Like a real child.

"But when Jesus saw it, he was indignant and said to them, "Let the children come to me: do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it." And he took them in his arms and blessed them, laying his hands on them." (Mark 10:14-16, ESV)


Growing up in the church community was one of the greatest blessings I have ever been given. It also has turned out to be one of the greatest obstacles in my walk with Jesus. From as far back as I can remember, words like "propitiation" and "sanctification" and "intercession" were thrown around. But, growing up in the church, it's just assumed you know what those words mean. Like, when you're born, they are engrained in your brain. Etched into your mind by some doing of the Holy Spirit.

No one takes the time to explain them. And I'm not sure that some people who actually use those words understand what they mean. Which really complicates matters when you're trying to fit in, to play the part, and you can't correctly execute the use of the vast vocabulary.

And I found that this same thing, the lack of explanation, rolls over into religious phrases as well. We throw them around because it's expected of us, without fully understanding what we are saying. We may have some idea, but we haven't grasped the full concept yet.

For me, one of those phrases or ideas has always been coming to God with faith like a child.

It's been explained to me this way... Children are trusting by nature. They can't do things on their own, they need to rely on others to help them. We need to trust God implicitly and rely on Him in all things.

Which is true! And great. And I agree completely.

BUT.

It never sat right with me that, that was all there was to it. There had to be something more, right?

And this week it clicked.

Three mornings a week, all the students at school gather together and have chapel. We sing, pray, and hear a short message or story. And every week I watch with a beaming heart and a thankful spirit. These kids love God more than ANYTHING. And they aren't afraid to show it.

Especially one little girl in the preschool class. Silisa is maybe 3 years old, and full of sass and spunk. And she worships God like nobody I have ever seen.

She yells the lyrics rather than sings them, like she can't proclaim the truth loud enough. She claps her hands no matter the speed of the song. God loves a joyful noise, right? She jumps and dances and lifts her hands, like she was King David himself.

She has such reckless abandon when she worships. Like, so reckless that she regularly loses her balance and falls over, or hits the kid next her to her while dancing.

Isn't that one of the greatest things about kids? Their excitement and enthusiasm? Their sheer joy about even the smallest things?

So, if we are told to come to God like a child, shouldn't we be portraying that same level of ecstasy? Shouldn't we be beside ourselves with how much we love God and want to praise Him?

Why aren't we?

Why can't we seem to muster the same abandon that Silisa does? The same joy we feel when we find the perfect shirt to complete our outfit? Or buy a new car? Or sip on a Starbucks at the end of a really long day?

If we claim to be Christians, and we claim to put Christ first in our lives, it should be our deepest desire to praise him completely and wholeheartedly. All the time. No matter what.

We shouldn't be ashamed of being Christian. We shouldn't be concerned with what the person next to us at church will think if we should lift BOTH hands in worship instead of just one. We shouldn't care how desperately the devil tries to distract us.

Because we GET to worship JESUS. Think about that for a second.

Let it sink in.

How COMPLETELY INCREDIBLE is that thought?!

Jesus. Like, THE Jesus. And we get to come to Him and worship Him. Be with Him. Experience Him.

Now, I'm not saying you need to jump around during the next worship service you attend. Or that you should start interpretive dancing in the middle of the mall to show how much you love God.

What I am saying is this... God chose you to be His. He saved you from utter darkness. He desires, and more importantly deserves, your praise. Completely and unashamedly.

So come to Him like a child.

Changing my eyes.

"But to all who did receive him, who did believe in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor the will of man, but of God." (John 1:12 ESV)


A few weeks ago I had coffee with a friend of mine. Just to catch up and chat and see how everything was going for the other person. At least, it started out that way. But by the end, it turned into her placing a huge challenge in front of me that seems insurmountable. And the funny thing is, I'm not sure she even realized it.

We were talking about me finishing up my time here. The things I'll miss, the things I'm excited for, the anxieties I have.

I shared with her my biggest fear about returning home...

That I won't be able to love on any kids in America the way that I love on my kids here in Nepal. That I'll be detached from serving them, which used to be one of my favorite ways to spend my time. I'm terrified that I'll always compare them to my kids, that I won't be able to minister to them because I'll size their problems up to the problems that my kids are faced with.

When I was finished, and I stepped down from my soap box, she looked at me and hit me with it. "You are going to have to start seeing them as GOD'S kids, not YOUR kids."

GAH.

Right in the kisser.

