches His nose, strokes the stubble on His chin, and one more time repeats Himself.

David, tell me about your life.  Tell me about things as they really are.

And now I'm angry.

"Really?  You can't take a hint can you?  Let me just spell this out for you.

I.

Don't.

Want.

To.

All you ever are is disappointed.  I'm never good enough.  You want me to tell you about my sins so you can judge me?  You want me to tell you about my failures so you can remind yourself just how righteous you are?  You want me to tell you all about my good intentions and how they never panned out?  Or how about all the people that I hurt along the way?  Because make no mistake, I try to be a good guy, but no matter what I do, something always goes wrong.  It seems like no matter what I do or who I try to be, I'm never good enough.  I never ever feel like you're satisfied.

I'm so sick of getting my hopes up and then getting them dashed against the rocks.  It seems like all you ever do is dangle things in front of my face and watch me fail.

So don't ask me to tell you about my life."

This hurts Him.  He sits back and takes a deep breath, folds his scarred hands behind His head, furrows His brow, and looks at me.  He crosses his legs at the ankles and kicks them up on a nearby stool.  But He says nothing.  He just sits.  And looks.

He speaks in words only I can hear.  Yet His voice is clearer than the outline of the moon against the night sky.  And it's underlined by a basso rumble that brings to mind something like a smoky mug of hot chocolate. 

Before you were born, I already knew you.  I told the angels how excited I was for you.    Before even your parents knew about you, I was preparing a home for you.  I was there to watch your first steps, to hear the first words that would come out of your mouth.  I was proud of you.  And even as I heard those first words, I longed for the day that you would call me Father.  

I was there to watch you grow up, to see you put on your first pair of glasses in the second grade.  I saw the wonder on your face as you looked around and saw for the first time with clear eyes this world I crafted for you.  I saw you as you sat in school, daydreaming of a world full of knights and chivalry, of dragons and battles to be fought.  I saw you as you doodled those worlds into existence on the back of your homework.  And I was proud of you.  Those pictures weren't quite art show material, but they were beautiful to me.  And I remember every one.

I was there in your tumultuous junior high years.  I was there at every awkward lunch period, where you would sit alone.  I was there to see every shy glance across the classroom at the girl you liked.  I was there in your loneliness.  And I was there the day you knew me as your Father.

We threw a party for you in Heaven.  And I can't wait for the day you get to come celebrate with us.  I'll show you how to dance.

I saw you try out for the eighth grade basketball team, as you tried so hard to impress the coaches.  I heard every prayer.  When you didn't make the cut, I felt your disappointment.  But David, I was proud  of you.  I came to every track meet and every practice, just for good measure.  Those days you thought you were going to poo yourself from running yourself so tired, I was the one holding your pants up.

I remember high school, and watching you get lost in those hallways.  I still laugh sometimes when I thought about how taken aback you were; everyone was so tall!  I was there to see you grow into a young man.  But let's be honest, you were still a boy.  I heard your prayers and how you desperately just wanted to be known.  I knew you David, and I still do.  That summer night after sophomore year where you just kicked up your feet, looked into the night sky and said, "Hey God, what's up?"  

I still smile when I think about that night.  We got to know each other really well.

I held you when your heart broke for the first time.  And I hurt for you.

But I was so proud to see you walk across that stage at graduation.  You looked a little overwhelmed.

Remember that first night in the dorms?  The moment your parents left you just looked at your roommate and giggled because you know what else to do.  College was hard.  I know.  I was there.  But it had to be, because I needed you to know again that I was the one holding you up.  Not the other way around.  I saw the trouble you had with college.  You tried so hard to impress everyone around you.  You just wanted to be liked.

