The Perfect House.

On By jenniferstoltzfus2 Comments

“His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. Evil things did not come into that valley. I wish I had time to tell you even a few of the tales or one or two of the songs that they heard in that house. All of them, the ponies as well, grew refreshed and strong in a few days there. Their clothes were mended as well as their bruises, their tempers, and their hopes.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

The house was perfect.

It wasn’t perfect because the food was never burnt, or because the sleep never had nightmares, or the stories had no villains. It wasn’t perfect because no one sang off key, or because all the thoughts were honorable. It wasn’t refreshing because it was endlessly harmonious. It was perfect because it had become a haven of joy, community, and truth.

It was a shelter, tried and true.

I couldn’t help but giggle when I first dove into the world of The Hobbit and read these words. What a whimsical description of home! And oh, how I hope to cultivate a dwelling that mends bruises, tempers, and hopes. One known for fresh chocolate chip cookies, afternoon naps, and evening story telling. One, especially, that leaves no room for evil.

“If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:31-32

Abide. Dwell. Make your home in this.

The House of His Word is a House of Truth, and it has been built meticulously and vigilantly. From the very moment that lies were first favored over truth, blueprints sprang to life and He promised us redemption. The Architect set this plan in motion and poured His Spirit abundantly into the process.

We are image-bearers abiding in other things – things that push us more toward bondage and less toward freedom. And I know I’m not the only one who sees this evidenced in my thoughts every.dang.day. I choose fear, entitlement, bitterness, and insecurity. Though I know that Truth is offered, I hesitate to move in. Moving in carries far too much commitment.

Sure, I like to visit Truth. But to make it my permanent address? No chance.

Usually, I choose to stay in my rundown back house of lies and fear and doubt. Dilapidated and rundown, the paint chipping and a heater that doesn’t work. Shattered windows reflect my shattered hopes and let in the cold winter chill, against my will.

What foolish creatures we are.

We were never meant to live there. We were never meant to call it home.

For it was with utmost thoughtfulness that The Architect began to restore and renew the brokenness in which we choose to live. Knowing we wouldn’t move in to Truth on our own, He moved in to our brokenness and began to rebuild from the inside out. He gave us a place to call Home in the midst of an ever-breaking world. Brick by brick He built this Home with promises and peace. Insulated with hope and a roof of grace, with candles lit in every room, bringing both a light and a scent that let us know we’re Home.

Peek out the back window and see that the back house is gone. You will have to travel far from Home to encounter the musty smell you once considered fresh air. And lest you be deceived, it will be easier to find than you may wish. Fight the temptation to go back; it won’t be good for you. It never was.

You’ve been given a key to a House of Truth. It’s yours and it’s waiting for you. A fire is kindled, sending robust swirls of smoke up the chimney and out into the snowy air. Coffee is brewing and cookies will be ready the moment you walk in. But you first have to leave the backhouse.

You were meant to make your home here, here in His Word. You were meant to walk in the way of peace. You were meant to choose joy. You were meant to be free.

Where are you dwelling? Where do you call home? And what do you need to do today to move closer to truth… closer to freedom… closer to Home?

Can’t Not.

On By jenniferstoltzfus1 Comment

“Art is not about market demand… The world doesn’t need another band, per se. It doesn’t, strictly speaking, need another book or another photograph or another album. The general world population will survive without one more stage production and one more gallery showing.

This is the thing though: you might not.

We create because we were made to create… if you were made to create, you won’t feel whole and healthy and alive until you do…”

Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet*

I’ve long been obsessed with the thought that we were made in the image of a wildly creative God. One who imagined aardvarks, and giraffes, and anteaters. One who crafted waterfalls, and rainforests, and deserts, and mountains. A God who thought Florida would be the perfect opposite to Michigan, pouring sunshine on one, and snow on the other. One who took an endless palette of colors, and poured them all into the Great Barrier Reef. A God who decided that blue was the perfect color for the sky, adding a vibrant set extras for the morning and evening.

Our days on this earth are a journey of discovering the character of God and then working endlessly to adopt those characteristics into our own. We were made to be like Him – to be grace-givers and truth-speakers, lovers, forgivers, and mercy showing freedom-seekers.

