I close my eyes and listen. The soft sonata of bugs humming outside my window; a vacuum droning on downstairs; a phone echoing on speaker down the hall…I can feel the yellow light from the kitchen streaming into the dark where I sit, laptop ablaze.

I open my eyes. A baby gecko shimmies silently up the wall and I watch him for a few seconds before resting my fingertips on the keyboard.

I think a lot, admittedly. I really love to think. There are very few times when my brain truly rests from processing my world. I can paint, or swim, or marvel at something so beautiful it makes me freeze for awhile and stop thinking. But normally, all day long, day after day after day, my head swarms with things. Things to write about. Things to share with those who will listen. Though when I sit down to elaborate on one of these thoughts, I often feel too overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of things in my mind that I can’t seem to pull out the thoughts I want to use.

So, this is what I do: I sit and close my eyes. I slow my mind by shutting my eyes and opening my ears and senses to my surroundings. Tonight, the darkness feels like a blanket around me. The air is warm, calm, and there’s something oddly comforting about the muted noises that seem to spread smoothly over the otherwise quiet room.

I enter this meditation, only for a moment sometimes, and instead of trying to write what I think, I tell myself, “Write what you feel.” And this is how I find it. I find my voice here; find the words and the emotions and all the things I seem to lose through all my endless thinking and distracting. For as wonderful as it is for me to write, I sure do fight it. I don’t know why it seems so hard to face the pain, but I find myself heaping on one distraction after the next, in an attempt to avoid something that I believe is too unbearable.

I tend to fantasize a lot, but this escapism only leads me to more pain in the end. As someone who finds clarity, peace, and joy in writing, and an outlet for creativity, suffering, and all the internal thoughts roaring inside my head; you would think that I’d be writing all the time! What is it that makes me avoid the very things I know are good for me, best for me, and walk straight into the things that I know are bad?

I breathe deep to lean in.


Will shame ever stop suffocating me? Leading me? Right into the hands of the ones I know will treat me “as deserved” – or so the lies I can’t seem to stop tend to go. I wonder how many other women wander the streets sometimes, thinking that maybe they belong with pimps and John’s. Does anyone else find themselves inching along that line, believing that they’re worth nothing but the dirty money passed around filthy men’s hands? Hands that vie for the atrocious relief of their own brokenness, by tearing up your body, your soul?

How did I get here?

         This is a road that I wouldn’t wish for anyone to walk.

I breathe deep to forget.

And this is what I feel: I feel the unending ache of it, that it’s somehow all my fault, even though my brain tells me it’s not. Where butterflies are supposed to fly and hearts are supposed to expand and thrive and enjoy life, there’s a choking heap of a ground up soul inside, and I’m the one grinding it these days. Iron spears stick out of me from every angle, but each time I try to defend by shoving one out at the world, I push it deeper into my own mess of shredded humanity. I don’t want this lens anymore, I was once the happiest of happy people. And I have chosen the attitude of gratitude and the path of life, but still this battle never ceases. And when I see only through my pain, I know that things aren’t as they appear.

I just want to see truth, to see from the top of the tapestry, from the bird’s eye view – not this tangled mess of discouragement, disappointment, doubt, and despair. I’m supposed to be the living, the fully alive, in a world where people walk in shadows and they don’t even know it.

I breathe deep, this time, to remember.

Remember what I so chronically forget. The miracles. The testimonies. The stories of faith that have shaped history and shaped my own life. This is what I remember: I remember truth. My truth, that no one else can know, no one but God. My shoes, that no one else has walked in, no one but Jesus. My pain, that no one else can feel, but this one, perfect being chose to bear for me. And I remember the joy I’ve known because of him, the playfulness, the whole-hearted-belly-laughter that he created. I remember the way he’s opened my eyes to see the beauty all around me, even in the ugly places, just like he sees it. I remember how I’ve locked myself up and shut out all the love that he tried to offer, and how he so slowly and gently drew me into his safe presence until I could let him touch and break open my hard heart. Or how he lures me away to the secret, hidden places, where I am alone with him, and he whispers to my heart the words I thought I’d never hear. And how the peace I find there holds me tighter than any fear or any failure or any fundamental lie I’ve believed.

Finally, I flicker through the darkest moments: I remember suffocating half to death over a toilet bowl after swallowing all the rape-kit pills the doctor made me take, and how I heard you speak it so clearly as my lungs held on for any bit of oxygen; “You’re not going to die like this.” And you made my chest stop heaving and my body lulled to sleep beside my one friend who always loved me more than I could return. I remember how I’d trap myself in the bathroom and sit my thinning body on the shower floor, praying for a miracle, and I didn’t know it then but you were there holding me closer than I’d ever known.

I remember how he had me starving: starving for love, starving for nourishment, starving for hope and protection and kindness. How he degraded me night after night and I had no voice, and when he was about to do something truly unspeakable to me, how you said no when I could not. How even though I couldn’t see any light at all anymore, you wouldn’t let me suffer any longer, and you said it for me: “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!” – and brought me out of the darkness I was in.

I remember when I found my first dog, my best friend in the world, choked to death on the floor, and how I screamed and wept and held onto her body as we slid around in the backseat of the car, speeding pointlessly to the vet. But I remember how it broke my dead heart right open and it saved my life when I cried that day. And how you comforted me with the wet, hot tears from my own eyes leaking onto the pillow where she used to sleep just one day before. The memories go on and on, and from the outside, maybe it looks like a tragedy. But from my inside view, it’s been a journey of honor, one of knowing you are real and knowing truth apart from understanding and hope no matter what happens.

And as I remember, I think, “What if my story isn’t nearly as important as I’ve thought, and at the same time, infinitely more so?” Could I learn to live, just simply live a life? An ordinary life that doesn’t chase acceptance or self-glory or grandiosity, but simply serves humbly and loves sacrificially and feels passionately and gives all its got. What if the most extraordinary things are really the most ordinary things done with Love’s great purpose? I want to know the stories of hope and faith, humility and courage, sacrifice and the outrageous power of a life given like yours, Jesus.


The power of testimony is a power that can’t be explained.

When we testify, when we speak of what God has done, an unseen force reaches out into the places where no man can go. Our stories, told for freedom, shake loose the hardened hearts and the imprisoned souls, liberate the hopeless and oppressed, and strike the enemy like a venomous snake, with fangs of victory that scream “I WILL NOT GIVE UP!”

And though I don’t always feel it, and though life is filled with uncertainty, I know this: I haven’t come this far to give up. He hasn’t loved me this fiercely so that I would sit in a religious bondage that knows nothing of the naked intimacy He longs to have with us. He’s always been for me. Always been in love with me. Chose me before I chose him. Chooses me when I am against him. Loves me when I’m cursing his name, crushing his heart, mocking his holiness to cover the shame of my impurity. But it’s God’s own fragility that He chose to weave into the sinning skin of humans. It’s this humble mix of strength and softness, beauty and delicacy, power and longing – that makes us bearers of his image.

And maybe telling my story, really telling it, is what sets me free from the fear of man. Maybe it’s what sets me free from the opinions of others. I know that when I begin to talk of Christ, I begin to suffer, for the world hated him and it will hate me because of him. But I cannot be the unfaithful in this moment. How can I turn my back on the one who gave everything and suffered all things all for me? For his love for me. And this is all I’ve ever wanted: to be known and loved. All any of us wants, if we’re being honest. And we are, so much more than we know.

I want to know the extraordinary stories of ordinary people. People who aren’t shouting their own splendor across the world, but who are living to bring glory to God through their one little life. It’s not the telling of our stories for our own benefit, but the release of our testimony for the freedom of another and the glory of God: this is why we testify. And the testimony of a character is most powerful through the lips of someone else, so God allows us to witness for him.

So, let US tell YOUR story, God. Let US testify of YOU…Christ in us.


