A Cup of Passion and a New Perspective

December 30, 2015 / Rachel Sherburne / 5 Comments

It’s our new favorite place in Mexico. Not just because of the cozy, quaint interior or friendly staff, but because they serve the best espresso we’ve ever had.

Passione Caffé is on our way home from yoga and since caffeine is normally required to revive us from that work out, we’ve been frequenting it a lot lately.

There’s something about taking the time to sit at a table and order a cup of coffee that comes in a real china cup. About savoring each sip, being present and having meaningful conversation with another person.

Sharing a house and a car, Natalie and I spend just about every waking moment together, but in this place we are free from distractions and our conversation often goes deep. To the desires of our heart – our hopes to one day be remarried and have kids. To the work God has done and is doing in our lives – how much we’ve grown over the last year and also how much more refining we need. To where we think He is leading and where we think we’ll end up – will we come back to Virginia? Mexico? Some other part of the world?

At this rightly named “Caffé” we’re drinking espresso, but I like to think we’re sipping on a little cup of “passion.” We share our hopes and dreams and the combination of conversation and coffee further whets our appetite for the adventure God has in store for us, albeit largely unknown.

Yesterday as we sipped, we reflected on the group of gals we had just met. They came down from San Diego to surf for a few days and stopped in to take a yoga class.

Always interested in meeting new people (especially fellow 30-somethings since there aren’t many of us here), Natalie and I struck up a conversation with some of these ladies after class.

After the usual niceties, we faced the inevitable questions about what we do for a living and how we came to live in Mexico. Three months into this adventure, we’ve honed a solid, 30-second explanation. It goes something like this:

“We both went through a divorce in the last 18 months. We own our own business, don’t have kids and have enough money saved up after working for a decade to take a year off. So, we cashed out our retirement funds, packed up and left nearly everything behind in Virginia, drove across the country and are living here in Baja California for three months. The plan is to see 7 continents over the next 8 months or so.”

This usually elicits overwhelmingly enthusiastic approval or confessions of jealousy from whoever we are talking to. But, if it doesn’t and we sense the person is not totally on board with our plan we then add:

“We’re young, single and we realized that we only have a short window of time to do this – especially if we end up getting married and having kids. So, why not now? Worst case scenario, we have the most amazing time seeing the world and when we get back, we settle down, get jobs and make more money.”

This usually does the trick; as even the most sensible and risk-averse person has a hard time disagreeing with this logic.

In the case of these San Diego surfer girls, we were far from crazy. Word must have traveled among the group in a matter of minutes because after we said goodbye and began to drive away, they waved at us to roll down the window.

“You girls are an inspiration!” they shouted enthusiastically.

It felt good to hear that. I mean, who doesn’t want the affirmation and approval of others? Especially when you’re a recovering type-A, East coast performance addict and it’s coming from a bunch of chilled-out Californians. But 20 minutes later at Passione Caffé I felt differently.

As Natalie and I pontificated over coffee it all became so clear. This trip is much more than two divorced girls trading in their broken hearts and marriages for a trip around the world. It’s more than impressing people with our courage to step out of our comfort zones and take risks. It’s more than the cool places we will see along the way. That may be part of it, but what this trip is really about is following God. Being obedient to where He is calling us. So that in the end, HIS purpose is accomplished and HE gets the glory – not us.

“While our plan is to see 7 continents, that may not be where God leads us,” I tell Natalie. “The truth is that we really don’t have a clue as to where we’ll be or what our lives will look like in 6 months to a year.” She nods in agreement. And then the irony of it all occurs to me and I laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“As a coach, the FIRST question I ask my clients to clearly define is, “What do you want your life to be like in 6 to 12 months,” I say. “And here I am and I don’t have a clue how to answer that question!”

We laugh some more but what then occurs to me is that perhaps this is the wrong question to ask. In a society where we are told to make our destiny and do what makes us happy, and at a time when we are encouraged to set goals for the new year, maybe the question isn’t “Where do I want to be in the next 6-12 months.” It’s “Where does God want me to be?”