What is God like? You be like that, too.

I love that Yahweh created all of existence with His words. Even though He could have thought it, merely willed it, or even breathed it, I love that He spoke it. I think there is something sacred and anointed about words, and I can’t not throw myself into the world of mixing them together.

And so I write. I write because I believe in the power of words. I write because I believe that when truth is spoken, written, or sung, lies become smaller. I write because I believe that words have the ability to reshape the way we think. And because the way we think is the prototype of the way we live, I think this reshaping is a process worthy of my best time and my deepest efforts.

And, maybe, a reason bigger than all of the others, I write because I need it. Because when I don’t write I feel as though I’m keeping from Jesus the most vulnerable and formative thing within me.

I write because I can’t not.

Have you found your Can’t Not? It’s the thing you find time to do, no matter how busy the weeks become? Or the thing you long to do, even when the fear nearly suffocates your will to do it?

What is the thing you can’t not do?

Cause that’s what you were made for. Can you lean in a bit, and listen close? You were made for your Can’t Not. That place where your passion and your gifting crisscross. The intersection of your biggest dreams and your deepest joys – that’s your Can’t Not.

And you can’t not do your Can’t Not – you have to.

I need you to do your Can’t Not, because when you do, I believe a little more that I can do mine. When I see you believe Jesus for the big things, I get antsy in my monotony. When I see you create, I see the Creator pouring out of you and makes me want to overflow, too.

It’s not about what the world needs more of. It’s about what makes you feel whole, and purposeful, and creative. It’s about doing with excellence the thing you Can’t Not do.

Now let’s be clear: it’s not about you.

It’s not about glorifying, or bringing honor to self. It’s not about doing something so that others will notice you. It’s not about promoting your talents, as lovely and unique and irreplaceable as they are. It’s simply not about you.

And that’s the best part. The beauty is that when you do your Can’t Not, when you dig deep into the things that make you come alive, you reflect the God who Couldn’t Not make you, and you do it in a tremendously lovely way.

There’s no escaping it: you were made to create.

Go find your Can’t Not and get after it.

 

 

*Bittersweet: Thoughts on Change, Grace, and Learning the Hard Way is so, so, so worth your time. Bittersweet

Let It.

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“My mom won’t let me.”

How many times did we say those words as near-sighted teenagers? Whether it was a curfew extension, getting a new pair of shoes, or taking a weekend trip with friends. Back in the days of living-with-our-parents, everything looked different. For most of us, boundaries were established, allowance was set, and curfew was virtually immovable. Almost every decision, be it going to lunch after church or spending the night at a friend’s house, was under the scrutiny of our parent’s judgment.

And we hated it.

I can well remember whining time and again, usually in a huff, to my best friend. “UGH. I want to, but my mom won’t let me… She doesn’t even have a good reason! I know; she’s the worst.” (Oh, to be young and disrespectful.)

I even heard these words in college: “I would love to go on an international mission trip, but my dad would never let me.” And even though college students are more than capable of making their own decisions, this still held weight, and dads not letting meant some students didn’t go.

 “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”

James 1:2-4

This familiar passage has recently wrecked me. It’s that little word I noticed for possibly the first time, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. It’s an imperative that carries authority and responsibility, and I’ve read right past it for the last ten years.

James was the book I thought I knew. The one I had under control. The one from which I had probably already learned everything I was going to learn.

Until last week.

I barely made it through the first three verses when the word LET jumped off the page…

Because the command to let implies that you could also not let.

You could go through trials, your faith could be tested, you could even choose joy along the way – but you could still not let steadfastness have its full effect in you.

I knew that joy was mine for the taking. I knew I could choose to celebrate hard times and grow from them. And I knew I could resist, I could grow in bitterness, and I could fight my way through every tough experience.

But I always thought that the perseverance, the steadfastness, the patience would happen either way. Whether I chose bitterness or joy, perseverance would be developed, and it would make me “perfect and complete.” Whether I celebrated or wept my way through the valleys, I would come out on the other side “lacking in nothing.”