P.S. Don’t forget to check out my website – which exists to help women learn how to celebrate what it means to be a woman – to see more of my writing and others’. If you have a piece that you’d like to share, fill out the Essence Ministry contact form and we will chat further about posting it on the site! Also, if you like what you see, please sign up for emails on the website.

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My Flesh May Fail

I’ve known what it’s like to feel old – old and broken, like my best years are long gone – and I’m not even 25. Kind of like after all the leaves turn their pretty colors but then fall to the ground, brown and retired. That’s me. At least it has been. My youth, my prime, stolen from me with the cruel, slow crush of silent sickness and invisible illness.

I don’t want to do this.

I don’t know why I’m sick, but I am. I still am. After all this time and so much work. I don’t want to be let down again. Let down by another person’s lack of understanding, lack of compassion, lack of empathy. It hurts too much to be so misunderstood, so unable to voice this pain –

But this is how it truly feels:

It’s anguish, all the time.

It’s like life is repeating the end of a horrible day where everything goes wrong and you’re so painfully broken down and tired. Every day, I’m being beat down and run over physically, emotionally, mentally.

And it’s a rollercoaster. I never know what I’m going to get today. Some days I feel almost normal. Other days I am literally ready, sometimes even genuinely hoping, to die. And maybe you’d never guess it by looking at me, maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but the truth is, I have had nothing left in me to fight with for a long time.

It’s been a supernatural power, a supernatural love, a supernatural cross that’s given me strength to keep going.


I am young, but I relate to the old. When my peers seem to live carefree and easy, everything has consequences for me…every bite of food, every attempt to stay out late with friends if I don’t have the next day or two to recover, every uncalculated movement…I have to be so perfect with what goes into my body, with how much sleep I get, with just how much daily work I must do in order to sustain normal tasks. I have to be cautious of every surface and every germ because my immune system is simply too weak for this world. I have to think about everything.

It’s exhausting.

I have eyes to see the fullest life, but I can’t taste it.

I’ve spent way too much money, way too much time and energy, too much of everything. There have been so many days in bed, nights in bed. Days without anyone who cares or understands, nights without hope or peace. How many nights have I spent on the floor somewhere, crying and clutching my shaking body, just wishing – begging for someone who would come and heal me, someone who’d love me, comfort me, just be there with me. I’ve been so betrayed by the ones who can’t understand, and even the ones who can.

“Is there any love for me? Anyone who will feel this for me because I can’t take it.” But there are lies that seem more than anything to be the truth. And they play on repeat in all our dark and untouched corners: “I am not worth it: not worth being loved, being cared for, being supported. I am not worth anything at all.


And maybe I made it an idol, this idea of “better”, of getting better, feeling better, being better. I’ve sacrificed so much, so many of the things I enjoy, and tried everything I could possibly find to try. People love to offer their solutions, they want to help, but I’ve done it all. Honestly. Regular doctors. Medicine. Surgery. Antibiotics. Probiotics. Naturopaths. Functional medicine. Diet changes. Elimination diets. Lifestyle changes. Exercise. Physical therapy. Detox. Herbs. Essential oils. Electromagnetics. Green juicing. Gluten free. Grain free. Paleo. Sugar free. Dairy free. Soy free. Vegetarian. Vegan. All of the above! The list goes on and on and most people wouldn’t have even heard of half the stuff on it…

This isn’t a pity-party. I know that wallowing gets you nowhere. But sometimes you just have to tell it like it is, tell it like you feel it, in order to let go and be free: in order to find the strength to move forward for today. And a lot of the time I’m emotional – angry, sad, lonely, afraid – because at all times, I’m only human.

So, forgive me if I get angry when you assume that I have endless energy, great health and all this ease on my side because I’m young. Forgive me when I’m hurt by the fact that you’re so tired, even though you’ve been going non-stop for weeks, months, years and you actually should be tired and rest! I am almost always inexpressibly, overwhelmingly tired – no matter what I do! Many days, it takes nearly all my strength to get out of bed, to walk up the stairs, to just exist…let alone get anything done. And it sucks. I feel ashamed about it because it’s not like I’m even doing anything! I feel guilty and judged but I’m the only one who knows what it’s like inside my own body. Everyone gives up eventually. And I really can’t blame them.


Chronic illness is a new level of tired. Tired just doesn’t quite say it when you’ve been completely devastated after taking a shower, and had to curl up in your towel on the bathroom floor, trembling for hours until you could get back up. I’m so sick of people’s assumptions. I don’t look as sick as I am because I work harder than hell to be well, and when I’m not able to make it, I’m alone at home. You don’t see how bad my bad days are. How sick and broken I really look sometimes. How my frame has failed and my broken heart burns with the crazy grief of feeling

soalone in this.

“I can’t take it anymore!” How many times? How many times have I been on my knees, begging this? Tears in my hands, down my shirt, on the thin pages of a Bible that doesn’t feel like enough, when all I feel is sickness and pain and this impossible helpless and hopelessness. Crying quietly to a God who doesn’t seem to come when or how I want.

My lungs fall as I sigh out this stinging, awful cup with the name that promises to rescue. “I need you to take this from me. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do it anymore! I can’t fight anymore. Where are you?!” And I weep it like David, lament it like David:

“How long? How long do I have to wait, God? Will you forget me forever?!”

I hate it because I feel abandoned and forsaken. I want to give up, but I can’t. I speak a lot of cant’s, and I need a lot more can’s. But after enough try’s, enough fails, enough pain…you just stop hoping. Everything you know says healing isn’t possible, not for you. Not in this case, this situation.

But the thing about lament is it turns from weeping to hope, from despair to hanging onto truth just to hang on in this moment. And there’s a faith in me that keeps me hanging on when all feels lost, and I don’t know anything but these whispered promises that burn in my heart. He’s taught me to surrender. His faithfulness has caused me to remember and to believe. So, every time, every time I am crushed, every time I am at the end of my strength and hope and my whole world is failing and crumbling and dark: He comes with courage and I recall –

“I need you and I’m not afraid of my need for you, Father. I feared my need, my desperation, but I know now. I know how incapable I am without You. I am nothing apart from You. You are my strength, my shield, my fortress. You are my rescuer, redeemer, savior. You are all I need and all I want.”

“You are GOOD! You are faithful! I will put my trust in You! I’ll wait for you. Please come quickly.”


I’ve known what it’s like to wait in faith, hoping for hope. Someone can only face so much defeat before believing they’re defeated. But in my defeat, I’ve seen His victory – my hope of glory:

“But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord’s praise, for he has been good to me.” – Psalm 13

I hold on. And honestly, I don’t feel much hope right now, but I keep clinging to the promises and I’ll keep holding on like Jacob wrestling with God. “I won’t let go until You bless me!”

And I won’t walk away from this without some reminder.

But I know – I know – that my flesh may fail, but my God never will.

Remember This Day

It popped up on my phone first thing this morning: “Remember this day.”

What? What’s this? It was my photo app telling me the message. I opened it, and an album from July 18th, 2016 covered my screen. Apparently, on this day last year, I had gone on a sunrise hike and captured some photos of an incredible sunrise. You see, my phone was telling me to remember this beautiful day from last year. What a surprising gift that technology gave me today.

I scrolled through the pictures and remembered the morning, brisk and just a little bit damp. The sunrise didn’t look promising at first because it was overcast. The sky was a soft palette of pastels at the first signs of the sun, and it appeared as if that was going to be the end of it. But suddenly, the sun erupted over the top of the hills and everything was ablaze with a fiery, golden hue. Vibrant orange faded into creamsicle clouds, and soft locks of grassy silhouettes became like fresh kindling, red hot in a fire. It was so silent, so peaceful, so wondrous. The cool fresh mountain air was like a sweet healing balm in my lungs, and I felt hidden in the solitude of the land.

