When God Gives You a City

Most of you think this post is going to be about Paris. It's not. It's about Columbus, Ohio.

The flight to my connection in O'Hare gave me the time I needed to mourn, process, deal. The older I get, the slower I transition. When I went to Virginia Beach for a summer during college with Cru, I didn't even pack until the night before, let alone think about it or get excited. Even more so with Paris. And watching the last bits of Ohioan shores on Lake Erie drift away beneath me, I realized what a homegrown Midwesterner I am.

Now, this is a scandalous admittance for me, saying I love that ol' scarlet-and-gray flyover state. This from the girl who wanted none of that hometown stuff, but oh! to see the world, to move to exciting places as soon as her feet touched the ground! I begged God every night of my senior year of college to send me somewhere amazing, somewhere I would meet my destiny. And he stuck me with a job in Columbus.

I remember riding my bike last fall, and watching a glorious sunset behind the cityscape and scornfully pouting, "Here, God? You want me here? I'd rather be any place else in the world."
And God's response was something I'll never forget.
He said, "Love the city I gave you."

How many of us really love the city we live in? I don't mean just put up with it. I mean drink in its smells and colors and sounds. I mean learn about its history, its future. Study its streets and flowers and buildings. A city is an organic thing, constantly growing, stretching, repairing, restoring. In order to know and love your city, you have to check in with it constantly. You have to know its needs, its pleasures, its problems. To love a city requires commitment.

The funny thing is, I didn't want to do any of this. I didn't want Clipper's games or Short North gallery hops or Red White and Boom. And I certainly didn't want to commit to the same state I'd been living in my whole life. I wanted to be as far away as possible. In Nashville, in California, in...Paris?

But it was the way he said it. He gave it to me. Gave. Had he said "the city I put you in" or "the city I assigned you to," how different my approach would have been. But he said gave. As in, a gift. As in, something that someone specifically picks out, with you personally in mind, hoping you will choose to keep it and cherish it. Something not to be suffered through or tossed aside. Could I learn to cherish this hand-me-down, everyone-stays-here city?

During my year of working in Columbus, I was blessed to see more sides of her than I ever saw before. And that didn't happen on accident. I thought, Well, if I'm going to be here, I'm going to make the most of it. I joined clubs, tried restaurants, went dancing, and eventually become a certified tourism ambassador (which is why I ended up in Paris today, read this post.) I got involved at a church, not because I wanted to, but because I knew I needed to. I found there a most unexpected and deeply loving community. I worked hard, really hard, at making friends and keeping them.

And in the end, I fell in love with Columbus, Ohio. Who would have thought I would ever say it was hard for me to leave Ohio for Paris? Not me. But God knew.
What we think is only as a bridge can sometimes truly be our anchor.

What about you? Has God given you a city? If so, what are you going to do about it?

Last Days in America

Sitting on a cushiony velvet sofa, listening to the cool blasé buzz of the city streets below, and reminding myself that the past few days weren't a dream. I really am in Paris, and this is my new home for a year. Let's recap.

Saturday: Family wedding for my cousin Ryan and his gorgeous wife Ashton. The venue was a romantic rustic brick summer home tucked in the backwoods of Xenia, Ohio. 

Just look at that happy groom!

Sunday: Goodbyes with my parent's church and my grandparents. So much encouragement and prayer from my spiritual mommas and poppas who have watched me do crazy stuff like this since I was born. And an impromptu early Thanksgiving dinner with my family at my grandparents...how perfect! Thank you Bob Evans and Starbucks (especially for the early PSL release date).

Monday: Playing games and recovering from a full weekend. Goodbyes with my sister and brother-in-law, who are, may I just say, completely awesome. Watch the Sound of Music, a most appropriate choice given the circumstances. Realize how much I have let me driving skills slip in a final Payne family MarioKart Wii tourney. Say goodbye to my baby sister. That was hard.

Tuesday: The big day. Desperately trying to slim down a 66 lbs suitcase to 50. Running last minute checks and getting my parents up to date on all things technology for cross-sea communication. 

--Pause--

We live in amazing times, people. Like, just stop and think about it. Really think about it. I am an ocean away from all my loved ones, yet I can still instantly converse with them, even have face-to-face interactions, in a few simple clicks of the button or taps on a touchscreen. We live in unprecedented times. 