But this idea of letting is changing my perspective entirely.

A parent exercises the letting because they have authority to make decisions for their children, but more so because they have the responsibility. My fourteen-year-old self would have had a sleepover every night, I never would have studied, and I would have played games and giggled with my friends for hours upon hours. My parents knew they needed to exercise the authority to not let me, and they had a responsibility to make the hard decisions that I wasn’t mature enough to make.

But the stakes are higher now.

It’s not just your weekend plans; it’s your sanctification. It’s being formed into the likeness of our King. It’s being better tomorrow than we were today. It’s choosing the hard path, because we know “easy” isn’t going to make us any more like Jesus. You certainly have the authority to not let steadfastness have its full effect. You have the authority to fight change, avoid growth, and barely survive the trials that you can’t avoid.

But on the flip side, and with ever-increasing significance, you have the responsibility to let it.

I woke up this morning not wanting to choose joy and not wanting to let steadfastness have any effect, let alone a full one. I wanted to sit on my couch and binge watch The Office. I wanted to turn off my phone, lock my door, and eat every last drop of the Blue Bell Rocky Road ice cream sitting in my freezer.

But even in the midst of hard weeks and harder days, we can choose growth. Won’t you? Won’t you take a deep breath, step back, and reevaluate your entire perspective of joy, suffering, and these little, inescapable “trials”?

Will you decide to decide that steadfastness is worth it? Will you choose joy and growth? Maybe it’s a decision you’ll have to make every single morning for a season.

For me, it’s a decision I have to make every single hour most days…

And even through the tears of trials and the struggle to find joy in them, I want to know when I’m in the thick of it that this testing is making me steadfast – immovable – and that I’m choosing to let that steadfastness make me whole. I’m choosing to let it, even when it hurts. I’m choosing to fight through “the testing of my faith” valiantly, acknowledging that I have the authority to grow and the responsibility to let it.

Unpack.

On By jenniferstoltzfus2 Comments

I hate unpacking.

I find it inconvenient, frustrating, and simply a waste of time. Whether the item to unpack is an overnight bag from a weekend adventure, or everything I own in a cross-country move. I simply hate it.

You see, I’m a lover. I want to dive right into life. I want to meet the people, drink the coffee, and see the town. I want to discover how many stars I can see from my backyard on any given night. I want to memorize the skyline. I want to find old bookstores and hidden coffee shops and outdoor markets with sunflowers and fresh blueberries. I want to, for goodness’ sake, get anywhere with using the navigation on my iPhone.

I don’t want to find a new space for every possession I found worthy of a cross-country move. I don’t want to rewash dishes that have sat in cardboard boxes or iron clothes that have been tightly shoved in suitcases. I don’t want to be reminded that I have too many t-shirts, and books, and coffee mugs.

But my recent cross-country move has forced me to face a reality that ran far deeper than the boxes in the bedroom:

I need to unpack.

Not just for aesthetics, but for my heart.

I realized that these habits represent far more than my tendencies in moving to a new home, or city, or state. It’s not just the “inconvenience” of unpacking. It’s the refusal to sift through what I carry. And it has nothing to do with the dishes in my cabinet.

No. It’s the fear of failing, the strained friendships, the heartbreaks, and the feeling like I’ve disappointed the people I love. It’s the familiarity I thought I was so ready to leave, but now miss more desperately than I ever thought possible. It’s the insecurities, the fear, and the doubting of everything I once felt sure of.

It’s refusing to unpack a thousand experiences worth of memory, and joy, and hurt. It’s the fear of what I might find hiding behind my deepest longings. The comments that hurt for reasons I don’t want to understand. The comparison I subject myself to when I see the posting of distant friends litter my newsfeed, reminding me of all the things I’m not. It’s the inclination to run at the first sign of vulnerability, and it’s a pitifully dreadful impulse.

 

Would you take some time to unpack?