Just to remember that experience alone would have been enough of a joy, but as the day went on, that act of remembering struck me on a deeper level. I thought of how Ann Voskamp writes about the church being called to a life of remembering (I promise someday I will get through a blog without talking about Ann 😉). We are meant to continuously be remembering the gifts, remembering the pain, remembering the sacrifice. Remembering the communion and the faithfulness of Love Himself. At the Last Supper, Jesus spoke the words, “Take this cup, take this bread…give thanks…and remember me…”

How many of us missed that? The remembering: truly, deeply, intentionally remembering daily. The act of remembering increases our faith and trust, increases our heart of love and worship for God, and, with gratitude, brings us into the peace of His presence.

Remembering is powerful. But how do we remember to remember? We actually even need His help to remember. Maybe that’s why Jesus left us with communion – not for His sake, but for ours: to help us to remember.


Just a few hours ago, as the sun started to settle into the horizon and this day of remembering came to a close, God again brought to my mind that there’s even more inside this word for us to learn. I thought of how Ann took the remembering further when she broke open our ways of tearing apart and dismembering one another, to reveal the kingdom call of “re-membering” each other.

So often, Christians bite and accuse, separate and draw lines, declare wars and take sides on every issue – from differences in beliefs or denomination, to politics and personal convictions, to the shortcomings, immoralities, or just the differences in others. I’d like to believe that it’s the extremists and the loud-mouths without a real understanding of God who are the only ones who do this – the ones who, unfortunately, so often wrongly brand the name of God and the people who really know Him. The truth is, however, it will always be a part of our fallen flesh nature to dis-member. But, at the same time, that’s not who we are anymore.

A new person lives in us that was made to re-member; made to put back together the broken, to walk across lines that have been drawn and break down walls that have been erected. We were meant to love the shattered things back into wholeness, and to promote peace amongst people and wage war against the true enemy instead. Why is it that it’s so common to believe that if someone is not for us or for what we believe, that they are against us? That kind of mentality is a tragedy and a trap to pit humanity against itself. It grieves my heart that we live this way; we are all on common ground in our humanness. If we could only be humble enough to see it – to forgive and give grace, to give help, give hands, give ourselves.

But we can

With God, we can! With work and sacrifice and intentionality. With prayer and His Word and His grace, we can remember and re-member. We can become like Jesus and love real enough to change a dismembered life into a re-membered life. God fused my brokenness into beauty with His great love, often poured out through His very own children. What an honor it is that He would choose to move through us, to move through our stained hands and bitter lips and hardened hearts. But that’s the miracle. When He chose to make a home inside our very beings, we became His holy temple, clothed in righteousness and cleansed to absolute purity – and overflowing with all the power to change the world in the midst of all our smallness and imperfection and sin.

So…remember this day. Remember, this day. And re-member today. And every day.

You will come alive because of it.


On Death, Destruction, and Misplaced Desires: Chronicles on the Premise of Dying to Live

Here’s a statement –

Maybe we’re all just trying to kill self, in one way or another.

Yikes, right? Keep reading, I’ll explain what I mean.

The world is filled with people who hurt themselves. There seems to be a pretty constant problem amongst humans: an inner-loathing. Not everyone drinks that cup, but many of us do. We self-destruct because we self-hate. Some self-harm. Some self-indulge, which is actually a form of devastating the self, and often a coping method for dealing with self-hatred. It leads one to inflate like a balloon until, ultimately, they burst. And then there’s actual suicide. The heartbreaking death of self that cannot come back from the grave.

All these things, to their own level, lead to the same place – the destroying or killing of self.

I was driving home the other day and thinking this when something else hit me. I had just written about how Jesus called us to come and die. He said that in order to find our life, we must first lose it. Maybe all this self-hating and self-destruction isn’t altogether wrong, then? Maybe it’s just been misplaced: twisted and perverted into something that brings death without giving way to life, something without Jesus. Maybe we all have this healthy desire and inherent destiny to die to self, but we don’t know the truth of it enough to do it like Christ did, so we do it in all the wrong ways. Satan has deceived us into thinking that we need to either deflate and destroy ourselves because we are so wretched and wrong, or we need to inflate and take everything we want because we deserve it – but we don’t realize no matter how much we give or take, it won’t bring us life or peace or happiness.

When we fall prey to Satan and believe his shouting lies, we end up denying the God-created purposes for our lives, and this leads to our ultimate downfall and unhappiness. So the totally upside-down Kingdom does it again: it tells us, “Let Me raise you up from the death of this world, from your own self-destructive nature. Let Me build you again after all the lies that have detonated everywhere around you have blown you to pieces. Let Me show you the truth, and let you taste My Love and My Life – so that you will then come and die a death that gives way to abundance and freedom instead. So that you will come and die with Me in order to share in My Glory and live in the riches of Truth.”

Jesus showed us how to love, how to sacrifice, when His love for us broke His body and His heart and broke the earth and the sky right open. And it’s that very love that He beckons us with; it’s that perfect love which is His actual being, that He draws us into.

And maybe this is one of the loudest of quiet convictions

this self-dying for Christ’s love –

because it makes eternal ripples throughout all of time, yet no one may even notice. 

Greatest love must come in the smallest of packages, because, somehow, that’s the only way to carry it.


It comes as a heavy realization, the convicting kind of heavy, but the good kind nonetheless.

I wonder if this whole time I’ve had it all wrong. For every bit of wisdom and knowledge, for every intelligent thought and deep understanding from above, for every right revelation and unearthed mystery…I’ve still had it all wrong. Because the very first, very foundational, very important thing that Christ ever taught us is that we are here to serve, and to die, and that’s how we find life. I’ve missed it because instead of dying with Jesus first, I’ve loved my life and tried to find happiness through my own controlling heart and striving hands. Foolishly, I’ve spent my days chasing ways to be special, to be seen, to be happy and healthy and accepted – dressing up my little world with my big thoughts of ‘I’.

I do hate my self. I hate the self. I hate my headstrong will that refuses to submit, my selfish drive that would rather be comfortable than help another, my woe unto me personality that begs to be understood but refuses to understand. How can I believe that I am any more important, any more valuable, than the next person? How can I believe that I am anything at all in this whole expanse of space and time and eternity?

I feel like Job again but in a new way: in a way I never thought I would. I feel like Job in a way that understands what Job said when God spoke to him out of the storm: I despise myself, and I repent in dust and ashes.

I want to rip my clothes off and put on sackcloth and kneel in the dust and ashes of my SELF, and repent and lay low and lower and to the least. I must decrease, and He must increase. I must die, so that He can live in me and through me, and so that His surrendered life can be inseparably tangled up with mine.

We must share in His death to share in His life.

And His life, is life.

This is the journey we must embark on.

The treasure is on the other side of our own death.


On Releasing Dreams but Not Giving Up: Chronicles on the Premise of Dying to Live

I have always been a dreamer. Big time. A Martin Luther King, “I have a dream,” kind of dreamer. There’s never been any other way for me. And I’ve faced enough struggle, enough brokenness, enough despair to believe that this is inherent in me no matter what. I’ll never lose my “But, I see something better” side, even if I wanted to. So, let me just tell you. For me to talk about letting go of your dreams, well that’s monumental. In many ways, I have always been chasing one dream or another, and I’ve held even bigger dreams in my heart – dreams that are way, way, way over my head. I’ve persevered through a lot just to keep reaching towards those dreams. But there is something I haven’t done: mentally push pause on them all. Slow it down on the inside and stop dreaming up a better world and a happier life.

I haven’t stopped running to just be content with what I have. I haven’t stopped running to face what I don’t have. I haven’t stopped running. Period.