--Continue--

We drive to the airport, stopping one last time for a single combo meal from Wendy's. Because they sure don't have that in the land of crepes and boeuf bourguignon. The drive to the airport is quiet. There comes a point where there isn't anything else to say. Just holding hands and holding back tears.

My friend Hannah came for a few minutes to wish me goodbye. She is my travel buddy, having studied abroad in Europe and Asia, so having her there made me feel a little more confident. Then we go to check my one suitcase. It's 3.5 lbs over.

Travel tip 1: Take the baggage policies at face value and don't overpack.

Travel tip 2: If you're like me and blatantly disregard the first tip, have someone come with you to the airport with a suitcase for things you have to ditch last minute. 

With my suitcase checked and an hour until boarding, my parents and I waited as long as possible before I had to go through security. I wish I could tell you I was full of excitement and anticipation, going on the adventure of a a lifetime. I wish I could say all I could see was life in pink waiting for me, like the name of this blog.

But sitting in the chairs outside security, looking into the eyes of the two people who have loved for me, cared for me, treasured me the most in this life, I felt my heart tearing. We held hands as I sat there, mourning the year of separation that security line meant for us. I felt silly, but somehow rightfully so. Even technology can't imitate the soothing solace of sharing moments with the ones you love and who know you.

I have had trouble with my family relationships in the past, due to my own selfishness and immaturity. This past year, God has mended those relationships and renewed my love for my family in astounding ways. And now that I felt I truly understood their significance to me, I was leaving them. It's hard to be excited about the unknown when you're in love with the life you already have.
But perhaps that's why I had to leave, to know that life is more than I think it is at 23.

Finally I walked through security. Every time I looked back my parents were there, waving as high as they could, straining to see me until they couldn't anymore. I think I may have hyper-ventilated once or twice as I turned around for the final time.

No going back now.

Mattresses and Memories

Let me tell you a story of a young girl who was lost and broken. She moved into a new house and said goodbye to a dear friend and an old life. And every night in her new house, she mourned and wept and pressed deeply into her bed as if to press into another world far from the pain. And one night, amidst streaming tears and a snotty nose, she heard God whisper, I'm here. And she pressed so deeply into her bed that night that she found herself pressed into the very heart of God, the very arms of Christ, never the same.

I sold that bed today.

It's funny how different things affect us during the moving process. I never thought once that I would mourn for a bed. Yet here I am, wiping back tears and trying to feel it as if it were alive and could tell me things, tell me how many tears and laughs and secrets were shared with roommates and best friends on its soft, cushy surface.

I remember my mother telling me once that a bed is a sacred place. I've always considered that statement in regards to marriage. But truly, it goes beyond that. A bed is where you are most vulnerable, unconscious in your dreams. A bed is where you go when all the world is grey and wrong. A bed is where you first see the sunlight of every day. A bed is where you feel the sweet reward of rest after a long day's work. A bed is where you find quiet and a settling of the soul. A bed is a very special place.

I know it may sound funny, and perhaps you may think I'm being dramatic. But losing this bed feels almost like losing a friend, with very sweet memories woven deep into its every curve and edge. I experienced God in the most radical and intimate way over the past three years. Starting that night I felt Him hold me, in this bed.

I can only hope another little girl somewhere, perhaps also lost and broken, will find Him there, too.

Update:

Another way that being in God's family is so amazing-- when this family came to pick up the bed, they asked to pray for me. So right then my mom and the three of us joined hands and prayed in my cluttered half-packed apartment. It's like I can't go anywhere without getting prayer for my trip!

Season of Lasts

When you know the end is near, you act differently. You can't help it. Suddenly all your senses are heightened. The sun feels warmer, the time flies faster, and the tears come easier.

There are three milestone changes in life: marriage, babies, and moving. The first two are treated with so much joy and praise. New beginnings, new people, new loves. Challenges, yes. But they symbolize future, growth in the life you already have. But moving... in my last few months in preparing to move to Paris, I have realized that moving is different.