When she said it, I immediately stored it away in my "don't think about it" box in the back of my mind. It rang so true to me, and revealed such an ugly spot in my heart, that I didn't want to dwell on it. I wanted her to take it back, or at least to pretend like she never said it.

And I did just that. I pushed it out of my mind and continued on calling them my kids. Laying claim where I have none, and ignoring the title that I should be giving them.

Until this last week, when I broke some hard news to my class 5 students. I knew that, being a bit younger, they would need a little more time than the older students to understand what I mean when I say I'm returning to America in October. So I decided to tell them on Monday.

I drew a Hangman's Noose on the whiteboard and a series of blanks next to it to form a sentence. And one by one they guessed letters to fill in the spaces. I could almost hear the wheels in their heads turning as we played their favorite game. When it was complete, the phrase read "After two months I will return to America."

This class tends to have a flair for the dramatic, but I had no idea the emotional train that was barreling down upon me.

Angry eye daggers thrown my way. Questions of "Why?" and "How come you don't want to stay with us?" And tears. Oh, the tears.

After doing my best to explain the situation to them, I left the class quite frazzled. And on my walk home, I spent a lot of time talking with God about my hurting heart, and all of theirs. I really thought they would brush it off, thinking that two months was a really long time away. But I was a bit off on that assumption.

Their hurt made my hurt multiply. I knew it was going to be hard telling my kids that I was leaving, but I had not anticipated this level of difficulty.

As I talked with God, I could feel him speaking to my heart. Not in the I-heard-God's-voice-in-an-audible-way kind of way, but in the His-truth-rang-true-in-my-heart kind of way. And my friend's words came back to me. These children are HIS kids. Not mine.

I knew she was right all along, but I didn't want her to be. I wanted to hold on to these children with everything I have. But instead, I am choosing to lay them at His feet. Even though they were never really mine to begin with. I'm giving up the hold I had, the claim I laid.

Not to say that I don't love my kids, or want to spend every moment I can with them. Just that I am beginning to see them differently. To see them through God's eyes, not just my own earthly ones.

What an incredibly beautiful sight that is.

Fear not.

"Peace I give to you; my peace I leave with you. Not as the world gives to you do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid." (John 14:27 ESV)


I always thought that William Shakespeare was a wise man. Granted, I didn't understand most of his material that I read in high school, nor did I spend the time in the attempt to understand it.

This last week I started a poetry unit with some of my English classes, which drove me to look back at those famous poems and plays of Shakespeare. During my research, I continually felt connected to his words. The way he expressed an idea, the connotations behind what he said, the impact he conveyed with so few and simple words.

In the play Hamlet, he wrote "we know what we are, but know not what we may be." Oh my gosh, that is so my life.

I know exactly who I am. I am Megan. I am 21-years old. I am an expat living in Nepal. I am a chosen daughter of God. I am an heir with Christ.

And for a while, that was enough. It was enough to know who I am. What I have gone through, who I have become, and to whom I belong. But the past few weeks, as I have begun to think about what life will be like once I return to America, I found a serious sense of restlessness. A lack of contentment settled into my heart that seemed so foreign.

I became afraid that I will no longer be Mags, or Megan Sister, or Teacher. I won't be the crazy Auntie who tickles kids until they pee, or who kisses their paper cuts and wipes away their tears. I won't be there to challenge my girls to know Jesus more and to love Him deeper.

And, quite honestly, that was one of the most terrifying thoughts I have ever been faced with.

I love the life I have here. In act 5 of Macbeth, Shakespeare wrote "I bear a charmed life." Indeed I do. The fact that I'm able to be in Nepal, serving God and loving on these kids is evidence enough.

But the biggest piece of evidence, which I think I overlook far too often, is that I KNOW who I am. Whether I am in America, Nepal, Paraguay, or Senegal. I am a child of God. I am a chosen heir. Part of a chosen generation. A royal priesthood. I have been called out of darkness into the most marvelous light.

And THAT is what matters. Whatever comes my way, whatever challenge or struggle or victory or change, they all still in the presence of my God.

And despite everything that will come my way, I will choose to live in the light of who I am, who I have become, and who God desires for me to be.

I won't fear the future, or be weary of the big changes that are coming my way. I will choose trust.

And I will choose adventure. "Why, the world's mine oyster," as Shakespeare said in The Merry Wives of Windsor.

Too busy to be still?