I was there the moment you lost your scholarship.  And I felt your heart drop as you hung up the phone, wondering what you were going to do next.  I was there through every tearful argument and shouting match of the past five years.  I took you down to New Orleans and Panama City Beach.  Because I love those cities.  And my heart yearns for the day that my children would know me as their Father.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, in the midst of serving me, you forgot about me.  I was still there in those hard times, in the dry spells and the cracked cisterns.  I was close to you even when you didn't feel my presence.  I heard your frustration, but I was waiting for you to remember that all you ever had to do was just hold your arms out to me so that I could pick you up again.

Remember Chicago?  That was where you learned to hold out your arms to me.

I was the one who gave you peace over this past year when it seemed like everything was falling apart.  I was the one who held you when you were at your wits end.  I felt your heart drop that last day of your student teaching.  I watched over your family and kept all of you safe.  And in all of the confusion, in all of the anguish and heartbreak.  In all of the exhaustion, in all of the weight of this year, in all of the unknown, I held you up.  I saw you stand at graduation.  And I was so proud.

He leans forward one more time.  The fire is mostly embers now, but the eastern sky is just starting to bloom.

I know you.  I know you to the deepest.  But David, I want you to tell me about your life because you are dear to me and you are close to my heart.  Because I watch over you every night, eagerly anticipating the moment you blink yourself awake every morning.  It's the best part of my day.  Because I created you, even knowing every time you would stumble along the way.  Yet I made no mistake in forming you.  Because I love the heart that I created within you and I love the way you have grown into a man.  Because even though you're twenty-three years old, I still delight in you.  Because when I was taking those lashes and hanging on that cross, I thought of you, and I thought to myself, "This is worth it."  

And every day that you look at me and hold out your arms, I am so proud to be your Father.

Tonight, this twenty-three year old child kneels beside his bed in his moonlit room, folds his hands, bows his head, and starts to talk.

Fight.

For the Father who made you.
For the Son who saved you.
For the Spirit that raised you.

For the faith that sustains you.
For the hope that exhilarates.
For the love that quickens your heart to sing.

For brothers whose hands are weary of battle.
For sisters whose hearts have forgotten their love.
For fathers whose backs are broken to pieces.
For mothers whose wells have forgotten their spring.

Because none are too far on paths untraveled.
Because none are too warmed by the flames of His hearth.
Because there's far more to life than simply survival.
Because there's far more to see than just ten feet of dark.

Because fire burns hotter under the breath of its maker.
Because fingers feel stronger around the hilt of their sword.
Because no man steps bolder than in the steps of his father.

Because no cause shines brighter than the glory of the King.

Blast from the Past.

I received a letter from myself last week.

You can stop giggling.

I don't do this on a regular basis.

The letter was written on the last morning of last year's Every Student Sent conference (February 14, 2009). In some places it was super convicting. In other places it was heart-warmingly encouraging. God has struck down great sin and great insecurities in my life over the past year.

I look back on my past with wiser eyes than those that looked for answers in my future.

Hey David,

Sorry about the handwriting. But I suppose you're starting to remember this conference last year. I hope you've lived long enough to read this letter. If you haven't, and this is in fact someone besides me reading this letter, then please take this moment to look at David's finished Earthy life and realize that tomorrow is not guaranteed.

Love in Christ,
David Hsieh

And that concludes the first portion of the letter. It really is, in fact, 2 letters in one. When I was in high school, I had a certain preoccupation with the concept that Peter wrote about,

"...For, 'all men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field, the grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of the Lord stands forever.'" ~1 Peter 1:23-25

For whatever reason, God used those years in high school to lay heavy on my heart the mortality of man. I used to write, but not send, letters of encouragement and reality to all of my friends and keep them in my drawer in case I would die unexpectedly. Reading this letter, I realize how much that's stuck with me. Modern-day commentary is in brackets.