When you move, it's exciting and new novel, but it's also like a death. The season of "lasts." Last family get-together. Last girls night. Last day at the job. Last worship night. Friends you haven't spoken to in years will move mountains to get that last coffee with you. Suddenly it's your pick for every restaurant, because, you know... And everyone treats you carefully, fragilely, like a priceless porcelain statue that if they nudge too harshly may shatter prematurely.

Then there's the squeeze. It will happen suddenly and without ceremony. You are in the middle of a board game, an ice cream run, shoe shopping, and you realize. You won't be doing this again, not with these people. You are putting this life to death. And your heart will contract until you feel you can't breathe. And you don't want to say anything and be a Debbie Downer. So you just endure the squeeze in silence, watching the world you love play out in its final act.

I once read a quote by an unknown author that said

"Don't work to make you presence known. Make your absence felt."

I think the ones who love the deepest, feel their friends absence before they even leave themselves.
Appreciate the ones you love, friends. Ask God to teach you how to love them deeply. And He will.

"Now that you have purified yourselves by obeying the truth so that you have sincere love for each other, love one another deeply, from the heart. " 1 Peter 1:22

When you tell people you're moving to Paris...

A hidden treasure in the whole process of moving is how much you learn about your friends and family when you tell them you are moving (in particular, moving to Paris). What people don't realize is how much their reactions reveal about themselves and their view of the world.

Since making the big announcement that I am moving to Paris,  I have found that I can categorize most people into two camps: the dreamers and the realists.

The dreamers say things like:
"You are definitely going to meet your hot French husband over there."
"You are never going to come back."
"I am totally gonna come visit you."

The realist say things like:
"Do you even speak French?"
"I could never do that."
"Have you told your current job?"

Both have their pros and cons. The dreamers will promise the world, then disappear on delivery day. The realists can come off an unsupportive and bubble-bursters.

I definitely land in the dreamers camp. Caution to the wind, and what is bureaucracy? When they think of Paris, they see the tourist sites, espresso at the outdoor cafe, and of course, everyone in love. The realists are already calculating the cost of such a trip, and how on earth you are going to get all your paperwork done in time? They are quick to reassure themselves of their contentedness in their routine schedules and familiar grocery lists, and they ask "helpful questions" hoping you will reconsider career suicide.

Now there are occasional exceptions to these camps:

*The dreamers-turned-realists.
Usually older, they wanted to travel but instead chose the American dream, and ended up with a mortgage and PTO meetings. (Families are wonderful, don't get me wrong. It just makes travel immensely more complicated and expensive). "Do it while you're young; you'll never have this time back," they will croon, with a sad far away look in their eyes. Not regret really, just wondering how life may have been different...

*The people with no cultural interest whatsoever.
They probably have lived in the same town their whole lives and frankly could care less about your little life escapade, because why on earth would you want to leave America? They'll respond with a "Wow, that's cool" before promptly turning the conversation to football and hunting season.

While some people might get defensive about their decisions to move when confronted, I find it much more enjoyable to look at these different reactions as gifts, a new way to get to know the people God has placed in our lives. Travel is not for everyone, nor is living in another culture. Love the people your given, even when they don't process your big move the way you wish they would. And remember... you're moving to PARIS.

I know something you don't know

Last night I sat amongst friends during bible study and wept. They didn't see me weep. Or at least they pretended they didn't notice, to give me privacy, I think. Or maybe they just aren't surprised anymore. Most had their eyes closed and voices lifted in worship. And so I wept.

This is now the second time where I find myself sitting amongst a group of people I love knowing that I will be all too soon be leaving all their quirks and inside jokes and familiarity. I sat marveling at how each person sang in their own world, making the words matter so much more than they knew. I wept for the love that I had for each person that had slowly crept in these past 6 months. It's funny how quickly love can rush in, yet how long it lasts.

 I wept for the knowledge that they would go on and live their lives without me and be perfectly fine. Sometimes it is healthy to recognize one's own insignificance. That when you leave, the impact stays. The work, done. The season, closed.

I almost told them, as we lazed in happy summer dreams and planned out the next few social months together. I almost told them, as we talked of camping trips, pool parties, and baseball games. But God put me at peace. Nothing needed stirred up here today.

Here friendships have been planted. Here bonds have been made. Here love has inhabited. And my part in it is coming to a close.

One more week. And I will tell them.