I know that in order to get that answer I have to slow down. I have to intentionally seek God and silence the distractions around me. And if I want to actually do what God wants me to do and be who He wants me to be, I have to sacrifice and surrender my own will.

That’s much easier said than done. But in the end, God’s will is the absolute best thing.

So, for 2016, I’m not going to set a bunch of goals about what I think I should be accomplishing. Instead, I’m going to focus on just one goal – uniformity with God’s will.

Today, as I sip another espresso at Passione Caffé, I feel a newfound passion. A new clarity about my purpose. And a new hope that if I’m truly conformed to the will of God, this “Great Enlivening” may look very different from what I originally thought or what we might plan, but it will be infinitely better.

The Merging of Two Worlds

December 22, 2015December 23, 2015 / Rachel Sherburne / 2 Comments

I’ve never actually made gumbo, which as an LSU graduate and the daughter of two Louisiana-born natives is embarrassing to admit and liable to have my “Cajun card” in question.

That’s why when my parents came to visit, I figured it was the perfect time to learn. Not to mention a great opportunity to introduce a little Cajun culture to some of our new friends in Mexico.

While Natalie and I have met some wonderful people here, two in particular have been unbelievable blessings to us; Claudio, our neighbor, and Susana, our Spanish teacher.

Meet Claudio.

An Italian-born Frenchman, Claudio speaks 5 languages, and spends his weekends riding his Harley motorcycle with Solo Angeles (formally Hells Angels of Tijuana.)

Despite the seemingly tough exterior, he’s a big softy at heart with a flair for the finer things in life. He makes incredible pasta dishes, ice cream sundaes and cappuccino (which he drinks each morning with his chocolate croissant), and has taken us under his wing to ensure we don’t starve, get into too much trouble and also, that we have the complete Baja California experience.

A father-figure of sorts, he is a 15 year-old boy in a 67-year-old body and just as funny and entertaining as he is generous. He has served as our tour-guide, chauffeur (making several trips with us to the border, the San Diego airport and multiple stores around town) and also our stand-in dog sitter. Nimitz and Mugsy – especially Mugsy – adore him. (Probably because he feeds them pasta too!) 🙂

He keeps threatening that it’s time for us to leave the nest and “fly on our own” but we think he secretly enjoys having two stand-in daughters to look after. At least we hope he does!

Meet Susana.

A blonde German born in Mexico, Susana speaks 4 languages (yes, Natalie and I clearly need to up our language skills) and is as sweet as a sugar cookie. She gave us a hefty discount on our lessons so that we could afford to see her 3 times a week. An excellent Spanish instructor, she not only teaches us the language but also expertly educates us on pronunciation and Mexican culture so that we don’t embarrass ourselves too badly while here.

She and her husband, Jose, a gregarious local with an infectious laugh, treated us to a delicious dinner last week at their favorite restaurant. They have also escorted us to another border crossing, are a wealth of information about the local area and continually offer to help us in any way they can.

Needless to say, these folks have truly helped us over the last 6 weeks and while I know a dinner party isn’t much, I figured it would be a small way to say thanks.

After picking up my parents from the San Diego airport, we did a grocery store run to get all the necessary ingredients to make this most authentic Louisiana dish: Okra, chicken, sausage, shrimp, green peppers and onions, celery, rice, and also oil and flour for the roux (which starts the whole process and largely determines the flavor).

“You don’t have vegetable oil and flour?” my Dad asks when he sees them in my cart. “Only olive oil,” I answer without hesitation. How do I explain to him that my cooking these days comes down to scrambling eggs, stir-frying veggies, throwing a frozen pizza in the oven or microwaving a bag of popcorn?

“Do you even have Tony’s?” he asks with a look of serious concern. “Of course I do,” I respond. (Tony Chachere’s cajun seasoning is a household staple for all Louisianians). “I may not know how to cook Gumbo, but I haven’t forgotten my roots,” I reassure him.

“Ok, good. Well we brought the file seasoning (ground sassafras leaves) from home,” he tells me.