If, in fact, you've made it 1 more year, then what has this year looked like? And what does the coming year look [like]? Who are you trusting in? [This year has looked really good. Really hard, but really good. If God themed it, and he very well might have, I'm sure it was themed, "Get over yourself." The coming year will be hard, as I'm finishing up school and figuring out my calling for the future. But I am excited now. Dread has been replaced with anticipation, and I realize if God can transform me this much over the course of a year, then the rest of my life, however long that may be, certainly holds promise. I'm trusting in God. Not always. Not completely. And certainly not perfectly. But he's taking me in a good direction.]

Are you going to medical school? If so, why? If not, why not? [Nope. I think you (I) knew it a long time ago. Medical school was never my dream. It was never God's plan. I think you (I) would've been happy to know that I was going to end up in the education school. Funny how that works.]

Are you interning with Cru? If so, why? If not, why not? [Good question. And fortunately, because I changed majors, I've still got another year to figure that out. Whether it's with Cru or just full-time ministry in general, I've got a little bit of time to figure that out. So. I don't know yet. What I do know is that I have grown immensely over the past several years, and that I believe God often uses these college years to launch the rest of a man or woman's life. My life has been altered dramatically (in a good way) from the course it was taking, and I have found no greater joy these past several years than being a part of that in the lives of men and women around in me.]

Are you pursuing a woman to love and cherish for the rest of your life? If so, why? If not, why not? [Men, I know you were all thinking the same sort of thing. Ladies, now you know. The guys think about this stuff too. As for details, I'll exercise some discretion. God's longing for my heart right now. That's all I'll say.]

I know, and perhaps you now know that this next year for me and past year for you will be difficult. All things pass away but these three: God, our souls, and His Word.

When no one else is around...

When no one else knows...

Who is King of your heart? [You ask hard questions, past-David. I have a lot to think about.]

I know how hard it is to rebel against approval and the "wisdom" of this world. But, David, for your sake and definitely for God's, what are you doing with your life? Are you a soldier? Does Satan now fear both who you are and the potential of what you can become? Does God dance with joy, shaking the foundations of Heaven when he turns his eyes on your life? [I so long for these things to be true of me. And I think we're moving in the right direction here. But we're not there. Not there yet. But God's wipin' up this mirror, and it's looking more and more like him each day. Each week. Each month. Each year.]

Deo volente. [God willing.]

Love in Christ,
David Hsieh
2/14/09

Cleanin' House

I cringe at who I am. Or, rather, who I was.

Sometimes. Okay, more than sometimes. But not all the time.

If someone were to ask me, "David, how have you seen God at work in your life?" Knowing me, I might fumble in my thoughts for a few seconds to try to come up with some deep, theological 'Look-at-me-I'm-holy' answer. But really, what would be the best answer? I mean, how have I seen God working in my life? Because, really, if I'm pretty much at the same place I was nine years ago or, maybe, even worse off than I was nine years ago as a person, you gotta start questioning whether there's really anything to all this, or if it's really, to borrow from the IU Secular Alliance's terminology, 'Wishful thinking.'

That really burns me, by the way.

So, what would be the best answer to all this? How has God been working in my life?

Back up. Has God been working in my life?

Yes.

Okay. How?

I guess this is one of those of those rare moments when it might be helpful to be a reality TV star. Because my answer would simply be, "Look at who I was, and look at who I'm becoming."

NOT, "Look at who I am." I mean, the way I've really looked at it, and it's really helped my understanding of my sanctification, which really, is just another Christian-y term for growing closer to Christ's character. The way I look at it is kind of like a monkey in a house.

What?

Yeah, a monkey in a house. Let's say you have a chimpanzee, and he's let loose in your house. He's left alone to his own devices for, let's say a month. If you were to come into the house and look around after a month, what would you find? Well, a mess. Shattered mirrors, overturned furniture, feces everywhere, it would be a pit. Well, say you kick the chimp out and the master of the house returns. Does that fix all the problems? Not at all. Everything's still in shambles. But little by little, bit by bit, the house is restored to the way it was supposed to be. It's a mess, still, but at least the monkey's not in control anymore. Sometimes you'll open a door and find that the mess goes far deeper and is spread much further than you thought. But the house is never going to be dirtier than the first moment after the monkey's been ditched.