It’s a bit of a curse to be an all or nothing person like me. How do you find balance? Especially when you are someone who thrives on balance and harmony, and pretty much falls apart like an undercooked cookie when life is a battle between 110% effort, or 0%. I am desperate for the scales to even out. But perfectionists like me usually have two choices: always be perfect and keep delivering the best, or break down and do nothing because you don’t have the energy to do it. Some people are far more able than me to keep going in their perfectionism. I’m a bit on the fine side: fine lines, fine breaking points, fine skin. I don’t believe that any of that is bad, it’s simply the way I am. I’m sensitive to my stressors and surroundings and I need a lot of sleep, and a lot of time alone to refresh. I’m not interested in comparisons here, all I know is my own ridiculously gentle, patiently quiet, and passionately persistent heart has often sputtered and failed in the loud, aggressive, opportunistic culture.

I simply wasn’t cut out for that type of environment. I frequently daydream about long days working seed into soil, digging up fresh ground, growing my own sustenance, watching over pastures (does anyone else want to be a shepherd boy, or is that just me? …*laughing nervously*). I long to wear down this body thin to build it strong, and empty this body daily to allow my mind to still, slow, and clear. For me, the longer I stay indoors, the longer I neglect my physical need to work, expend, and connect, and the longer I let my mind run and run and run, the more desperate and weary I get. I can “rest” all I want, but if I don’t take breaks from all my mental cardio, I won’t find the energy I’m looking for.

For me, I can swap physical cardio for mental cardio. Labor for labor. That’s the only way I’ve found I can really give my mind a rest. Hopefully I will learn other ways, but for now, I know that this is a good place to start. But more than that, I must lay all my endless dreaming in Jesus’ hands. I must learn to come to Him with each new dream, and hand it over, knowing that it’s not lost there, only being kept safe. At the right time, He may choose to pick up any one of those dreams and hand it back over, and I want to be ready when He does.


I always thought that chasing my God-given dreams was the right thing to do: that making it to this place in my mind’s eye, this place that I believe God has actually called me to, was my number one goal and priority. But when that pursuit became greater than Him, it became an idol. And when we make idols, God tears them down. The vision of the future was more important than anything else. So, He let me break, and He broke with me, until I couldn’t keep running, couldn’t even keep walking. Until all I could do was fall to the ground and rest there in Him. And that’s where I am: resting and learning to rest and learning to be still. Learning to stop running.

I don’t believe in giving up, but I do believe in giving over.

Giving every idol – every single thing we hold dear to our hearts or tightly with our fists – over to God because He’s the one who determines our steps, and He’s the one with the holy plans and the highest knowledge and the greatest love. Like Abraham taking Isaac up the mountain. His promised son: a miracle delivered by God after decades of waiting – the one thing that had potential to stand higher than God in Abraham’s heart. But Abraham was faithful. He didn’t let Isaac, the son borne out of God’s own promise, to become greater than God Himself.

Maybe even when God has given us a dream, given us a promise, we must die to it.

We must let it go, hand it back over to Him, make sure that it doesn’t become an idol in our heart. Because God wants to know that our dreams will never be our gods, but that we will always return to Him, our first love. Maybe all along, we were meant to carry those dreams to give them up – give them up for today, for right now: love for the One inside of us and the ones in front of us. Maybe instead of filling our time chasing dreams or visions for the future, we should be serving, loving, thanking, praying…today. We still have those dreams in our hearts, we don’t let them wither away or die, but instead, we die to them. Chances are, they are even promises from God (He gave us our dreams and desires in the first place), and maybe they are even already fulfilled promises –– but even still, we must pray always for His will to be done. And in the meantime, we don’t lose sight of our greatest purpose: to daily love God and love others.

On this path, you can bet He’ll be leading you to your promised land, but you may not see it until you arrive.

The Long, Short Story of the Last Six Months of My Life (i.e. DTS)

I went for a walk one sunny winter day during my last semester of college and I wanted to climb a tree.

You see, for about the past year, I had been incredibly sick. I have battled sickness for my whole life, but not like this. My body was spent from years of medications, antibiotics, doctor visits and disappointments. No one had answers for me, and eventually, it seemed that everyone gave up one me. I felt so alone in my suffering. I felt so misunderstood and angry.

But there were rays of hope, and one day, a friend showed up with a few of them. She took me to her own natural doctor who I started seeing two or three times a week. I had stopped taking all my medications and now it was time to start healing. I worked hard and I listened to his instruction. That sunny winter day last year was the first day I wasn’t fighting a fever and chills in a long time. I even had some extra energy for the first time in what felt like an eternity. I walked and I smiled and I listened to the sun melting away the snow and the chirping birds who had decided to stay for the winter.

I stopped to look up at this big oak tree in the distance: bare for the winter but nevertheless robust in its strength, and it beckoned me to climb it. At first, I thought to myself, “How stupid. You can’t climb a tree right now. It’s winter, you’re sick, you’re probably never going to climb a damn tree again. You’ve got to just get through the days right now…climbing trees is childhood fun from the past, that’s all.” And I started walking on. But then, the notion that I couldn’t do it really made me angry and I thought, “No! I want to climb that tree. If tomorrow I might be back in bed, then I can’t waste today. Maybe this is my only chance. I’m climbing that tree.


So, I climbed over the fence and literally ran down and across the frozen, snow-packed river, and I leapt at that tree. It was perfect, you know. Perfect climbing tree if ever there was one. It was like an immovable ladder to the sky: like Jack’s beanstalk to a magic world. I made my way to the top third of that giant and I felt like I was five years old again with a big, childlike grin frozen on my face. My eyes were wide with amazement as the sun hopped across the land, scattering diamonds in the snow. The sky was pure blue, without a cloud to be seen.

I held onto those dark, wet tree limbs like they were my freedom – and, in a sense, they were. I laughed and took deep, cool breaths of that air that’s higher than everyone else. It was no Pikes Peak but it was the tallest thing in the place. Some cute old man walking by down below even shouted some encouraging line up to me.


And it was up in that tree that I closed my eyes and it came out of nowhere, “Go back to France, Cassie.Huh? What? What for?You want to be around people who slow down and enjoy life. You want to be close to people who know what it means to taste and savor their days, people who see beauty clearly. People who, like you, see My Face in the wheat-grass as it chases after the wind, and see My Heart in the ducks’ feet as they swim by in the icy winter water. You’ll find something in France. Go back to France.

I went home and I tucked the day away and I held onto that dream. I remembered at the beginning of the semester someone had suggested I do a Discipleship Training School (DTS) with Youth With A Mission (YWAM), and I realized that I can choose almost anywhere in the world through YWAM. I jumped on my laptop and googled ‘YWAM FRANCE’ and I found three bases. As I read through, I was excited by the options, but when I looked at the website and the school for the base called Bridges of Life in St. Hippolyte Du Fort, I knew it was the one. It was everything that called me in that moment.


An old chateaux nestled into the rocks of a small town in the south of France, and dripping quiet character, I saw home reflected off the screen. The more I read, the more it was clear that this was the right place. It was a place of worship and depth, a place of community and hospitality, a place where the Spirit of God is intimately known and His Father Heart is evident. I immediately took a liking to the leaders, Dudley and Janet, and I trusted that they had grown a place I would align with. I reached out to the school leader, started filling out my application, and set a Skype date with them to find out more.

I’ve never made a faster, easier decision. It was divine and it was such a breath of fresh air after wrestling with all the uncertainties and unknowns of a future that had seemed to be fading far too quickly. I was even blessed with an amazing job for the summer and all the funding I needed for the school. In just a few months’ time, I was accepted, I was graduating college, and I was on my way to France.



It’s been about three weeks since I got home and this morning I was ready. I felt ready to give you my honest best of what I must share about my experience in, essentially, missionary training school.

I’ve not known how to talk about what I was doing. I haven’t known the right way to describe it; the right way to describe why. Instead, I’ve given the easy clichés. I’ve said what you’re supposed to say, I guess, which really isn’t me. So, I want to tell you the truth through this post.