Getting all the ingredients in San Diego cost a small fortune, but apart from a tiny bit of crab boil we couldn’t find, we had everything we needed. My mom chopped all the veggies and my Dad supervised with making the roux and coaching me on how to put it all together.

It was a lot more labor intensive than I imagined, but after several hours, I officially made my first gumbo!

Now, while my name may be Rachel, I’ve never pretended my last name is Ray. But there was a time in my life when cooking and hosting get-togethers was a regular occurrence. When I tried new recipes looking for the ones that would “wow” my guests. When I loved pulling out my white china, setting placemats, arranging napkins with rings and silverware on a beautiful table that could easily seat 10.

Before I’d bring the hot dishes to the server, I’d invite guests to sip wine and sample appetizers on our two-piece wine bar. The music and lighting would be soft. The temperature just right. And if I did my job as a hostess correctly, no one had to ask me for anything throughout the course of the night and no one left without a fully belly, a huge hug and the warm feeling of being loved inside.

But all of that changed a few years ago.

Between a divorce, 4 moves and paring down from a 4-bedroom house to a single bedroom worth of stuff, I didn’t have the space nor the energy to entertain. But over the last few months I’ve realized how much I missed opening my home and sharing a meal with others. So, I vowed that when I got settled into our place in Mexico (and actually knew some people to invite), I’d start doing so again.

Of course, I don’t have any fine china here. Forget about a wine bar or server. I don’t even have 6 place settings that match! Our rustic wooden table only seats 6, so we squeezed in a folding chair I found stashed in my closet and asked Claudio to bring over two more wine glass so we would have enough. (I already had to borrow a pot from him to cook the gumbo!)

The plan was to make this incredibly yummy baked cheese appetizer but apparently Mexicans don’t eat havarti cheese or crescent rolls since I couldn’t find them anywhere. So, we we settled for cheese, crackers and apples which I displayed on the only available space in our tiny kitchen – the side of the counter.

I insisted on fixing everyone’s plate, not only because I was born and bred to embrace Southern hospitality, but also because once everyone was seated around the table, there wouldn’t be enough room for anyone to get up again.

Finally, we were all gathered snuggly around the table. There was a hodgepodge of dishes and glasses and a random assortment of silverware placed neatly on our make-shift paper-towel napkins.

It wasn’t fancy or impressive, but as I asked everyone to bow their head so I could pray, I was thankful. Thankful for each person. Thankful for the blessing of each life and the fact that I know mine is richer for having the privilege of sharing it with these people. And that’s exactly what I said.

As we ate, drank, shared stories and laughed, I realized it was the merging of two worlds – my upbringing and family life back home and the new community of friends I’ve made here. And that despite the differences in ages, cultures, language and religion, sitting around that table we were a family of sorts.

Considering everyone wanted seconds, I think the gumbo was a hit. And based on the feedback from Claudio and Susana the next day, they did indeed leave with full stomachs and full hearts. My only regret is that I was so caught up enjoying the evening that I forgot to take pictures!

Oh well. I know the memory of that night will not soon fade. Nor will my relationships with Claudio, Susana and Jose. And even though they were only here for 5 days, I know my Mom and Dad feel the same way.

This Christmas day I’ll be sitting at my parent’s large dinning room table with perfectly matching place settings, a gorgeous centerpiece and an exquisite meal that will rival anything from a 5-star restaurant. And while that will be wonderful, what I am most looking forward to are the people who will be around me; my family. These are the people who have been with me through countless ups and downs, know all of my failings and continue to love and support me unconditionally despite them all. Even when I do crazy things like cash out my retirement to spend a year traveling the world.

What I’ve come to understand after selling, packing up and leaving nearly everything I own behind is that the stuff in life doesn’t really matter, the people do.

Oh sure, there’s nothing wrong with nice things and I can certainly appreciate ambience and impressive decor in the moment. But what ultimately makes my life rich and beautiful are the people I spend it with. The people who laugh with me and cry with me. The people who disagree with me and love me enough to challenge me. And the people who will always be in my heart, even if we are thousands of miles apart.