 

Would you lean in to the full on, all out, renovation of your worthy-of-wholeness heart? Would you, piece by piece, empty the boxes you’ve shoved in the attic and left unlabeled, hoping to avoid the shame of all you know you put inside? Would you take out every article of clothing with intentionality and care, as if it was best outfit you’ve ever owned? You know, the pink eyelet dress with strappy brown wedges, or the flowy sky blue sweater that makes you feel like a superhero. Treat it all that way. And taking each piece, fingering a myriad of fabrics, decide what can stay and what must go.

Half the dread of unpacking is knowing that we carry too much. It’s knowing that we hoard experiences for our self loathing and destruction. It’s knowing that we have to face it if we’re going to let it go.

Here’s the thing: so much of what you’ll find packed away in those boxes should stay. You may need to do a little dusting, but find a place on the shelf you pass every evening and celebrate life every time you steal a glance. Decide why it should stay, and then rejoice that you have it, that it’s yours.

But so much needs to go. Dig deep down and find the strength to say goodbye. Carefully box up your bitterness and mark it for the trash. Take each ounce of fear and toss it out. Look under the bed and in the drawer of your nightstand and find the doubt you talk to on the nights you can’t sleep. Make sure there’s not a hint remaining, and throw it away. Find every piece of “I-wish-it-were-different” hiding in the corners and repurpose it. Our deepest hurt can set the stage for our greatest glimpses of glory, and then (and only then) it can stay.

Unpack your heart. Let it settle in this new place of freedom. For just as I’m slowly learning to call Dallas home, I am slowly finding unpacking to be well worth the pain.

Destination: Brazil.

On By jenniferstoltzfus1 Comment

We wandered the dusty streets of the market, weaving in and out of booths separated by cloth. Kiosks, tables, and men on the street each committed to selling their goods to the visitors. Our team of over fifty American teenagers must have been impossible to miss, but if there were disapproving glares from the natives, I was oblivious.

My pesos were burning a hole in my pocket & I had just discovered the wondrous concept of haggling. I could dispute the price of an item? I could offer to pay what I thought it was worth & walk away if you don’t lower the price enough? It became my favorite game & I won the prize of souvenirs for the ones I love back home.

In the summer of 2007, Jesus absolutely & utterly wrecked my heart for any semblance of the ordinary life I thought I might live. In the midst of feeling an urge to commit my life to full-time vocational ministry, yet having no idea what that would look like, I left North America for the first time. As I wandered the streets of Santo Domingo, meeting children, blowing bubbles, dancing, and laying the first stretches of a concrete sidewalk this community had ever seen, something in me changed. I knew in those moments that a life in suburbia would simply never do it for me.

It would never be enough.

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In the seven years since my maiden voyage into missions, the Lord has graciously allowed me to travel to six different countries on six incredibly different trips. Learning a new culture, interacting with new people, worshipping with the beautiful souls that Yahweh has sprinkled across the globe is undoubtedly my favorite thing. Learning to articulate the promise of hope through Jesus Christ is a challenging & exciting task for me, and I am endlessly grateful for the grace He has shown to enable me to communicate His heart, despite my shortcomings.

Though a marriage & family is among my hopes & dreams, the season of singleness in my life has opened opportunities that I wouldn’t otherwise have! One of my favorite of those opportunities has been working at WinShape Camps in Rome, Georgia. Last summer I had the privilege of serving as the Worship Speaker for one of their girl’s camps. This gave me the wonderful responsibility of speaking every morning to nearly 100 elementary school girls. It was an absolute dream come true & I loved teaching God’s word to those darling little junior campers!

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In addition to the summer camps that WinShape has in the states, the foundation also fosters a community of believers in Brasilia, Brasil. Each year, teams of camp staff travel to Brasilia to continue the ministry established years ago. By providing equipment & resources, the Christian community in Brasilia is enabled to expand their reach within the community. I have been invited to join one of the two spring teams & I am absolutely THRILLED.

As I am currently living and working with a youth ministry organization in Dallas, I see the Lord’s sweet hand in providing an opportunity for me to serve Him overseas. I am desperately committed to seeing young women walk in the freedom that Jesus has won for us on the cross, and my heart is forever torn between serving the women in my native country and the women in the countries that have won my heart.