Replace monkey with Satan. Replace the house with yourself. Or your life.

And the master of the house?

He's God.

So what about me? What about David Hsieh? Well, I'm still very much a wrecked home. A wrecked home with a nicely mowed yard and some pretty trees out front, I suppose. I grew up in a pretty wealthy socioeconomic background. I've never had any material needs unmet. I don't have any sort of criminal history, not even so much as a speeding ticket. I had the chance to attend one of the best K-12 education programs in the country, and now I'm at college. I'm a Christian. I have been for 9 years, goin' on 10, as of December 17th of this year. I have tremendous community in my life, people who support me and encourage me, who are ready to call me out when I need to be called out. I'm a Bible study leader, and oftentimes my favorite day of the week is Tuesdays when we get to mutually encourage and challenge each other toward a greater understanding and reflection of God. I'm heading up Men's Ministry with Cru at IU, a position I certainly didn't expect at the beginning of the year, and I'm excited about the plans we have for the guys here. I think we're going to do a lot of new things, ambitious things, but if God enters into with us, I think some real good happen here. I've been given the chance to disciple two solid, Christ-centered guys with a real passion for growth, accountability, and evangelism. A pretty nicely mowed yard. A front porch with a swing. A two-car garage with a red bike hanging out on the driveway.

But open the front door, step through the threshold and what do you see? Maybe some semblance of order, but certainly not what should be expected from all outside appearances. Muddy shoes, perhaps, lying on the carpet, a few lightbulbs burnt out. The fire in the hearth isn't really a fire, but one of those fake TV screen fires that you see. The dog hasn't been washed in a while. My problems with discipline are well-documented. Any given afternoon, you might find me on facebook or watching TV. Maybe playing video games. Any given night at 12:30am, you'll find doing homework. Studying. I'm a man with problems in consistency. One week, God is the center. I'm finding time for him before all other things, seeking his will in my life and my day-to-day interactions. The next, I'm so bogged down in homework that I hardly a give a thought to him, except the time I spend preparing for Bible study. I miss classes for no good reason. (I slept too late is not a good reason when your first class of the day begins at 11:15am). I divide people into categories of "Worth my time," "not worth my time," and "definitely worth my time, but conversation would be awkward." Because of my lack of discipline, I wonder why I have no time to take of care of my body. There are cobwebs in the corners. The carpet is noticeably threadbare. The couches are missing their springs. More than a few lightbulbs are burnt out.

A few more steps and you realize the problems run deeper than you thought. The sink is full of dirty dishes. The toilet's stopped up (and has been for some time). Cockroaches and rats have established free reign over their dominion, while spiders keep the peace. The smell is almost overpowering. Sexual impurity is a constant problem. Some days it's worse than others, but it's never lurking far away. And despite my best efforts to stay alert, it's an opportunistic predator, always pouncing when I least expect it, savaging my heart with twin fangs of Shame and Disgrace. Sloth is its hunting partner, Boredom its faithful hound. I find myself righteous based on the works I do and the religious titles I can place on myself. "Bible Study Leader" tells me that men look up to me and hang on the words I speak. "Discipler" tells me that my lifestyle will make others admire me. "Went on Project" says that I have an undergone an experience that makes me holier than others and, therefore, my vision is clearer than theirs. "Christian" tells me that, on my own strength, I refuse to bow to the pressures of this world. My works make me holy. "Humble" says that I need not pay attention to pride. And pride whispers that I need not pay attention to sin. The ceiling is leaking. Pipes have burst. Though the refrigerator is tied shut, a pungent and none-too-pleasant odor has managed to escape, not so strong as to send you running from the house, but just insidious enough to make the visit extremely uncomfortable.