I wasn’t out building houses and water wells. I wasn’t working in orphanages. I wasn’t racing across the globe with a smile on my face and abundant energy to do it with. I was hardly even sharing my faith, to be honest. I didn’t do almost a single thing that I’d expected to do, or hoped to do. But, what I did do was learn. I was learning. That is why they call it a school, after all.

Yes, of course I was doing some of the “normal” missionary stuff: I spent time with strangers, I shared my story with homeless and youth, I worked at schools and played with kids, I took the mic as MC for my team on many occasions, I encouraged and stepped into broken, hurting hearts, I prayed for people, I did my best to serve as often as I could remember, I stayed up with the other leaders late into the night (sometimes even into the morning) to plan for the days ahead.

I certainly wasn’t doing nothing. But I often felt like it. Actually, for much of my life, I’ve felt like I’m losing time, wasting time, not really doing anything worthwhile. And definitely not doing what I dream to be doing. There are times when we are at the “top” and we, for one second, seem to have that something we wanted, but then we see the next peak to reach and suddenly we aren’t satisfied. Suddenly, we look around and realize there’s a lot more, and now we want that too. We don’t even stop to enjoy the victory we just made. And this is the comparison trap, isn’t it? We make a goal, but it will never be enough when we see all the other success stories around us. Everywhere we turn, there’s something, someone, some story better than you, than yours.


I’ve had a hundred – maybe a thousand – mountaintops I’ve made it to in the last handful of years. I have persevered through great trials and inner battles. I have endured the flames and been refined, and I’ve walked out of the fire aglow, radiant with this new strength and dignity and destiny. I have been thrilled, others who have witnessed it have stood in shock and awe, and friends and family have challenged me and climbed to their own peaks right there alongside me.

But I never felt like it was enough. A problem with chronic discontentment or faulty perspective I suppose. I think, in a sense, part of the reason I was going to do a DTS was because I wanted to go back to the basics – back to the beginning. I had felt incredibly burned out, expended, worn down. After four high school years of toxic relationships, depression, anger, abuse, and grief, then the following college years of great betrayal, more abuse, more loss, and increasing illness, and a lifetime of social anxieties and fear – I just wanted to escape. I felt weak and incapable of starting any career. I faced screaming lies that told me I would never make it on my own, and there was no job in this whole world that was right for me.

I was angry, I was bitter, I was doing my best to change my hand of cards. But, even after having come so far and overcoming so much, I still battled this inner restlessness and felt this suffocating grasp over my life and my future.

I wanted so badly to feel truly free. I wanted to be able to give myself generously, in the good kind of way, and not be afraid anymore to reach out to people. I wanted to love others like Jesus. My heart lacked love greatly, and I had been praying for that to change for years. Going to France, doing this DTS, was something born out of hope.



Fast forward three months.

We are at the end of lecture phase: three months of classes, three months of learning about intimacy and vulnerability and relationship, and three months of speakers, teachers, and intense self-reflection. I had spent a lot of time exploring the hills and the city and laughing with these people who I came to know by God’s choosing. I took risks and stepped out into passions and gifts of speaking and leading and encouraging others. But I also deeply wrestled with scars from my past, worked hard to allow festering, hidden wounds to be uncovered, and unknowingly searched desperately for a deep rest.

I struggled during those months to do simple, normal things. We had incredibly easy assignments compared to what I had just handled in college, and yet, I had to get excused from some of them because of this choking feeling that I couldn’t overcome. I had no energy. I couldn’t do anything productive hardly, not even fold my laundry and keep my small space cleaned to my normal organized standards. Cleaning and organizing is something I enjoy: it’s been a non-negotiable for me for many years, but even that was too much. I had felt this rising in me for a long time, but I never expected it to happen like it did. It was exhausting and all I did was sleep, avoid work, eat, walk, or hang out with the team. I couldn’t understand it.

That’s when God started speaking to me about real rest.


God created for six days and on the seventh, He rested. We all know it. But why? He didn’t have to; He chose to. We are created in His image, and I think God was setting an example for us. He was telling us that it is important to rest. Sure, lots of people can go and go and go – and keep going, but the problem with that is it’s not healthy, and what you produce is mostly dry, lackluster crumbs of what you could be creating. Studies show that productivity is highest in people who have cycles of work and rest, on and off, and it declines without them. Maybe God was hinting to us that even the great I Am rests to give us His best.

I started realizing that all that time I had spent feeling spent, all of the excess sleeping, all of the lighter loads I was trying to carry…none of that was actually giving me any rest at all! Every moment I was “resting”, I was going through lists upon lists of things I needed to do, wanted to do, should be doing. I was making plans about how I would work up the strength to do them and when. Or, at very minimum, I was feeling overwhelmed with remorse and anxiety about it all. I wasn’t for one moment just allowing myself to put it all to the side and simply do nothing – and not feel guilty about it! But God started to teach me what it really means to rest.

I still need practice, and even as I write this now, I know I’m still pushing away some restlessness. That’s the thing: we are restless because of a lack of rest. Rest is the counter, the solution, to our endless restlessness. Rest is, ironically, sometimes the only way to move forward. Sometimes we must stop and take a break, stop and do nothing, in order to keep going. And truthfully, every day, and through all the seasons of life, we must frequently choose to stop and rest for a time before going on.



After three months of all that and more, we were packing our bags for outreach and us girls were putting on our nice dresses and doing our hair and make-up for the love feast dinner send-off. One by one they called us up to encourage and edify us as we concluded this time, almost ready to leave for Japan. When it was my turn, I stood up there next to my school leaders wondering what they’d say. Having been asked to be a student leader when one of our staff leaders could no longer join us on outreach, I felt excited and honored. I stood dignified and strong, but I was harboring bitterness and resentment, pride and pain, and I was still sick.

I had been hurt at times during those three months, yes, because living in such close community can do that to you, but I was harboring hatred that ran a lot deeper than any wounds that were still fresh. It was unforgiveness from a lifetime of pain and silence. I was also at the end of another rope, because after all the work I’d done to get healthy, I was unsuccessfully trying to get rid of a horrible sinus infection that had only gotten worse after three harsh rounds of antibiotics and every natural treatment that I could find.

And still, I couldn’t hardly think or see or breathe. The pressure in my head was so bad I daydreamed of decapitation. I was mad at God. What had I done wrong? What had I done to deserve this now too? I had almost 40 straight hours of travel ahead of me, including two very long plane rides, and my sinuses might just burst during takeoff! God reminded me that I had been sick for almost 12 years, and just like the woman who bled for 12 years, my faith carried the promise of healing. I hadn’t come all this way to quit now, and I was making it to Japan no matter what it took.


It took a lot.

It took a nose bleed scare when we ascended on our first flight, it took a million tissues and bruised ribs and pulled muscles and exhaustion. It took friends and family praying for me like crazy people. It took breakdowns in the bathroom and cursing God and crying “I can’t do this!” a hundred times, and thousands of tears just to try and relieve some of the pressure, and more tears because I had no strength left but to cry. It took a night spent not inside the bus station like we’d expected, but outside it in the freezing winter when they closed down. To make it through, a group of us started praising and worshipping God by singing and dancing through the night to try and stay warm and lift our spirits. Despite the pain and exhaustion, I was suddenly laughing and having fun and thanking God for this gift, and then they were opening the doors again and we were going back inside. I got my first hot vending machine green tea from Japan and then we were wheeling our suitcases to the bus that we’d be on for the next six hours.

When we finally made it to our first location in Higashimatsushima, Japan, it was after 7 pm and we were sleep deprived, hungry, delusional, jet-lagged and relieved. We hauled our stuff into the tiny café that we’d (almost) all be sleeping in…and then they sat us down to begin orientation! And after orientation, we were going to the mall to go shopping and then finally get dinner. The team was falling apart. We were all about to collapse, and just when we thought we were done, we had to keep going!? I finally spoke up and said we needed to get back and sleep.