I am grateful & humbled by another opportunity to go, and asking for your support to send me. I wish it didn’t seem cliché and insincere to say that I desperately desire your prayer above all else.

Your commitment to carry me through this journey by asking the Spirit to infiltrate my team & the community we will serve is my greatest need.

I know that Jesus has called me, and I know that Jesus will provide! Please hear my heart in this request – I need your prayer!! As with all things in life, it also takes finances to go. The WinShape Foundation makes it incredibly realistic for their staffers to partner on these trips! I will need to raise roughly $800 to join my fellow camp staffers on this journey. I’m excited to see how Jesus will provide as I work & raise support. If you are interested in partnering with me financially, you can do so here: Destination: Brazil.

As always, please don’t hesitate to contact me with questions or thoughts!! It would be my deepest delight to share more!

on earth as it is in Heaven,

Jenn

Tiny Matters.

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“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on.” – Apostle Paul, Letter to Philippi

“If the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you.” – Apostle Paul, Letter to Rome

Tiny, tiny, tiny. How quick I am to make vast that which is meant to be tiny. How prone I am to be so set on what is yet to come that I fail to develop that which is. How easy it is to remember, remember, remember what was, or fantasize over what will be.

I forget that pressing on means pressing in.

Pressing in to the crazy, risky desire to relentlessly surrender all that you are for all that He is. Right now. Today. In every moment with every breath.

It’s to believe that who He is inside of you is more than you could ever be alone. It’s to acknowledge the anointing of His Spirit on your beautiful life and then to expect that to mightily impact all that happens within you.

The promise spoken by the Spirit through Paul is paramount, profound, and beyond nature. That is, that our mortal bodies will receive life forever through the Spirit that dwells within us. What was was once subject to death shall now eternally exist.

But how quick we are to limit the power within! Keeping the Spirit cooped up in our hearts like a dormant disease. Liable to return, but only if stirred.

And heaven knows you aren’t dreaming big enough to stir the power that conquered the grave.

You could dwell in what lies behind. You could make your home in yesterday and never be evicted. You could repaint the walls and change the carpet. Fix it up real nice with photos of what was neatly nailed on every wall. Spend your life thinking of all you used to do, all you used to be. You could, you could, you could.

Or you could move into what lies ahead. You could spend all of your todays waiting for tomorrow, pushing away your current to-do list and dwelling instead inside the wonder of what will someday be. But you’ll have to take down your bird feeder, because in the midst of your waiting, you’ll forget to fill it up. And your welcome mat cannot stay, because your mind will never be present enough to receive the guests that pass your home slowly, hoping for an invitation inside. You could, you could, you could.

You could live in tiny matters.

But must you? Must you forget that yesterdays are lovely to visit, but never fit to live in? Must you forget that dreaming & hoping & wishing are beautiful practices, but meaningless when disconnected from this very moment?

As you develop the confidence to let go, may it breed it the desire to dig deep. To know that what you’ve been given for this day is holy. It’s timely. It’s for you right now. It’s enough.

Do you need someone to tell you?

You are brave. You are capable of fighting anything that comes your way. You’re going to be victorious, Beloved. You aren’t fighting alone. So rally up your troops and commit to fight together. Find your home team, your 2am-phone-call team, and get a game plan.

Promise to never obsess over tiny matters.

Promise to dig deep. Promise to fight, fight, fight for Truth when the army of lies comes to ransack your liberated heart. Promise to ask hard questions, and pray bold prayers, and eat an entire gallon of moose track ice cream on days when you waved your white flag long before lunch. Memorize that game plan and wake up every morning determined to see the Son shine. Resolve to reflect it like a full moon over the Atlantic and then get to it.

You were made for this – To press on. To look up. To be the indwelling of the Spirit of Yahweh God. Don’t let it be wasted in tiny matters.

Chasing the Light.

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2:06 am.

The lights were out and I was finally curled up tight under seven layers of blankets, and I was still a little cold. The winter moonlight shone through my window, just bright enough to remind me how small I am, but not too bright to keep me up. Just before I turned on my lullaby playlist to woo me into dreamland, I started coughing uncontrollably. Unexpected & unrelenting, I needed a reprieve. Although going downstairs meant braving the cold wood floors on my finally warm toes, it also meant the refreshment of water, so I sucked it up and crawled out of bed.