Only when you arrive in the basement does it become apparent how bad the problems are. termites have whittled the foundations to nothing. I don't trust God. I don't rest in his promises. I don't believe that he wants the best for me. I refuse to give up to him my classes, my career, my friends, my resentment, my future wife, my ministry.

My sin.

When he chooses to show me how in control he is (and how I am not), instead of standing in awe of his sovereignty, I pout and curse him. I sulk in self-gratifying self-pity. I shout and stomp and cry and shake my fist at the the Lord of the Universe, because I believe myself entitled. Because I find myself worthy.

The water is higher now. It's hard to breathe. The power has finally failed, the lightbulbs not even flickering anymore, as if the effort required to do even that was too painful to bear. The house is listing heavily to one side, tired of trying to stand up straight for the neighbors to see. The smudged windows burst like rotting fruit, and the house collapses in on itself, seemingly imploding from all directions.

And then stops. And there are sounds. Sounds of life.

In the basement. A single man is braced against the wall. As he strains against the weight, it looks like he's winning. The timbers, weakened and full of termites, have found new purpose. He pushes and the rough wood obeys.

In the basement. The man makes the trek from flooded cellar to the front yard, carrying buckets in each callused hand. Two at a time. Two at a time. Two at a time. Slowly the waters recede.

In the basement. The man lays thick beams of cedar on the drying floor. The crossbeams are fresh, still full of life. His carpenter's muscles pound thick iron nails into the wood and then move deftly to tie it together with thick, handwoven rope. The beams are raised into place against the water-stained concrete and the house groans in approval. They look strangely familiar.

He moves from room to room, his eyes measuring the most minute of details. Nothing escapes his steady gaze. A shattered window. A broken toilet. A cracked cabinet. A smudged table. A spilled drink. A threadbare carpet. Some doors are still closed. Behind some of them, a fairly clean room curiously untouched. Others, breeding grounds for pestilence. Over long years, he restores it to its intended glory. In some places, he scrapes away the grime and mold. In others, he applies a fresh coat of paint. In others, he tears down and rebuilds, tediously perfecting each wall, each door, each pillar, and every corner.

You see, he's not just repairing a house. He's restoring his home. And for this carpenter-king, the work won't be finished until this rotting shack is transformed into the temple-palace it was meant to be, with every surface and detail shining reverent praise to its maker. There may be many rooms yet unpure, and the work may yet continue for years (and most certainly will), the Master's craftsmanship and persevering spirit are unmistakable. This work will not go unfinished.

And that is the Gospel to me. That the rotting shack of my life quite fit for the demons and shames of my sinful nature would be restored to a palace fit for the King. That an object of wrath could be brought to a place of mercy. That a slave might become a son. There may yet be much work to do, and it seems every new day opens a new door of my life painfully needy for its restorer, but the work he started will not go unfinished.

Philippians 3:12-14, "Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."

Hebrews 11

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for... By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going... These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised. God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect."

I cried.

For the first time in perhaps more than a year, I cried. And perhaps, what's even more embarrassing, I did it in front of others. My brothers. My sisters. It wasn't the soul-shaking sobbing that accompanies the death of a loved one, nor was it the single, dignified tear othat might sometimes accompany the end of a particularly poignant film.

But perhaps I should rewind a bit. I'm not a crier. Not in the slightest. Oh, I've choked up on occasion, but these moments pass quickly, and usually I'm prideful enough to swallow that egg-sized lump in my throat, push away that quivering in my voice, and muster a steady, "I'm doing okay," for long enough for concern to fade. I don't cry ever. And when I do, it's never around people.

So why now? Why this time? Why was I crying?

Boy, is that a loaded question. It's been nearly six weeks since that Sunday when I would say goodbye to some of the closest friends of my lifetime and to a summer that had changed my life. I'm still at a loss as to how I'm going to quantify my experiences. For now, though, maybe all I need to do is to simply... start writing.