It was time to roll out our sleeping bags and sleep until we couldn’t sleep any more (which, sadly, due to time changes, wasn’t nearly long enough for most of us).


We struggled through the next two weeks, daily having to roll out and roll up our “beds” and repack our stuff for the café to open. We had to clean, cook, and dress in an incredibly small space with only one tiny bathroom. It was tough. But it was here that I met the Japanese Onsen: aka, the public bathhouse. Sounds a bit daunting and unsanitary, right? Wrong. The onsen were one of my top highlights of the whole trip! In fact, nearly every girl on my team loved the bathhouses we went to, and some of our best nights were spent there. In the onsen, you clean off first at shower stations, where you essentially shower as you normally would (though you are usually sitting down in front of a mirror), and rinse off extra well. Then you tie your hair up and hop into any of the baths for however long you wish. Often, they are natural hot spring baths that are quite good for your health, and seriously it is more sanitary than a swimming pool or hot tub in the United States.

One night during our first two weeks in Japan, we met about six or eight Japanese girls around our age at the onsen in town. They spoke very good English and were thrilled to meet us. They wanted to know why we were there and where we were from. These girls were the first Japanese people I got to speak to since arriving who weren’t a part of our planned ministry. I got to connect with strangers from the culture for the first time, and it was amazing!

This particular night, we were at an onsen with an indoor bath and an outdoor bath. It was way too hot inside, but it was only our second time and all the Japanese girls had gone to the outside hot spring (this was before we met them). We thought about going out there, but that would mean walking naked into the freezing cold and awkwardly trying to join them. We decided against it, but then it started snowing! We had to do it now. As soon as we walked out there, we were met with welcoming laughter and smiles – and English! Immediately we all began to talk and joke and ask questions. We even ended up singing Christmas carols out there in the snow in the middle of December in Japan! It was truly a night that I will never forget, and such an unexpected joy.

I started really loving the people of Japan that night. 



We thought we’d never make it through those first two weeks, but we did. And looking back, I can see how blessed we were during that time, even though the living conditions were hard. We had people around us, we had translators, we had things to do and planned events. We were taken care of. It was a huge gift to start outreach there. At the end of that time, there were tears when we left and made our way to YWAM Tokyo.

Here we expected something much different than we got. We expected an active base, with people from multiple nations, with events that we would be a part of and plans they would have for our team. But we arrived to find everyone gone for Christmas, except one guy from Fiji (who we totally loved, by the way), and the base leaders who lived downstairs. They welcomed us quickly before basically giving us the next two weeks to ourselves. Living conditions here were the best though, because we had lots of space, a big kitchen, a separate area to relax in with couches, and great bathrooms with all the Japanese technology. But, we had no plans and no translators. We had the base as contacts, but there wasn’t much to take part in.


A few of us did wake up very early in the morning a few times to go out in the frigid and windy air and volunteer at a homeless church that the base was connected with. I had been unable to fully recover still, and while here, I had to stay back semi-often due to extreme exhaustion. I sometimes felt like I could have gone out with the team, but I would get a nudge from God telling me not to. This happened for the two days prior to the homeless church that first Saturday morning, and I knew when I woke up with enough energy to go, that it was the reason God told me to stay back the other days. When we arrived, they asked one of us to share our testimony, and I knew it was supposed to be me. That was a cool morning for me, and it happened to be New Year’s Eve that day too. Unfortunately, I had high expectations for the rest of the day.

We made it home before noon and I got to nap until it was time to cook for New Year’s Eve dinner. Afterwards, we went out into downtown Tokyo for New Year’s ministry. I was not very happy because I wanted to have fun and do something adventurous to celebrate the New Year, but instead we were stuck waiting in line at a temple, and not talking to anyone, let alone celebrating New Year’s in Tokyo in style! I know, missions isn’t about getting to having fun, right? In my opinion, having fun is what makes people attracted to you, and it should absolutely be a part of mission work, or you’ll lose your mind!

Needless to say, I was angry about the fact that we missed out on a lot of adventures (I know, I didn’t have the best attitude about it). After a long and disappointing night, we made our way back to the train station…only to find that the last train for the night had already left. Once again, we were stranded overnight. Luckily, we did find a MacDonald’s to stay in this time and I got a McFlurry and tried to manage some optimism through all the disappointment and exhaustion.


The majority of our time in Tokyo was spent gift-bombing the areas we were in (thanks, Ann Voskamp for the idea: #betheGIFT). We bought candy, wrote Christmas and New Year’s notes, left surprises for people in random places. One of our guys dressed up as Santa and took pictures with kids and handed out lollipops. We had fun doing this during the holiday week, but after the end of the festivities, our good excuse to do those kinds of things faded away. We tried to come up with new ideas. We did everything from performing a dance in public, to dropping by local shops with gifts and flowers, to doing free art/paintings for people in the park. The hope was to draw people to us, pray they’d speak English, and share why we were there and what we believe in. It really didn’t work most of the time. This was the beginning of a long stretch of what, to me, felt like directionless wandering.

We left YWAM Tokyo and went to and Airbnb north of Tokyo, in a small town called Takenotsuka. Overall, it felt a bit like hell.

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of stories, plenty of cool moments, plenty of things that happened, but it felt like it would never end. I was living in this horrible purgatory of potential, always seeing the possibility of more, and never able to have it. We spent a lot of time just walking around, desperately trying to find things to do and people to talk with. Everything became so over-spiritualized in our hope to see something happen. To be honest, I’ve never questioned my faith more than I did during that time.

If you ask someone else on my team, they might (and probably will) have a different interpretation, but this is how it was for me. The whole thing is a bit of a blur. I remember what I looked forward to most each day was going to my favorite café during free time to get a coffee with some incredible artwork on top, exploring Tokyo on off days, and stopping in stores to look for souvenirs or buy a Ghana Chocolate Ice Cream Bar (a running favorite amongst the team). I had moments of “outreach”, but many of the days felt purposeless.

There were some silver linings though. During this time, a few of us decided to fast for three days. I had never done fasting for God before, and I felt like it was the perfect time to learn. I also felt like there was a really important reason for it. It was the middle of January, and it was almost exactly 12 years since the beginning of my fight to be healthy. We were reading through the entire New Testament as a group that week, and more than once, I ended up reading the passage about the bleeding woman and the little girl Jesus raised from the dead. God spoke deeply to my heart through those words and those days, and I found clarity and answers and…healing! It wasn’t as much a miracle for others to witness, but I felt this deep, secret, personal healing inside me. That, and the very real healing of the chronic acid reflux problems that started this snowball of sickness way back when I was a kid.


Another one of my better stories from this time was when I got to go with two of the girls to visit an older man who owned a small motorcycle shop in town. He spoke enough English to hold simple conversations, and he was so excited to talk with us. He invited us back to his shop to watch an anime movie with him one night. Because we had nothing going on, we went. He cleared some of the clutter away, pulled out a few folding chairs, and turned on the TV set atop a pile of metal parts. He served us famous Japanese sweet bean cakes: a small pancake-like sandwich filled in the middle with mashed and sweetened red beans. It’s not the best. He also brewed us some tea served in Garfield mugs, the aroma mixing with the heavy smell of gasoline that filled the shop.

It was interesting. The anime movie was three hours long and we had to get up at 4 am the next morning, but I think it meant a lot to him to have us there. We often stopped by to visit him for a few minutes here and there. He would always give us little gifts and we would show up with chocolate for him or some other snack. It was not something I’d have ever imagined doing, but I believe that God wanted to bless the invisible and lonely people in that town. So, in the end, we all can look back and see that maybe from the outside it looks like we didn’t do much, but we can never know how our presence and actions changed the atmosphere or affected the normally overlooked people we took time for. We choose to have faith that we made a difference because we followed God, even in the smallest of ways.