I subconsciously reached my hand toward my lamp to help me see, but paused just before and decided against it. I was already accustom to the darkness of my room and knew the light would hurt my eyes. I took teeny tiny baby steps and felt around with my hands to make it to the door and down the stairs. There’s a nightlight in the hallway (I guess for reasons like this? Mom thinks of everything.), and I was grateful for it as I embarked on my late night quest around the corner, down the stairs, through the dining room, and into the kitchen.

I was grateful for the just-enough-not-to-stumble light, and even more grateful for the way it refused to offend my quite-comfortable-with-the-darkness eyes. Almost as if it knew I couldn’t bear any more wattage than it was weakly providing.

As I lived it late that night, I remembered my soul sister Emily sharing a similar lesson. She told me that when she turned the light off at the door to her bedroom, she would wait a moment before climbing the ladder to the loft that held her bed. She would wait, she said, “until my eyes adjusted to the darkness.”

We marveled at the reality of our hearts and our longing to do just enough that we have a little light to see, but not enough to eradicate the darkness.

I think it’s the purity of child’s heart that encourages their fear of darkness. Little ones are terrified of what could be lurking in the unknown… in the closet, under the bed, in the hallway behind the door.

But as we grow, we see this sensitivity as a weakness and we try to acclimate to the darkness as quickly as we can. We consider it an inward victory to face darkness with unwavering confidence. No need for nightlights or Daddy’s to assure us our room is monster-free. We’re more than comfortable to be immersed in what we once found repulsive.

Like Emily climbing up the loft, we become quicker and quicker at finding our way, until without realizing it, we’re avoiding the light altogether.

But if I’m honest,

I think I’m afraid of the light.

With the lights on you can see the unpacked boxes I gave up on and shoved in the corner, the pile of clothes unfolded at the end of my unmade bed, and every pair of shoes I’ve worn in the last week, strewn carelessly across the room. You can see what I should have cleaned weeks ago, and you can see it well.

I’m afraid of what will be exposed when the light comes on. The discipline that you should find in my life but won’t. The selfish thoughts and mean-spirited comments. The impatience in tense situations and the desire to promote myself instead of Christ. And worse of all, the fear that always seems to outweigh my faith.

And for that, I like the darkness. I fight to keep my mess hidden well enough that only I can see it.

But the problem with hiding your mess is that you hide everything else too. You hide the goodness, and the joy, and the whimsy. You hide the paintings on the wall and the pictures on the nightstand. You hide the pretty quilt you searched seven stores to find and the happy yellow you chose to paint your room. You hide the glory of a brave heart, braver still for knowing it’s not invincible.

I’m learning to be brave.

& learning to chase the light.

The Wind that Brings the Rain

On By jenniferstoltzfus2 Comments

It was a different kind of wind. We looked west and saw the sun was still lingering in the sky, as if he didn’t want to miss the lightning show in all its glory. In the distance we saw the rain had already begun far away. We could hear it coming ever closer, knowing it would soon be pouring buckets of cold water upon us. But we didn’t move.

We felt it coming. We saw it coming. And so we waited.

The trees were rustling with a greater intensity and the fountain poised perfectly in the lake beside us was now unable to control the direction of its overflow.

Wind can be gentle: a light, refreshing breeze on a hot day, or a calm stirring on an afternoon in September, often a serene addition to a cheerful picnic. Gentle wind is nice.

But we didn’t want gentle on this particular night.

We were poised in the open field ready to receive the onslaught on raindrops from the dark, stormy clouds. A storm that would purify, refresh, cleanse, and nourish the earth below us.

We laid in the grass and watched the sky explode with pink, orange, and yellow lightning strikes that were close… almost too close… followed by tumultuous thunder that shook the ground.

It was one hundred shades of glorious.