Let's start at the beginning. What, really, was I expecting from Project? It's hard to say--that seems like forever ago, and the David Hsieh that made that decision is changed from the David Hsieh who lives and breathes this day. When I agreed with God to be sent on Project, I did so out of a deep conviction that I was being called into ministry--for at least the summer. This wasn't the first time I had felt called. Only the first time that I had trusted Him with it. Previous summers I had devoted my summers to my studies, not out of any real obligation or scholarly need, but out of fear of where and how He might send me if indeed I did trust Him. More than the fear that I would hate it was the fear that I would love it.

Perhaps that fear was well-founded.

I loved this summer.

So much so, that I would say it was the best decision I've made in the last nine years (and only because I accepted Christ into my life nine years ago). Excepting that trump card, the decision to trust God with this summer on Project was the best decision of my life. Why? Because I was reminded once again just how good a life lived with reckless abandon for my Creator can be. How good was it? Good enough to make me cry. Good enough to shake my life to its core and convince me of some hard issues that I had whiteknuckled for the last three years of my life. For now, though, I'll stop speaking in generalizations. Let me outline for you just how good God made this summer, with the disclaimer that mere words can never describe what this summer was for my life, and that perhaps only when we've reached our True Home many years from now will I be able to fully understand what it meant to me.

What did Project change about me? It's funny. Before I left for Chicago on June 5th, I boldly proclaimed, both in my support letters and follow-up appointments, that I fully expected to be a changed man by the time I left on June 9th. In some of them, I even said that I expected to be a, "completely different man" once I emerged from Project. I'm not sure if I knew or believed what I was saying. In his own humorous way, God happily obliged.

Don't worry--I am still David Hsieh. The David Hsieh that left on August 9th, however, was fundamentally changed from the one who arrived June 5th. How? For one thing, I trust God now. That's not to say I didn't trust God before I left for Project, but when it comes down to it, it really is to say just that. In seeing how absolutely wonderfully God could use a summer entrusted to Him, I was also shown just how wonderfully He could use a life entrusted to His care. This means a lot of things, but in the most tangible, immediate way it means that I'm no longer studying to be a doctor, nor am I a biochemistry major. I'm now studying secondary education in biology, meaning that I'll hopefully be teaching science to junior high/high school students. This was a move that I had felt called to for a long time (and many friends had felt called to call me out on it), but it was one that I fought for a long time, really for nothing more than appearances' sake.

What else? I trust God now, and not only with my future, but with the person I am right now. Given my propensity toward self-promotion and my historic struggles with pride, coming into Project I was absolutely loathe to assume any sort of responsibility or leadership. Insecurities about my abilities, about what others thought of me, and my own sin struggles threatened to cripple any sort of ministry that I even hoped to have. If I didn't feel like I was good enough to serve a perfect God or alongside His people, then I tried to pretend like I was. And if I did, in fact, feel like I was good enough to do either of those, then I held it as a sort of spiritual "ace in the hole," to make sure that I always had a certain reserve of "God-points."

What, then, is different? At the end of our time together, for our farewell banquet, we were asked to prepare cards detailing what God had done in our lives while on Project. Mine, though hastily prepared, was nonetheless heartfelt. "I can stop trying to prove myself to others. I can stop trying to be good enough. I can stop pretending to have it all together. Because really, God is my perfect standard. I'm not good enough (nor will I ever be). I will never have it all together. And that's ok. Galatians 3:3."

"Are you so foolish? After beginning with the Spirit, are you now trying to attain your goal by human effort?"

What will I miss most about Project? When I first thought about this question, all those weeks ago in my room at the Automatic Lofts, I was hesitant to say that I would miss the people of CSP09 more than anything else. Not by any means because I wouldn't. Much to the contrary! I knew that I would miss them as dearly as I would miss an absent brother or sister. To say, though, that the family I discovered on Project would be what I missed the most would be... so cliche. But the more I thought about it, the truer it became to me. Because all other things that had happened on Project were things that I could take with me back to my life. The heart-change, the new ideas and attitudes about ministry, the memories, God's very immediate presence, these were all things that I could take home. The family I found in Chicago was the one thing that I would have to leave behind.

