pictures, spiderwebs of grain, selfish, hog every pixel where the curls, smiles, giggles should be. finger on the trashcan button and it no longer exists. erased.

cars, piles of metal, crunched. a fresh driver scared, forgot rain and speed don’t like to play together. the report hidden behind saleman’s back. totaled.

strawberries, squished and browned. moms like kids to eat them firm and ripe. knife to the kind of bad spots, garbage disposal blades to the really bad spots. molded.

hearts, souls old and wrinkled. new wrinkles cover old wrinkles, new scars blanket old scars. victim yesterday and the day before and the year before that, culprit today. broken.

but, salvaged is beautiful, beautiful is the salvaged. the old is made new, the new is shed of the old. broken restored, beaten mended, ugly redeemed. salvaged.

did we forget, beauty is not the opposite of ugly. It was ugly. It is ugly. but, this time, the Beholder chooses to see it as beautiful.


Some days, when I’m taking up space on a leather chair with my mac laptop and 4 dollar cup of sugar glancing out the window at the slab of metal reading 12th street, my heart is especially aware that it’s not functioning at 100 percent.

The doctors feel my pulse, 67 beats they say, just perfect.

But I know it’s not.

Doctors aren’t always right you know.

Maybe when it comes to colds and flus and allergies but not when we’re talking about a torn heart.

No professional, ultrasound, or fancy machine notices that. How could they? Sometimes I even overlook it.

But not today.

Today I am fully aware- my heart is split.

And not split in the sense that half of it wants one thing and the other half wants something else, or split in the way when someone carelessly rips it out from behind your rip cage and clumsily stomps on the fragile muscle tissue.

No, my heart tells a different story. All the pieces are in tact.

It’s more like the heart hiding underneath my physical flesh is really only a mere shadow of my real heart.

Somewhere in a place I’ve never seen except in my dreams, my heart doesn’t just exist. But it is fully alive, fully beating, fully pumping energetic streams of blood to the rest of my limbs.

But the piece here can’t quite beat regularly. Maybe 10 beats are in perfect rhythm but then that 11th one takes a little bit longer.

In that moment-that slight pause between coursing blood through my veins and being utterly still, my heart cries out.

Cries for its true home.

Cries for a place where it belongs.

Cries for a time when it can naturally bring life to my lethargic bones without feeling like it’s forced to keep me alive. When it can beat out of passion and excitement and a thirst for life instead of out of obligation.

This heart here has found a physical niche tucked perfectly between my backbone and ribs, but a home is not a place right?

When we say home is where the heart is we don’t mean home is literally between our backbones and ribs. We mean home is where the souls of our hearts, the DNA of our hearts, the heart of our hearts is, overflowing with life and love.

I think I know why my heart is split.

I know the place where my heart home and physical heart collide.

And it’s not here.

Right now they reside in two separate places.

The echo here at this coffee shop and the original, ringing voice somewhere overseas living alongside people of another culture, loving them, learn from them and telling those who have never even heard the name of Jesus that their Daddy wants to bring them into His loving arms.

THIS is where my heart wants to fly.

I’m stuck in the in-between. I

 know for now God has me here.

His children are here, too. He wants me to love the least of these in Nebraska, love Him wherever I’m at.

But, His children are also there, too. His hurting, poor, broken, lost, crippled, leper-infected sons and daughters are there.

And, if we don’t go how can we preach? And if we don’t preach how can they hear? And if they don’t hear how can they believe? And if they don’t believe how can God say to them “you were once not my people, but now you are my people”

God is reaching these people.

I want to join Him.

 I trust in Abba’s timing.

I trust that He will not leave my heart half-way beating.

I trust that he will lead me out of this wilderness.

I trust that someday I will go to the ends of earth and tell people who are so different from me yet so the same, “The kingdom is near! Jesus is near!”

For now I trust.

And wait.

And love.

And remember that while I’m here on this earth my heart will always feel this way. Will always be split.

The true inner core of my heart singing and dancing and hugging Abba in His home where His heart belongs and the outer skin, like snakeskin, doing its job under my chest.

I think the reason my heart yearns to plant itself in another country amongst another group of people so badly is not because this home is the most comfortable, or safe, or fun.