And in that field, dancing as if I could summon every raindrop to the ground, I was reminded of the fierce beauty of the wind. The uncontrollable, violent, life-giving, rain-sending wind. The wind that ushers in rainstorms that nourish the ground. The wind that threatens to knock down every insecure flag in its path.

You see, I tend to favor the gentle side of the Spirit. I like things to be predictable, controllable, and easy to handle. I like a King I can expect. One who doesn’t expect me to do things I’m afraid of, and certainly One who doesn’t ask me to be brave. When it comes to my heart, I like to play it safe.

But the wind that brought the rain that night was anything but safe, and it was this night, this rainstorm that released in me the most joy.

I began to wonder…

Is this freedom, this glory beneath the uncontrollable rain, merely a shadow of the joy that flows from a God who isn’t “safe”? Have I been tricked into believing that this Fort Knox lockdown on my vulnerability is the best way to live? What if I am missing an entire dimension of the Spirit by thinking that gentle wind is the best kind?

And so I danced.

I twirled endlessly in the rain, awestruck by the lightning and shaking under the thunder, and I appealed to the King of Kings to send His Spirit in my life as wildly as He sent the rain that night. I asked for the uncontrollable, violent, life-giving Spirit to rush in and nourish my thirsty heart. And I asked Him to knock down every insecure flag waving doubt within me.

I begged for that storm to be a mere shadow of the way His Spirit would stir within me. I asked Him to make me brave. I rejoiced in a King who, like Aslan, wasn’t safe and didn’t care to be. I celebrated a King who is endlessly good & a Spirit who is endlessly worth the risk.

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Come & See.

On By jenniferstoltzfus6 Comments

There is a tendency in our culture to wait & hear what happens before we’re willing to brave the situation ourselves. We want to know the “who, what, when, where” before we’re ready to give “me, this, now, here.” In a time like this, when the content of the waiting & hearing is unknown and intriguing, it’s comfortable and easy to wait & hear.

And sometimes after waiting we hear that things didn’t go so well. The church didn’t grow. The ministry didn’t last. The people didn’t stay. We are silently relieved that we didn’t waste our time and money on such a “fickle” cause, but say our niceties and act disappointed to the ones that did the hard, dirty work about which we waited to hear.

Because until you’re fully invested in the hard work of the new & risky, you will never feel the ache of brokenness or the thrill of success.

Other times after waiting we hear that things went better than planned. The church is booming. The ministry is thriving. The people are coming in droves. We silently get excited and start wondering how we can get involved. You know, now that most of the kinks are worked out.

More often than not, we still get to experience much of the beauty that happens after we graft ourselves in. We share the excitement and we journey the ups and downs of what is yet to come. It’s never always smooth sailing for anyone or anything. We’re just happy to have made it through the rocky start.

It can be nice to wait & hear. But I’m finding this funny thing about the way Jesus spoke and lived, and it was always in the right now.

He was fully living and deeply loving no matter who or what he countered. He wasn’t prone to give a tidy presentation of what the listener could participate in and then let them decide after they had the chance to think it over. Instead, it usually sounded more like:

“The Kingdom of God is close, and getting closer. I want you to be a part of it… Are you in?”

Instead of “wait & hear” it was “come & see.”

“Wait & hear” is tidy. “Wait & hear” wears a freshly ironed button-down and always tucks his shirt in. “Wait & hear” is polite and unassuming. He always opens the door for a lady and gives his seat up on the bus. “Wait & hear” goes to bed early and wakes up in time for a full breakfast. “Wait & hear” has never experienced heartbreak because he’s never gotten close enough to feel the weight of the fall. He’s never lost anything or anyone, but then again, he hasn’t really risked much either. “Wait & hear” remembers his mother’s birthday, and always goes home for the holidays. He prays for his friends, but sometimes forgets.

“Wait & hear” is predictable.