What, specifically, would I miss about life amongst these amazing people? There's too much. Too much. Where would I even begin? The outrageous shenanigans of Neil and Jeremy. The intentional encouragement of Katie. The late night conversations with Jess. The unbridled, infectious energy of Leanne. The crazy girls of Room 205. Discussing life struggles with Ray. Will's off-the-wall goofiness. DING DONG DOORS CLOSING. The down-to-Earth authenticity of my roommates. The camaraderie and unified purpose of the worship team. The real vulnerability within my action group. Coming together and stepping forward as a body of believers committed to loving God, loving each other, and loving the city as a whole. Because maybe, just maybe, that's what it's supposed to be.

What am I most excited about? New major. Continuing friendships. Trained in ministry. Trusting God. With my whole life. Watching other people grow up right before my very eyes. Being encouraging. Being encouraged. Loving God each and every day. Heaven.

Am I getting ahead of myself here? I hardly think so. Why Heaven? The longer I live trusting in God's provision, the more I realize simply how good life can be. And when I think life simply can't be topped, God comes through and does it again. I shouldn't even be surprised anymore. If there was one take-away lesson from this summer for me, it would simply be this. If God can take my summer that I've entrusted completely to his care and make it absolutely, life-changingly amazing. Then how much more could he use the rest of my life?

A question I've been asked since I've returned from Project is a simple one. Why was it so good? Why did I love my Project experience so much? I could come up with a lot of answers that, though well-intentioned and technically correct, would only explain part of what this summer means to me. I loved it because it was challenging. I loved it because of the people. I loved it because we got to share the Gospel with people we never would have otherwise met. I loved it because we had a ton of fun.

But really, I loved my summer in Chicago because maybe, just maybe, it painted a heart-picture of what, exactly, life in Christ is supposed to look like. That's not to say that life in Christ is always supposed to be spent on a missions trip to some exciting location, or that we all need to raise support for the rest of our life, or that Campus Crusade for Christ is the best example of how to live the Christian life. It's not that at all. And it's not to say that we had a perfect summer. Far from it.

But...

God's people living in community with one another, sharing in everything and rejoicing (Acts 4:42-47). God's people encouraging and loving one another as true brothers and sisters in Christ (Colossians 2:2). God's people rejoicing with each other and sharing in each others' sorrows (Romans 12:15). God's people learning to completely rely on his grace (Galatians 3:3). God's people stepping forward with one united purpose and fighting for the glory of their righteous Father (1 Peter 2:12).

In our own, incomplete, broken, sinful way, God gave us a taste, I think, of what Heaven will be.

This... this was my Abraham summer. When God called me to step into the unknown of not just the summer, but the rest of my life, and I finally responded, albeit with much hesitation and reluctance. When God showed me how abundantly a life lived resting in his promise can be. When God gave me a glimpse of what hope eternal truly looks like. And now having my eyes opened to how richly he has showered me with that hope, I can step forward confidently, knowing that I step in the footprints of one far greater and more glorious than I. Perhaps our prayer in life should not be that God would pave the road and tame the uncertain wilderness ahead of us. Rather, perhaps our prayer should be that God would provide us with the boots needed to traverse and truly experience the rough terrain of life.

I cried this summer. But I'm so glad God gave me a summer worth crying about.

The Hurricane in Dove's Wings

There are moments in my life where I stumble upon unbelief. Moments where of spiritual vertigo, where I find myself at the center of the storm that is my life. These moments of crisis, where my faith is on trial, threaten to overwhelm me at times. They threaten to crack the bedrock on which the foundation of my life is laid and cast long shadows on the green pastures of God's promises.