I may have complained and the disappointment may have been constant, but I did leave that country with an absolute love for it: it’s people, it’s culture, it’s potential. I’ve always been fond of Japan, but now I love Japan. I hope that one day I get to go back. The people are so beautifully shy in public but so uniquely quirky at home, so incredibly generous and hospitable, so full of creativity and curiosity, so humble and gentle, but fierce and talented. They do everything with their best. I saw God through these people in a way that just captivated me.



A tangle of trains and a few hours on a plane and we were landing in Taiwan.

Here, they picked us up in a big tour-looking bus and drove us to our apartment. YWAM Taipei promised a whole different experience, as we had a translator and staff member to accompany us almost all the time. We also had a very busy schedule that was pre-planned and arranged just for us, and we had a wildly new culture to explore and experience. This place was chaotic. Much more of what I imagined traditional “outreach” to be. There were scooters all over the road and pretty much no rules for crossing streets or walking down busy roads. There was street food galore, tapioca bubble tea on every corner, and bloody displays of animal parts being sold at crowded and colorful markets jammed down alleyways. It was dirty and loud and nothing like Japan at all. The people were much more forward and, as many Taiwanese spoke good English, they would often come up and ask us questions or just say hi.

Here we worked mostly with schools and youth groups. Probably a hundred times we performed our dramas and the dance that we had prepared during lecture phase. We spent two weeks at a couple of local schools where we planned well over two dozen English classes. Another time, we went to an elementary school and performed, presented, and played games. This day was the most fun for me, as it was hot and sunny and I actually had a blast playing with the kids. It was a true moment of freedom for me, because I have always been the person to stay shyly on the sidelines, not knowing how to talk to kids or to simply play and have fun. But we finally had something to do, and I was so excited by it that I jumped right in and thoroughly enjoyed the day!

Often, I was the MC for our team and introduced our dramas, explained the message we wanted to give through them, announced the events of the day/night, or described the next activity. It was challenging because I always had to know what was going on and often I had to improvise, but I usually enjoyed it and began to step more into my passion for speaking. One night, I even shared a message and part of my testimony at a “party night” hosted by the English Café we volunteered with that the YWAM Taipei base founded. I heard the authority in my own voice as I spoke and it was a wonderful thing to look out and see my whole team with these big, proud eyes as I spoke. It was like, in that moment, they were all truly family, and they knew just how much I’d overcome to stand there and speak.


When it finally became time to leave Taiwan and return to France for our week of debrief, I was nearly jumping off the walls. I was packed and ready to go with a big smile on my face. I couldn’t wait to get back to a real bed, a pillow (which I hadn’t had all of outreach), a clean shower with clean water, a bathroom with a real toilet that you can flush toilet paper in (if you’re lucky enough to have a non-squatting toilet in Taiwan, you still have to have your own toilet paper which you aren’t allowed to flush but have to throw away into the trash next to you…gross, I know), and all my glorious stuff back at the base. I was so sick of the six outfits I had been wearing, I threw most of them out when we left Taiwan! We were ready to go home. A few of us had a good feeling about the trip home and someone even prayed that travel would be redeemed for me through this (as I’d had so many miserable travel experiences already). I believed it was going to be great!

How wrong I was.

We found our seats on our 13-hour flight to Istanbul, and I started shuffling through the movie options. The attendants came quickly with drinks and then our dinner. I had a gluten free meal, so they brought mine out separately and before everyone else got their food. I waited to eat and then nibbled on the salad, bread, rice and meat, and some pink jelly-like dessert. I wasn’t thrilled with the food this time, even though Turkish Airlines usually has really good food. The meat tasted a little strange, so I only ate some of it. The pink thing was kind of weird too but not too bad and I finished that and started a movie. About thirty minutes later I suddenly felt dizzy and a little nauseous. I remember thinking, “Oh no, please don’t let me be sick on an airplane!” As soon as I finished that thought in my head, everything faded and I remember suddenly praying, “Oh my God, be with me.”

Next thing I know, I’m waking up to flight attendants and the teammates nearby anxiously asking, “Are you okay?!” I had fainted in my seat, collapsing onto the guy next to me. I couldn’t figure out what had happened but my whole body was numb and I felt hot and really, really terrible. Jimmy (one of the guys on our team) was behind me and I just remember him saying, “Cassie, it will be okay.” Katie, our nurse, was there and everyone was asking me questions but I couldn’t open my eyes, and when I did I couldn’t hardly see anything.

I was really scared.


I heard some people talk about how bad I looked, and they decided to call for a doctor on the plane. There was a man who worked in ICU previously and he came and I never saw his face, but he had a nice voice and he got me to lay down, which helped the nausea go away a little. They took my blood pressure and blood sugar and tried to get me to drink juice. I lay there with Katie sitting in the crack between the seats and the floor and a few others from my team praying for me.

I started shaking uncontrollably, which seems to happen to me after fainting, and I began pleading with God to take this away and not let me start throwing up on an airplane. I remember hearing them say they thought it was my blood sugar, and that I would be fine if I drank some juice. I was thinking, “Trust me, this is not my blood sugar.” I don’t know how long I was there before I started throwing up, but it did come and it was not pretty. I felt like I was suffocating in between heaves and it just wouldn’t stop. Luckily, I was only throwing up, but I was really throwing up. I don’t know how Katie and Jimmy and Kelsea and Paula stayed with me like they did, but they did. Katie was by my side the entire time, she never left. And she was holding bags for me and taking care of me and she wasn’t afraid to step right into the ugly and downright disgusting that I, myself, would have run from. I don’t know how she did it: how she does it.

At one point, they took me to a bathroom in first class that was big enough for me to sit down in and I was hugging the toilet in there or curled up on the floor crying for hours. To top it off, it was one of the most turbulent flights I’ve ever been on. They came to the bathroom a few times and said we had to go back to our seats, and I remember saying, “No way, I can’t.” Katie pulled me to my feet and nearly tried to carry me and I took three steps and just crumpled back to the floor and crawled back to the bathroom in time for another round of throwing up. I cried to God then that I really couldn’t make it through any more, and that was the last round.

I finally made it back to my seat just in time for landing, and they buckled me in and I went straight over into Katie’s lap. Everything and everyone was a fuzzy blue, and the lights over my head were like fluorescent torture. The whole flight, I couldn’t really see much. I heard some of what was going on but mainly I remember pleading at first with God, and then screaming at Him in my head. We had prayed for a blessing! We prayed for God to bless us while we traveled just because He loves us. We prayed that we’d maybe even get bumped to first class. I thought, “So this is how you send me to first class?!?


When we finally landed in Istanbul, they had to call for a wheelchair to take me off the plane and into the airport. They called for a doctor to come meet us, and some construction-worker-looking Turkish man shows up with a 20-or-30-something male nurse. They were rude and I could sense the difference between men and women in their culture. They poked my arm and gave me a shot of medicine and told me to drink fluids and take this fever pill. I remember my team made up a little bed for me on the floor there and I crawled in and tried to sleep, but my back and sides and body hurt so much. I heard some of the girls crying and I knew there were a lot of trials going on.

Then they asked me to get up because we were going to a better waiting area. Because we had a 9-hour layover, we couldn’t go to our gate for a long time still. We found some chairs and I was down right away while my friends were trying to see if I needed anything. They got me multiple things to drink: a smoothie, juice, water. But I still couldn’t take more than a sip or two. After a few hours, some airport workers would come and kick everyone out of that area and make us move somewhere else. It was miserable. We had to do that three or four times, maybe more, I can’t remember. Finally, it was almost time to board.

We got on the plane, and I had a seat in the back with Léa, who had stayed with me for the entire layover. I finally ate a few bites of a banana and had some lemon-mint sparkling water, and that finally started to make things better. But I was beyond exhausted and scared of to be on another flight and I broke a fever again after the first hour in the air. Luckily, the flight attendants were more nurturing, and they got me an empty row to lay down in, put a stack of those little airplane pillows and some blankets down and got me cold towels to put on my head and chest and arms. I was able to sleep a little like that and the rest of the flight went faster because of it.