The only real downside to this whole “Enlivening Adventure” is that I probably won’t get to see my family much over the next year as Natalie and I galavant across the globe, which is why I’m going to cherish every moment I have with them this Christmas.

The good news is that through people like Claudio and Susana, God has shown me that family can have a broader definition. And that if I’m willing to embrace those He divinely connects me with (and maybe even cook another Cajun meal or two), I’ll have family wherever I go.

Finding the Soft Edge

December 16, 2015December 16, 2015 / Natalie Hunter / 3 Comments

“Just a little bit farther…” Hannah says as she grabs my foot and places it in my hand. I feel all of my muscles stretching deeply from my shoulder through my hip; and my heart starts to pound. I’m not so sure that my body was meant to bend this way. My peripheral vision is getting a little sparkly, so I take a deep breath and remind myself that I am thankful for this yoga class. Although as I hold this pose, I’m struggling to remember why…

Rachel and I met Hannah the week that we arrived in Mexico. She’s a 30-something, former gymnast with the flexibility of Gumby who owns a yoga studio nearby. Yoga is something I’ve literally never been interested in. I always assumed that it was more breathing and drum circles than real exercise. So when I met Hannah, I had zero desire to take her class.

But when she invited us to a class at a winery in the beautiful Valle de Guadalupe (Guadalupe Valley), followed by a wine tasting and five course meal, how could I say no? The Valle de Guadalupe is the Mexican version of Napa Valley, and it’s about forty-five minutes from our house.

Yoga in the Vineyard

12244263_769524023153959_6235086697837831164_o

The reward for doing Yoga in the Vineyard…

The outdoor setting was serene and peaceful, so I went into the class expecting it to be easy. After all, I’m the kind of girl who appreciates a tough workout – running, volleyball, swimming – as long as I end up sweaty and exhausted, count me in! But Hannah’s class was challenging… to put it mildly. In fact, I spent the entire hour on the verge of collapse.

Now, I think I’m in pretty good shape, so the fact that I struggled so much during that first class lit a fire of determination and stubbornness inside me. I decided to master this yoga business, even if it’s the last thing I do in Mexico!

So after several weeks of downward dogs, bound pigeons and cow faced poses, I can safely say that Rachel and I are getting… better! And we definitely have a new appreciation for yoga.

“Now breathe, and press your hips toward the sky…” Hannah says as she transitions us into another challenging pose. As I move into position, I hear someone tip over behind me. I breathe a sigh of relief, because although I know that Yoga isn’t a competition, I’m pretty happy I’m still standing.

“And now take a soft child’s pose…” Hannah says in her calming tone.

“Hallelujah,” I think to myself, “I thought I was going to pass out in that last position.”

I lay on the mat and as my breath starts to come back to me, so does my appreciation for this class. My mind drifts to the Thanksgiving dinner that Rachel and I had a couple weeks ago. It was completely atypical and not very American. For the first time in years I wasn’t surrounded by friends and family, and I didn’t spend the whole day cooking. In fact, it was just Rachel and I, and we went out to eat at a local steakhouse. We listened to mariachi music and ate tortillas soaked in butter. Instead of pumpkin pie, we finished the evening with a slice of dulce de leche cake. It was fantastic.

At thanksgiving we talked about all of the things we’re thankful for in this new season of life – this amazing adventure, the support of friends and family, the beautiful home we’re staying in, two sweet dogs, and yes, this yoga class. Aside from giving us an amazing workout four days a week, it’s a wonderful new experience that pushed us out of our comfort zone.

Hannah snaps me back to reality when she says it’s time for another challenging pose. As we get into position, she encourages us to find the “soft edge” in our exercise. She describes this edge as a place just beyond comfort. It’s a place where we’re stretched beyond our norm and forced to grow. While I know she’s talking about our muscles, I can’t help but think that maybe the “soft edge” applies to everything in this life.

I contemplate this thought as Hannah finally puts us into the Shavasana (aka- the corpse pose), signaling the end of the practice. In this pose, you lay on your back, close your eyes, and rest. It’s simple but powerful, and it’s basically the best time of the day.