But because this home is closest to my Father’s heart (and His heart is also in loving families, in fighting sex-trafficking, in homeless shelters in Lincoln, in crunching numbers at an office).

For me, my heart especially teems with love for Abba when I am telling someone of a different culture about His love.

My heart overflows with passion and hunger and thirst for my Daddy when I see how lovely and beautiful He is to capture the hearts of ALL nations.

My heart courses with life when I see someone worshipping Jesus in another language, or dance, or piece of their culture.

We are all pilgrims travelling through this land until our hearts connect with our true home in heaven.

We eagerly anticipate eternity with our sweet Papa.

But, while on this earth, I yearn to be as close to Jesus’ heart as I can.

And for me, this place is not sitting heavy on top of beige tiles drinking a Cinnamon Dulce Latte, but washing the feet of Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, being Jesus to those who have never seen Him before.

P.S.- I realize that God may choose to plant me right where I’m at for the rest of my time here on earth. And if He did, I wouldn’t feel like I was missing out, because I know He is with me wherever I am and He alone is my treasure. But, I also think that God has given me a desire to go because He wants to bring me to another country. His heart is just as much for nominal Christians in Nebraska as it is for Muslims in Southeast Asia. Either way, I trust in God’s sovereignty and will be fully satisfied because He is what satisfies my soul, not missions. ImageImageImageImage

hiding children

Like many of you, my heart just breaks for those children and adults killed in Connecticut. I love that people are coming together to pray for the families, offer hope to the families, and love the families. I pray that God would draw people to Himself and ultimately be glorified in this awful, tragic, heart-breaking event. The only thing that burdens my heart even more is knowing how many children die every day without being noticed. No one to mourn their death. No one to miss them. No one to weep for the injustice. I do not want to take away at all from the precious children and adults whose lives were cruelly taken from them on Friday, but I also want people’s hearts to break as much as they have for this, for all the children across the world who die from starvation, abuse, neglect, sex-trafficking, and war. I want my heart, our hearts, to break the way Jesus’ heart breaks. I have been wanting to start writing more because to write is to process, express, and dig deep into buried emotions I sometimes don’t even know exist. So, I thought to myself, why not write about how my heart is feeling for all the kids who die without love or hope? This little poem is definitely amateur and far from anything profound and could be edited a bunch; but, nevertheless, I wrote and I wrote from a very real place in my heart. 


The President quotes Scripture,

He reads about hope, the unseen things

there are so many that die without hope

does he have that hope?

my dad murmurs,

he can’t even stand to watch the President speak

my mom, somber, tells us again-

she woke up last night, heart breaking for those kids,

couldn’t sleep

the President still speaks

my dad still watches

my eyes lock on the screen

but my heart flies to another place

my heart runs frantically through the streets,

in the brothels,

into broken homes,

it hovers over the shaking girl

My 98.6 degrees is surely warmer

than the snowflakes attacking her thin jacket,

vying for a spot on her eyelashes

a place of rest,

a place of stillness

Why won’t they share?

My heart races into the brothel

A minute.

64 times my heart pumps

pumping blood, pumping blood, pumping blood

with each beat it wills the fifteen year old

to know, to see, to understand

what the enemy has turned her into,

is not her real identity

she is free

washed by His blood, washed by His blood, washed by His blod

My heart breaks through the door

On thirteenth and Alexander

House number 111

It struggles to pry the one’s off the house

Because one sounds like won

The kids, huddled in the corner,

A black eye, a sliced heart in need of stitches and love,

Need to know

Jesus has won, Jesus has won, Jesus has won

In the morning, somber, I’ll tell my parents

I woke up last night, heart breaking,

Couldn’t sleep for these kids

I plea

President, tell the world about them

News channels, bring their stories to the light,

People around the world, pray without ceasing for them too

My heart yearns to find all these children,


Huddled in classrooms,

In street corners,

In brothels,

In closets

The president still talks about hope

My dad still watches

My eyes lock on the screen

But my heart flies to another place

A place of truth

Jesus is the hope

We still watch in hope

Jesus locks his eyes on mine

And reminds me,

His heart has already flown to all those places,

The places of the hiding children

His heart has already broken

Still breaks

His heart has already found,

Still finds

His heart has already loved

Still keeps loving