But things are different for “Come & see.” “Come & see” is messy. Her hair is usually tightly knotted in a bun that sits right on top of her head, because that’s all she had time for that morning. Her jeans are ripped and her make-up is three days old. “Come & see” doesn’t sleep much, but she doesn’t really mind. “Come & see” drinks coffee in the morning, but it’s always on the go. She looks people in the eyes. She holds their hand and asks how they really are. “Come & see” is a dreamer, mostly because she’s seen dreams come true. “Come & see” has felt the pain of a broken heart, both her own, and of the ones she loves. She has mastered the art of “mourning with those who mourn,” and she’s the first to bust out cake and “rejoice with those who rejoice.” “Come & see” doesn’t lock her door because she wants anyone to come at anytime. “Come & see” always has coffee in the cupboard and an extra bed. She’s safe, in a risky kind of way. She’s a fierce lover of life, addicted to grace and overflowing with mercy. She fights on her knees, knowing her sharpest weapon is a plea before the Throne.

“Come & see” is a warrior. And she glimpses glories only dreamed about by “Wait & hear.”

You could live a “Wait & hear” life and still see incredible things happen for the Kingdom of God. He doesn’t reserve glory merely for the risk-takers; it’s everywhere you look, if you really look. You could be safe. You could keep your white picket fence and your 401(k). You could live a “wait & hear” life.

Or, you could “come & see.” Come & see what will first seem like the greatest miracle you could fathom, and then watch Him exceed it over and over and over. Come & see students awaken to the needs of a nation. Come & see reconciliation heal relationships. Come & see dreams fall to pieces, only to be rebuilt with hope and attempted again. You could get dirty in the mess of “right here, right now” and shower that night, only to get dirty all over again the next morning.

I wanna be a “come & see” kinda gal. and now Beckoning you, inviting the most formative parts of your being to witness glory, the king whispers:

Darling soul, come & see.

Winter Won’t Let Go.

On By jenniferstoltzfusLeave a comment

For so long I have longed for the seasons of the earth to reflect the seasons in my heart. For so long I imagined what it would be like to watch the ground surrender to Winter as the rotation of the earth forced our hemisphere to turn away from the sun and rest.

I wanted to watch the leaves fall as if it would give my heart permission to grieve. I wanted pieces of my brokenness fall to the ground with every leaf until my heart was as bare as every Oak and every Elm.

I wanted my hurt and longing and pain to be covered by the snow and frozen beneath the glistening blanket that covered the ground. I wanted it to melt away as the sun rose high, never to be seen again. I dreamt of expectantly watching the buds emerge on the trees and anticipated feeling hope leap in my heart with the unfolding of every Cherry Blossom. I wanted to feel my strength grow with the lengthening of the day as Spring slowly took control.

But Winter came for the earth in a time of Spring in my heart, and so I didn’t grieve. I built snowmen and went sledding. I opened the curtains and giggled as the sky turned gray and the earth turned white. It didn’t hurt. I didn’t mourn.

I didn’t even feel like I was losing.

Maybe missing Autumn isolated me from the full effect of Winter. I was thrown into this season abruptly and I welcomed it. But now? It’s the middle of March and it snowed all night, with no sign of stopping til late afternoon.

Winter won’t let go, and I think he’s trying to tell me something.

I think he’s reaching out with every last snowflake and below-freezing-temp saying, “Wait! You haven’t learned it all, yet. There’s more you need to know before Summer; I’m just not finished.”

I imagined he saw me frolicking in a dress on Saturday, sipping my iced coffee and relishing the sunshine, and simply refused to surrender. So he rallied his troops of Snowstorms and Cloudy Skies and said emphatically:

“This fight is NOT over! We’re not giving up this easily.” He barked instructions and sent them out with the decree, “Tonight! I don’t want the week to start until every last one of you has fallen from the sky.”

And so I woke up to white, white, white. With more falling from the gray, gray sky.

The only thing more chilling than one hundred days without the sun is coming out of it unchanged.

Summer ruled my days for nearly every month I’ve ever known, and as whimsical as the newness of Winter has been to my sunshine-addicted heart, I would be devastated to have lived in his company for all these weeks without getting to the bottom of his purpose.

So today? It’s me and Winter. I have a steaming cup of coffee, and I hope he accepts my apology for not asking sooner why he’s here, and what wisdom he would share with my Summer infused heart, that I might be a better gal in every season because of it.