As I lay here on the floor, I think through the concept of the soft edge and what it represents – growth, determination, and continual learning. I like that idea. What if I shifted my perspective and pushed myself to the soft edge in every facet of my life, like self-awareness, faith, and relationships? I’m not entirely sure what that would look like, but maybe that’s what this adventure is all about: discovering the soft edges in life that will gently push me to grow into the beautiful person God designed.

In Mexico, I’m an Amazon

December 9, 2015December 16, 2015 / Rachel Sherburne / 1 Comment

At 5’7” I’m slightly above the average height of women in America. In Mexico, I’m practically an amazon. A white giant among a dark-skinned population of people who are well…for the most part, fairly petite.

This is especially obvious to me when I’m at the gym. And by gym, I mean a single room that is no more than 20 feet wide by 30 feet long. There are no weights or machines. Just a wall of mirrors, 20 or so handmade wooden steps piled in the corner and a small counter in the back with a fridge and blender where you can purchase a sports drink of sorts (I’ve never tried one though it seems most of the people there consume one every day).

Natalie noticed a sign for Zumba the second day we were in Mexico, and since I’m mildly obsessed with dancing, I had to check it out. Turns out that Zumba is really a high-paced step aerobics class, but it’s the only workout facility within 25 minutes and at $1 a class, it’s hard to beat the price.

An early bird by nature, I decided to go to the 6:30 a.m. class hoping to get a good workout and “blend in.” Being nearly a head taller than everyone else made that a little challenging, not to mention my inability to understand Spanish and the rapid step changes that seemed to come every 12 -15 seconds.

My concern was less about looking like an idiot and more about accidentally kicking the woman behind me or smacking the girl next to me in the face with my flailing arm. Long limbs served me well as a basketball player, but in a Mexican aerobic class they are potentially deadly weapons. Especially here. Fire codes either don’t exist or are irrelevant. You pay and you get to participate in class….even if that means squeezing 20 people in a room that does not comfortably hold more than 10. And even then it’s tight.

Now, a few weeks and a dozen classes later, I’m a regular. The “Senoras” greet me with a bright “Buenos dias” when I arrive and then promptly point to which wooden step I’m “assigned to.” Apparently I’m not the only once concerned about controlling my lengthy limbs. And yet, when I inadvertently make contact with someone around me – which usually happens at least once a class – they just smile when I say “perdon” and shrug it off. They don’t expect me to be any different than I am.

And yet, for most of my life I tried to do exactly that. To be different; to modify who I was in order to conform to societal pressure, garner the approval of others, or meet some unhealthy or unrealistic standard. And when I couldn’t do that, I would hide what I didn’t like, or apologize for it. Talk about being exhausting and a recipe for feeling perpetually inadequate!

Today I know better. That while far from perfect, I’m made in the image of the most-high God. And that instead of trying to be someone different, what I really need to learn is how to be authentically me.

Authenticity was the theme of the talk I gave last month at the “Women on the Way” Catholic Women’s conference in Richmond, Virginia, and something God has been teaching me a lot about recently.

On the surface, it sounds really simple. “Just be yourself!” But being authentic requires courage, vulnerability and sometimes exposes the deepest, most flawed and unredeemed parts of who we are. That’s not easy or comfortable.

And yet, authenticity is also beautiful, captivating and the thing that allows us to connect most deeply with other people.

As I stood in front of 400 women that Saturday, I was real. Real about my struggles with an eating disorder in college, my failed marriage, the highs and lows of the last several years and also the incredible ways God has and continues to work in my life.

After the talk I met dozens of women who thanked me, cried as they relayed their personal trials or told me how inspired they were by what I shared. Turns out authenticity was exactly what they wanted…what they needed. And I know the same is true for me – that the more authentically I live, the more fulfilling, enjoyable and God-honoring my life is.

I think about this as I observe the world around me; the birds in the sky, fish in the sea, and animals and plants that aren’t trying to be anything but what God made them to be. And there is simplicity and joy in that! Just look at Mugsy and Nimits at the beach chasing each other and running around being dogs.