"But the Lord answered her, 'Martha, Martha you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.'" (Luke 10:41-42 ESV)


Yesterday marked my eighth time having girls club. So to celebrate, I promised the girls that we would learn about not just one woman, but two.

Sisters. Pretty famous sisters.

They lived in a town that Jesus was passing through with his disciples, and once they heard he was in town, they were quick to invite him to their home.

The older sister, Martha, busied herself cooking a meal for the Lord and for his travel companions, slaving away in the kitchen. And when she looked around, she noticed that her younger sister, Mary, was missing. She had been so distracted with doing things to serve Jesus that she hadn't even noticed her sisters absence.

But when Martha realized she was by herself, she was quick to right the situation.

She marched right out to the room where Jesus sat and saw Mary sitting at his feet. Soaking up every single word he said. Hanging on every lesson. Leaning in closer so as to not miss anything.

Outraged that her sister had abandoned her, Martha looked to Jesus and said, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me."

But Jesus, being Jesus, saw the beauty of what Mary did. He didn't see her actions as abandonment, or neglect, or carelessness. He saw her obvious love for God. Her desire to be close to him. Her seeking heart longing to learn from him.

He also recognized the flustered anxiety of Martha. Her heart for service, her gentle spirit. Her troubled mind from being so busy.

And Jesus knew the importance of both the sisters' actions. But there is one that is more important.

"Mary has chosen the good portion."

Oh, to be like Mary.

To sit at the feet of Jesus and listen. And adore. Glorify and honor.

To take the time to be still before him, instead of busy herself with works and good deeds.

I cannot begin to tell you how deeply this lesson for girls club convicted me this week. I love serving, that's why I'm here in Nepal. I love doing things that help other people, and benefit them. And I love doing things for the Lord.

And I find that quite often, like Martha, I get caught up in doing things. Being busy.

And I so often forget the spirit and wisdom of Mary. To just sit. To be still. To bask in God and in his glory. To take time at the end of my devotions to talk with him, not just ask for things. To appreciate HIM, not just the things that he can do for me.

I'm not sure that I articulated enough to my girls how critical it is to be still and silent before the Lord. But I sure tried. We spent time talking about Psalm 46:10 "Be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!"

And then we put our excitement into action. They were all given sketch paper and crayons. They could draw or color or write anything they wanted, as long as when they looked at it, they would remember the spirit of Mary, and they would be reminded to be still before God and to wait on him and listen.

At the end of each girls club, I always ask them to tell me what lesson we should have learned from our time together. And like a sweet song, they all said "be still before God and spend lots of time with him."

An inside look.

This week's blog is a little different... My roommate is guest-posting! She thought you all needed to know a little something extra about me. So, here it is! Enjoy.


Like you, I read Mags' blog posts every week. I appreciate her openness and honesty with what life is like in Nepal. But, unlike you, I have the inside view on what her life is really like. And I feel as though she humbly leaves out some details. But don't fret, I'm here to set it straight. There are two main components to Mags living in Nepal that, based on reading her blog, you may not fully grasp: Her ability to love and how much it hurts.

Mags shows love more overtly than most people I know. I could tell heaps of stories where she's taught me about love, but this blog can't go on forever, so I'll just share one: We were in the village together and Mags wasn't feeling well. In fact, she was feeling absolutely rotten. Sharing a tiny wood planked bed with me, eating nothing but rice, feeling dirty, and living out of a backpack is hard enough when you're healthy. But she was doing it all and woke up feeling wretched. If it were me, I'd shut myself in a tiny dark room and demand to be left alone. (Be honest, that's probably what you'd do, too). But not Mags. When an old Christian woman came to the house and asked us to walk across the village to her home for tea and fellowship, it was without hesitation that Mags agreed to go. There is loving your family, and there is loving your friends, and then there is showing love to a complete stranger under the most uncomfortable circumstances. And that's that kind of love that Mags shows.

But in a place like Nepal, you can't love the way Mags does without also feeling the hurt. Mags is tough. Impressively so. But inside that tough, I-can-handle-it-all facade, there is one of the softest hearts. The day that two little girls were dropped off at the orphanage and she had to hold one of them as their only known guardian turned and walked away - that broke her heart. And though she tries to explain what it feels like through her blogs and sharing, we, as listeners, can't image the hurt that she feels. But, knowing it hurts, knowing that every child she holds has a story and every day might bring a new wave of emotions that she doesn't want to deal with, she goes and loves and holds and hurts for those kids.