It's an almost-audible voice that speaks to me in these moments, in a sneering and condescending tone, a voice that drips with sarcasm and cynicism.

"David, you idiot! Are you serious!? Is this seriously what you're going to condemn your life to? Look around you, for goodness' sake! You are on a college campus of 40,000 college students, the great majority of whom are more willing at this time in their lives than at any other to live for themselves! They're going to make huge money with their educations for themselves! They'll be the ones buying the mansions, they'll be the ones with the fame and the respect, they'll be the ones with the beautiful wife and the scholarly accolades. And you? What will you have? You've committed your life to a lie. Give it up now, and forget this. There's still time for you.

Do you seriously believe that all this around you, this world that exists, this world so full of selfishness and envy and strife, this world in which only the top dog wins, and second place is only the best loser, do you seriously believe that an all-powerful and all-good God reigns over all of this? Do you seriously believe that an intelligent and loving God created you in his image and his image alone? Do you seriously believe that that God was born of a virgin, healed others of their sickness and blindness, willingly died on our behalf, and rose again? And you seriously believe that his life in you and through you will grant you eternal life and eternal rewards in Heaven? You are an imbecile. You are nothing.

And it's in those moments where I'm left speechless, where I have nothing to say, and it's all I can do to cling to the cliff face with my eyes shut and my teeth gritted. It's in those moments where I'm utterly helpless, my strength fails me, and the Enemy seems poised for a final, killing blow. It's in those moments that another voice, almost audible, but completely contrary to the first, makes itself heard. It always begins with a single word, like an echo from a distant valley, or a whisper through a closed door. And although it begins with little more than a whisper, it builds strength swiftly like a wave cresting on some distant beach. And once God speaks, the Enemy silenced. He has nothing else he can say.

"Yes."

"Yes. You do believe this. Seriously."

And it is then that I realize that I do believe this. I do believe that in a God who rules sovereign and loves a world that, by and large, has rejected him. I do believe in the power of a risen God who paid the ultimate sacrifice so that we might return to him some day. I do believe in a faith that is worth fighting for, in a God worth living for, in a love worth dying for. I believe that, beyond all the theology, all the apologetics, all the debate about a Young Earth vs. an Old Earth, all the predestination vs. free will, despite all of our shortcomings and the failings of our generations, our God reigns. And he is unchallenged.

Something I realized recently about these recurring episodes of crisis and doubt that strike me from time to time is simply this: God will not compete for air time. During these times I realize that God doesn't try to interrupt the enemy. He doesn't get into a shouting match with Satan. He won't wrestle with my doubt, nor will he fight tooth and nail for my attention. He has better things to do than to get into a screaming contest with Satan. Instead, he waits. Like a parent who waits until their child tires of screaming in tantrum, like the sun that waits for the tornado to pass before shining brighter than before, God waits. And with a hint of a smile in his voice, he says something.

"Are you finished?"

"Can I speak now?"

And the words alone are proof enough for me that my God reigns supreme. One of my favorite passages of Scripture is in Job, where in a final understandable fit of frustration, Job caves and tries to call God out.

From Job 38-39:
Then the LORD answered Job out of the storm. He said, "Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge? Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me. Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation? Tell me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it? ...when I said, 'This far you may come and no farther; here is where your proud waves halt'? ...Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons or lead out the Bear with its cubs? ...Does the hawk take flight by your wisdom and spread his wings toward the south? Does the eagle soar at your command and build his nest on high?"

And Job's doubts are destroyed. He is speechless before a God whose sheer magnitude is incomprehensible, a God who possesses the means to give and take away, a God who restores Job far beyond his imagination. A God who has given us eternity to get to know him better.

And it's that same God who fights my battles for me, who wakes me up each morning. It's that same God who wrought a permanent and ongoing change in my life all those years go, and is carrying that work to completion in me. It's that God who considered me worth dying for so that I would consider him worth living for.

It's in that God that I do. seriously. believe.