I've always heard things are bigger in Texas (well. This isn't quite true. The trees are smaller. Little dark scrubby things that don't come close to touching the trees back home). I think this started with the sky. There is so much sky in Texas. Lots of other stuff too. But the biggest thing is the sky. It presses down on you, pinning you down, making you feel like an ant on the very top of the earth, the sun staring down at you through a magnifying glass, the mean kid frying the hair off your head. Even as I'm typing this, I'm looking out of the car window, watching the clouds billow and flow. I'm not sure if it's an optical illusion or if they're actually moving closer to me as I watch.
Texas has been the biggest bulk of our trip, spending 4 days here as opposed to our usual one day per state ratio. We started out in Houston on Thursday, meeting up with some old friends from a church back home. We originally thought we were going to meet and minister to a group of women. But sometimes ministry is different than we expect. We ended up being home to that family. I've known them for almost 9 years, watched their kids grow up with mine. After spending nearly a week on the road, in and out of hotels, rubbing elbows with strangers, both figuratively and literally, the welcome we received from them into their home, their family, their kitchen and sofas, must have been the way Jesus Himself was received into homes. Laughter. Tears. Hugs. Old stories, encouragement, prayer.
My son and their oldest son talking on FaceTime for almost 2 hours. Baseball. Books. School. Brotherhood being renewed from thousands of miles away.
Family photo albums. Impromptu hair and nail salons. Late night girl talk when the kids are in bed.
And love. Love, love, love. For those few hours, homesickness was a stranger. To us, who have only been gone a week. To them, who have been gone for nearly a year. Could the walls really hold it? All that love? It doesn't seem possible.
Friday morning we had communion with them before hitting the road again. And we wept. Wept bittersweet tears, bitter to leave them, sweet to have been with them. How tightly did I hug those kids? I clutched them to me as hard as I could, missing my babies, loving these ones as though they were my own.
Friday night we were in San Antonio, meeting with a church plant group from home. Most of us in our group helped to plant the original church in Virginia 9 years ago. And now, all these years later, we got to be a part of speaking life into their new venture.
This part may or may not have been another reason I've been hesitant to write. I always try to be honest. In this case, maybe I'll decide to be more honest than I want to be, and less honest than I could be.
I'm not sure how much of a fan I am of "full circle" processes. I don't like reliving things that are hard. And the full circle process is, indeed, a thing that requires reliving.
Meeting with this group was a full circle thing for me. It wasn't easy. It was a stretch, an almost too far, almost going to snap stretch. But, as is usually the case with stretching, I came out stronger, leaner, lighter. I found that, in praying for and loving on this group, that something in me broke. Some old cistern that I've been keeping cold and dark, a deep well full of hurt and poisonous things, cracked open, and instead of pouring out the poison, poured out life and love. The truth is, I didn't know I had it in me. But He did. He did, and He knew that I am both more than I thought I was, and less than I thought I was.
Yesterday, Saturday, we stopped in West, Texas, where the fertilizer plant explosion took place less than two months ago, because it was on our way to our next stop, and we wanted to see if there was anyone in the town we could help- whether it be buying them groceries, helping them clean up, or simply praying with them. A local shop owner told us we would have a hard time finding anyone in need of help, between the extreme generosity of donors, and the fact that many of the victims have up and left West completely. She did, however, point us in the direction of the site.
West is a tiny town. Sweet. Quiet. We loved it as soon as we set foot in it.
When we made it down to the site of the explosion, it was unlike anything I'd ever seen before outside of tv. Several blocks surrounding the plant, houses: gone. Windows blown out of their frames, roofs peeled off, trees bent sideways. One home in complete rubble, only the chimney remaining straight and tall. Possessions abandoned inside the houses, furniture, left to ruin. An entire family, little children included, clearing away rubble, a young boy operating a bulldozer. Spray paint on the walls of the houses "KEEP OUT." "WE ARE OK." "WE LOVE YOU NANNY." And everywhere, wherever we looked, stars that looked like they'd been painted by kids, nailed to trees, mailbox posts, fence railings: stars with words like "Peace". "Hope". "Pray for West". "West Strong". Silent tears poured down our faces as we drove through those abandoned streets, dripping onto our shirts, our hearts broken for these families, for this community.
We finally left West, somber, heavy hearted, with prayers on our lips, and headed to Dallas.
This morning, Father's Day, we went to The Potter's House, Bishop T.D. Jakes' church. I've never been in a church that big. The experience was completely different from last week's church experience, but just as God-breathed. Which just goes to prove to me all over again that there are so many facets in the body of Christ, so many different people and personalities and gifts needed, that even little me can't make excuses saying I have nowhere to fit. There is a fit for everyone. Everyone.
I cried like a baby as the Bishop called all men forward to join hands all around the building. This is a lot of men, friends. A lot. They lined the aisles, the walls, weaving in an out of the seats in an effort to join hands and clasp shoulders, as he prayed over them as men and fathers, thanking them for standing in the gap- whether or not they felt equipped, whether or not they wanted to do it. For working long hours, for facing hardships that they usually don't tell anyone about, for carrying the weight of the family on their shoulders.