That's the Mags that I see every day. That's the Mags that she has become, or maybe always has been. And as you read her future blogs, as you connect with her, when she returns home and you ask her questions, don't forget that the events she tells you about aren't ever just stories to her. They're people. They're emotions. They're love. And they're hurt.

Doing life.

"And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him." (Colossians 3:17 ESV)

Every Sunday afternoon, I sit down in my flat and write out a blog post. Some weeks there are too many cute, funny, inspiring, life-changing stories to choose from. And some weeks it's hard to come up with anything to write about at all. My problem today is the latter.

As I debated what circumstance I could pull a story out of, or what God has taught me this week, I realized that one of my favorite things about living here has been completely overlooked...

Doing life. Just normal, everyday life.

Sometimes my life is boring. Sometimes a day passes uneventfully.

Well, uneventful in my eyes, anyways.

Yes, I still gamble with my life when crossing the street. I still barter with Nepalis over unreasonably small amounts of money. I memorize our daily power outage schedule. I get down on hands and knees to scrub my clothes in a tub of soapy water. I still tell my kids stories in Nepali. I recognize which street dogs belong in my alley, and I trust them to keep me safe.

Yes, I still pass by butchered chickens and goat heads on the street corners. I dodge rocks in the middle of the road that are deemed "holy" covered in tikka. I still hunt mosquitoes like a psychopath. I look out my kitchen window to try and catch a glimpse of the Himalayas. I shower several times a day to try and stave off heatstroke.

But to me, that's my normal.

Not everything thing I do is new and exciting anymore. I've adjusted, I've adapted, and I've made this place my home. And so some weeks are mundane. And I love that.

But I have been afraid to admit that. I don't want my life to seem average, or anything less then exceedingly exciting. I don't want anyone to think that living here can seem stagnant. Or that some days I would rather laze around in my pajamas, eating nothing but potato chips and cupcakes, watching movies instead of going out and experiencing everything that Kathmandu has to offer.

I like doing life here. I like how average it has become. And it no longer matters to me to make everything appear riveting and enthralling. Because it's not. And I'm thankful for that.

Free to forgive.

"Then Peter came up and said to him, 'Lord, how often will my brother sin against me and I forgive him? As many as seven times?' Jesus said to him, 'I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times." (Matthew 18:21-22 ESV)


In Kathmandu, women, especially foreign women, are sometimes grabbed inappropriately by motorcyclists driving by. We are also subject to unbefitting conversations with taxi drivers, and are occasionally touched inappropriately by the same men.


To the two men who grabbed me inappropriately last night;

You have stolen my sense of security.

I no longer feel comfortable leaving my flat by myself. I am afraid that if I find myself alone again, you will come back. And that, once again, I will choke. I won't be able to scream. I won't be able to punch you, which wouldn't compare to the actions I wish to take against you. I won't be able to fight back like I had always planned to.

I no longer feel safe in the dark. I am constantly listening for your motorcycle and your taxi coming from behind me. My ears are alert to every sound. Every drop of water, every dog bark, every horn honk, every revved engine. I don't even feel safe walking down the hallway in my flat without the lights turned on.

I no longer casually walk down the winding alleys of my neighborhood. Every few steps I check over my shoulder to see if you are there. If you are coming again. I don't trust the street lights to illuminate my surroundings.

I don't trust the innocent drivers just trying to get to their next destination. I don't even trust the people walking towards me, and most certainly not the ones behind me. And I refuse to walk with the flow of traffic, for fear that you will ride up behind me one more time.

Yet, despite all that...

I forgive you.

Both of you.

I am angry. I am hurt. I am disgusted that you thought that kind of behavior was okay. And I am fearful that this won't be an isolated incident.

But I forgive you.

Because who am I, a sinner, to hold back the grace that was so freely given to me? Who am I to decide your judgement?

My God is a jealous God. He protects what is His, and I am His. I know that He will place his judgment on you.

And because of that, I am free to forgive. And I am free to pray. And believe me, I'll pray.

I'll pray that God captures your hearts. That He will invade your lives and your spirits with His undeniable presence. He has the power to change the hardest of hearts, to redeem the most sinful of lives.

I know because He did that for me. And I can only hope and pray that you can experience the same all encompassing love that I feel everyday.

And I truly, truly hope that someday we will meet again. Not in this life, that might be more than I can handle. But again in Heaven, where our sins have been erased, and we can sing to Jesus as one family. Alive again, redeemed, forgiven.

Yours in Christ,
Megan