They had the time of their life and Natalie and I couldn’t stop smiling and laughing as we watched them.

I imagine that when we are authentic God does the same. That He delights in us being fully the person He created us to be. That He marvels at the diversity of His creation and loves when we embrace the unique way He made each one of us.

This morning as I finish up a jog with my new running partner, Blanca, a forty-something, 4’9 single mom and tortilla maker, I am well aware of that diversity. She doesn’t have a car, speaks less English than I do Spanish (which makes our conversations quite entertaining and reliant on hand gestures) and yet, we meet every morning at 5:45 a.m. to do a short run before aerobics.

After our jog she hops in my car and I drive us to class. We have become fast friends and after we get our wooden steps, she stands next to me. I look down and can’t help but chuckle. My size 10.5 shoe looks like a ski compared to her tiny sneaker.

Dear God, don’t let me step on her today, I think to myself.

Blanca looks at me curiously but since I can’t explain that in Spanish, I simply put my foot next to hers and point.

We both laugh and even more so when I put my arm around her shoulders and her head rests easily on mine. We giggle at our reflection in the mirror and the stark difference in our size and appearance causes a few other women around us to notice and do the same.

I imagine that I’ll meet a lot more “Blanca’s” over the course of my world travels and there will be plenty of times when I am clearly “different” than those around me. My prayer is that I will be authentically me in each moment. That I will celebrate their uniqueness just as I do my own, embracing every bit of who God made me to be.

The Right Question

December 1, 2015December 16, 2015 / Rachel Sherburne / 3 Comments

Street signs.

Yeah, they don’t exist in Mexico. At least not with much frequency or consistency. Which poses a small problem when you don’t have GPS, a data plan on your phone that allows you to use Google maps and you’re trying to find a place you’ve never been.

Such was the case when Natalie and I ventured out for church on Sunday morning. We did our homework, and found the only Catholic Mass in English south of the border as well as an English-speaking non-denominational service that was relatively close. As two military-trained girls, we were confident in our abilities.

We looked up the locations of each respective church, took pictures of the map and directions (so we could refer to them when we were on the road and didn’t have access to wifi) and headed fearlessly into the unknown Mexican landscape.

Finding the Catholic Church was easy – it was right off the main road. Finding Calvary Chapel proved to be much more difficult.

“We’re looking for Calle Articulo Tercero,” Natalie informs me as we head south on the main road.

She’s the driver and I’m navigating.

Easy enough, I think. We pass one street, then another….and then another.

“Hmmm….I’m not seeing any street signs….are you?” I ask.

“No…that’s weird.”

Natalie looks at the picture of the map on her phone while we wait at a stoplight. We’re in the general vicinity and decide to make the next right-hand turn.

She throws out another name of a street and I search diligently. But there’s not a street sign to be found.

Circles, backtracking and running into dead ends ensues. Time is ticking and if we don’t find this place soon, we’re going to miss the service.

“I think we should ask for directions,” I announce. After only two weeks of Spanish lessons, thinking I can clearly communicate or understand the language is overly ambitious to say the least, but it’s our only hope.

There’s a friendly looking woman with her young son setting up a table for the local market that we’ve somehow run into. We stop and I roll down the window.

“Perdon, Senora,” I begin. “Tengo una pregunta por favor. Donde esta la iglesia, Calvary Chapel?” (Excuse me, Miss. I have a question, please. Where is the Calvary Chapel Church?)

I’m inwardly pleased with myself. These Spanish classes are really paying off!

The woman stares at me blankly and says something that sounds like a question. I repeat the same thing, but she still looks confused. Meanwhile, eight to ten people walking to the market gather around my window and want to know what is going on.

I don’t know what they are saying but it’s clear they want to help. I decide to try one more time, “Donde esta la iglesia Calvary Chapel?”

There are more looks of confusion until the young boy’s eyes suddenly grow wide. He says something rapidly in Spanish to his Mom and then she exclaims, “Ahhh! El Chapel Calvario!”