I know not all men are like this. But mine is. And oh, how I wanted him to be in that sea of men, being encouraged and strengthened by his brothers, having someone tell him "You're a good man. You're doing it right." I know I've said it to him before. But I want him to hear it from another man, from someone stronger than he is, someone who can fully recognize and appreciate his sacrifice. But I see it, Babe. I want you to know I do.
So these last four days have been incredibly draining, emotionally if not necessarily physically. Loving, stretching, grieving. Dip in, pour out. Repeat. And again.
I feel as though I've been soaked, wrung out, snapped open, and hung out to dry under this big Texas sky. I can feel myself being blown about in the hot wind, bleaching in the sun.
Until I started writing this, I would have said Texas has been my least favorite of our stops. I can't love the baked earth, the scrubby trees, the world that looks like it's been leeched of color. But as I've processed the growth I've experienced in this huge state, as I've realized that little me has stretched and grown taller with each passing mile, I'm wondering if maybe I love Texas after all.
-M
I'm not sure how much of a fan I am of "full circle" processes. I don't like reliving things that are hard. And the full circle process is, indeed, a thing that requires reliving.
Meeting with this group was a full circle thing for me. It wasn't easy. It was a stretch, an almost too far, almost going to snap stretch. But, as is usually the case with stretching, I came out stronger, leaner, lighter. I found that, in praying for and loving on this group, that something in me broke. Some old cistern that I've been keeping cold and dark, a deep well full of hurt and poisonous things, cracked open, and instead of pouring out the poison, poured out life and love. The truth is, I didn't know I had it in me. But He did. He did, and He knew that I am both more than I thought I was, and less than I thought I was.
Yesterday, Saturday, we stopped in West, Texas, where the fertilizer plant explosion took place less than two months ago, because it was on our way to our next stop, and we wanted to see if there was anyone in the town we could help- whether it be buying them groceries, helping them clean up, or simply praying with them. A local shop owner told us we would have a hard time finding anyone in need of help, between the extreme generosity of donors, and the fact that many of the victims have up and left West completely. She did, however, point us in the direction of the site.
West is a tiny town. Sweet. Quiet. We loved it as soon as we set foot in it.
When we made it down to the site of the explosion, it was unlike anything I'd ever seen before outside of tv. Several blocks surrounding the plant, houses: gone. Windows blown out of their frames, roofs peeled off, trees bent sideways. One home in complete rubble, only the chimney remaining straight and tall. Possessions abandoned inside the houses, furniture, left to ruin. An entire family, little children included, clearing away rubble, a young boy operating a bulldozer. Spray paint on the walls of the houses "KEEP OUT." "WE ARE OK." "WE LOVE YOU NANNY." And everywhere, wherever we looked, stars that looked like they'd been painted by kids, nailed to trees, mailbox posts, fence railings: stars with words like "Peace". "Hope". "Pray for West". "West Strong". Silent tears poured down our faces as we drove through those abandoned streets, dripping onto our shirts, our hearts broken for these families, for this community.
We finally left West, somber, heavy hearted, with prayers on our lips, and headed to Dallas.
This morning, Father's Day, we went to The Potter's House, Bishop T.D. Jakes' church. I've never been in a church that big. The experience was completely different from last week's church experience, but just as God-breathed. Which just goes to prove to me all over again that there are so many facets in the body of Christ, so many different people and personalities and gifts needed, that even little me can't make excuses saying I have nowhere to fit. There is a fit for everyone. Everyone.
I cried like a baby as the Bishop called all men forward to join hands all around the building. This is a lot of men, friends. A lot. They lined the aisles, the walls, weaving in an out of the seats in an effort to join hands and clasp shoulders, as he prayed over them as men and fathers, thanking them for standing in the gap- whether or not they felt equipped, whether or not they wanted to do it. For working long hours, for facing hardships that they usually don't tell anyone about, for carrying the weight of the family on their shoulders.
I know not all men are like this. But mine is. And oh, how I wanted him to be in that sea of men, being encouraged and strengthened by his brothers, having someone tell him "You're a good man. You're doing it right." I know I've said it to him before. But I want him to hear it from another man, from someone stronger than he is, someone who can fully recognize and appreciate his sacrifice. But I see it, Babe. I want you to know I do.
So these last four days have been incredibly draining, emotionally if not necessarily physically. Loving, stretching, grieving. Dip in, pour out. Repeat. And again.
I feel as though I've been soaked, wrung out, snapped open, and hung out to dry under this big Texas sky. I can feel myself being blown about in the hot wind, bleaching in the sun.
Until I started writing this, I would have said Texas has been my least favorite of our stops. I can't love the baked earth, the scrubby trees, the world that looks like it's been leeched of color. But as I've processed the growth I've experienced in this huge state, as I've realized that little me has stretched and grown taller with each passing mile, I'm wondering if maybe I love Texas after all.
-M
{{Days 7-10 Photo Dump}}
Downtown West
More big sky