“Si, si!” I exclaim. Finally, we’re getting somewhere!

All at once three people are talking and pointing. It’s rapid fire and all I get is that we have to go straight and take a left at some point. I nod my head feigning understanding, before I say “Gracias” and roll up the window.

Natalie looks at me hopefully…as if my three years of high school Spanish are going to save the day.

“I didn’t catch 90% of what they said, but I think it’s that way,” I say pointing behind us.

So, we pull a U-turn and continue on.

Another five minutes of wrong turns and we are clearly lost. Natalie is ready to give up, but I’m determined. “Let’s just ask one more time,” I suggest.

We spot a couple walking and pull over. I roll down the window, repeat the same question as before and decide to add at the end, “Yo hablo un poco de espanol.” (I speak a little Spanish).

I’m hoping one or both of them speaks English, but when he opens his mouth, it’s all in Spanish…and much too fast for me to decipher. I can tell he’s asked me a question but I have no idea what it is.

What I want to say is, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand,” or “What did you say?” But in this moment, all of these phrases escape me. Flustered, I open my mouth and say the first thing that comes to mind.“Por Que?” (Why)?

As soon as the words leave my lips I realize this makes absolutely no sense, but it’s too late.

The man looks at me, drops his head into his hands and shakes it before he starts to laugh. Even Natalie knows this is the wrong response and she’s laughing too.

“No comprendo!” I offer quickly, trying to salvage some of my Spanish-speaking self-respect.

“Si, claro,” he chuckles. (Yes, obviously). And now I’m laughing too.

After we regain our composure, he gives me directions I still don’t understand and we drive off. By the grace of God, we manage to find this church, attend the service and head home.

On the way back we are still amused by the whole escapade.

“Por que….por que?!?” I lament to Natalie. “That’s the best I could come up with??”

We have a good laugh about it, but after the fact I realized two things:

First of all, my Spanish skills need a LOT of work. And secondly, and more importantly, “Why?” is often not the right question to ask.

When my marriage first started unraveling, I found myself asking “Why?” a lot.

Why did this happen to me? Why did I deserve this? Why would God call me to marry a man who would hurt me so deeply? And then after it ended, Why would He allow me to suffer, telling me again and again to not quit on the marriage, all the while knowing it would eventually end in divorce?

I have my theories. Plausible ones, like I made a mistake, heard God wrong, or that my former husband had simply operated in his own free will.

Idealistic ones, like I needed to go through this storm in my life to be who I am today, or that he did.

Then there are the flat out wrong theories, like God made a mistake. Or that I was simply punished for the men’s hearts I’ve broken over the years.

But, in the end, none of those theories can be proven and what I’ve finally come to understand is that I might never know why and even if I do, it won’t change my reality. What I really need to know is “what now?”

When I finally asked God that question, I stopped feeling like a victim and finally felt empowered to take a step and move forward. Turns out He had a lot to tell me. And He still does.

Sometimes when I ask God, “What now?” I don’t quite understand His directions. Often I just have a general sense of where He’s leading. But He never laughs when I am confused or gets frustrated when I take a wrong turn. He’s the ultimate GPS. He sees the big picture, knows every possible detour and side street and as long as I follow His voice, I can know with confidence, that I’m on the right path.

Even now, as Natalie and I step out on faith to live this “Great Enlivening,” we don’t really know why God has asked us to do this, nor do we know where this journey will end. But as we continue to ask “what now,” we trust He will lead us exactly where we are supposed to go…even if it’s to a place where the streets have no names.

	Patrick Ryan on Solo
	Tina Woodruff on Solo
	Rachel Sherburne on Solo
	Greg Jeffries on Solo
	mikedak0605@gmail.co… on From Helsinki to Home

	Patrick Ryan on Solo
	Tina Woodruff on Solo
	Rachel Sherburne on Solo
	Greg Jeffries on Solo
	mikedak0605@gmail.co… on From Helsinki to Home

THE GREAT ENLIVENING

A beautiful adventure.

Month: December 2015