They got another wheelchair for me when we landed in France at the Marseille airport, and I got to skip all the lines and immigration stuff as they wheeled me right through to the front. We got our baggage and then we met Sam, our school leader, who was waiting for us at the airport. He was shocked to see me in a wheelchair and when we told him what had happened. He bought me some water and rice cakes and I was finally able to eat and drink. The ride home was about three more hours, but I finally felt a lot better. The other girls in the back seat of the van were at their ends. As I looked back, there were tears and tired eyes, hands holding hands, and heads in laps. I loved those girls. Such strong, brave, sacrificing women.



When we finally pulled up to the chateaux, it looked like an oasis in the desert. It was around seven or eight at night and, as we started emptying the vans of all our bags, the base staff started pouring out to welcome us home. I just wanted to go to bed and not see anyone, but it felt surprisingly good to hug everyone and see their faces. These were people who really cared about me and people I cared for in return. I quickly got my bags and hauled them up to the room, found my bunk, sent some texts saying I’d made it, and crashed. I was out. The bed felt so big after the tiny mattresses and floor pads we’d been on, and the big European pillow was like a taste of heaven after three months of using crumpled up t-shirts. We even had fresh, clean sheets and a thick down comforter.

I have never been more grateful for hospitality and linens in my life.


Somehow, that first day I managed to have a pretty great attitude. I guess I was just so happy to be back and be over the sickness that I didn’t realize I was still so mad at God. The next day I called my mom, and that anger rose up again when she made a comment about how lucky I was to have had food poisoning and only been throwing up. I was not ready to agree at that point. I started accusing God of being a liar, of how I didn’t believe He was good anymore, of how it was the end and none of what He’d promised me had happened. The jet-lag and the exhaustion of all my body had just been through hit me hard that afternoon and I fell into a feverish sleep after lunch.

The next morning, they asked us personal debrief questions, and since I’m the kind of person who is overly self-aware, I didn’t struggle to start scribbling down my thoughts. As I started writing about what I thought would happen and what really happened, it suddenly dawned on me like the moment the sun actually breaks over the horizon.

I wrote: “I thought I’d step out of so many chains and let go of the fear of man. I thought I would lead and serve well. I wanted to change my focus to be outward and not inward. I hoped to love people and not hate them. I wanted to shine and break free and live for others…love others…I wanted to really feel love again, or for the first time, God! But what really happened was absolutely nothing I thought would happen…but instead this mess of ugly and beauty, shame and glory, craziness and purity, darkness and faith. What actually happened was I LEARNED HOW TO BE LOVED, AND BECAUSE OF THAT, I LEARNED HOW TO LOVE IN RETURN!!! So that is what you were doing this whole time, God?! Your promises, then, really have been fulfilled, but in a way I never could have imagined.

How is it that God can take the worst circumstances, even after your time has ended and you thought there was no way He could possibly deliver on His promises, and somehow, in a moments time, show you that He did all He said He’d do and more?

What happened,” I wrote, “was GREAT GRACE. Great grace and great mercy and great beginnings and great chances and great endings and great new days and a great new family.” I never knew love like what I had experienced there. And as I kept processing, I saw that, yes, I may be an imperfect, flawed, broken, hurting, selfish, scared mess sometimes…but I am also loved and lovable – in the midst of all that, despite of all that! I penned the words fast and dark: I am enough! Just like this. Just as I am. I am worthy of love and I really, actually am loved!



You see, I thought I was going away to love others and serve them and do good in this world. But what happened was, in a sense, totally the opposite. I went away to be loved by others and served by them and to feel the good in this world that they offered to me. I went away to find home in this unexpected family and find out that I am worth loving once all the masks and all the façades and all the walls were stripped away, and in my eyes, I’m just this pile of ugly and selfish and unlovable.

But instead of leaving me, they turned toward me and stepped in close and held my heart and didn’t blink an eye at all that stuff that made me so worthless and terrified and tarnished. When I thought that my core had revealed a dark and broken truth that I could never be fixed, I could never be pure, I could never be lovely – these people told me that, even when looking at the same broken thing, what they saw was not what I saw. They saw someone beautiful and kind, someone strong and inspiring, someone worth loving and capable of choosing and feeling love in return. They saw a person with a profound, inherent, God-given value that could never be changed, regardless of what they found. They really saw me, and they loved me!

I guess God knew that the only way I could ever believe I was lovable, the only way I could receive His love, was to be showered with it, broken by it, and forced to receive it, at my very worst: when I truly didn’t deserve it one bit. Because that’s the whole point: we don’t deserve it, but God said we’re worth it.

I had a lot of love for others as a little girl, but cruelty stripped it away and replaced it with coldness, numbness. My heart has always been big, but it dried up a long time ago — and for the past few years, I had been trying desperately to conjure up a love that only God can give. A wise man I know always says, “You can’t give away what you don’t have.” God knew that to answer my prayers of loving others, I first had to open my heart to receive love first.

And when the last official day came and we had our final dinner together, I looked around at all the faces of these people I so deeply adored, often so harshly judged, and other times so genuinely loved — and I knew I had been given a great gift through this family.


The next night a bunch of us stood out in the courtyard in the middle of the chateaux, and someone had Ed Sheeran playing while a few of them ballroom danced with one another one last time (it had been a bit of a tradition during our school). Two of the girls I had grown closest to were sitting with me watching and drinking wine. We were just soaking in the music and the peace and the emotion. Some of the base staff showed up, people we really came to care for, and we talked and hugged and cried and said good-night. One by one, everyone went to bed, but the three of us stayed up. Caroline, our British mother, came out and was trying not to cry while she talked with her favorite French girl about tomorrow’s goodbye.

Meanwhile, Sophie, the other friend I loved so much got up and stood in the center of the courtyard looking up at the stars in the dark, with tears running down her face. She looked so full of grace and strength and love. I got up and hugged her for a long time, which is something I don’t normally do. I’ve always struggled with physical touch, never being able to let friends or family too close to me, and certainly not able to reach out my own hands to them. But the deep well of emotion in her, something I hadn’t known was there, was paired with this beautiful, vulnerable composure, and it drew me into a safe place to let go. 

It was a huge thing for me to go and hug someone like that though, and because she knew it, tears poured from her beautiful dark brown eyes like love spilled out on God’s own wooden cross. We started to exchange the most heartfelt words of affirmation and love, and she said she had something for me as she pulled off a thin, rose-gold bracelet from her own wrist: “Her favorite bracelet?!?” I immediately burst into tears as she took my wrist and put her bracelet on me. With tears, she went on: “It says, ‘I always believe in you,’ and I want you to have it because I’ve never believed in someone more than I believe in you, you know how much I love this bracelet and I know how much gifts mean to you.

I came undone in that moment.

I’ve never felt more loved in my entire life, and I felt like I simply couldn’t hold together. But that feeling of coming undone is surprisingly sacred and safe when you come undone in the arms of love. Caroline came up to us at that moment and wrapped her arms around us and really, it was like something from a movie.

Caroline left and Léa, Sophie, and I went into the little prayer room on the base and cried for another two hours. We spent the night cuddled up on the couch under some blankets, just crying and each telling the other two how much we love them, how incredible they are, and how much we’ll miss them. I’ve never had a time like that before. I’ve never felt the loss of leaving someone I truly loved until then. When we all got up to leave the next morning, we cried some more, hugged some more, and I felt this deep sorrow in my heart as my DTS family went off to their corners of the world.

I rolled away in a car early in the morning on my way to Italy for a vacation with my parents, and I had a smile on my face even though my heart hurt with grief. This glorious smile coexisted next to that pain because, for the first time, I knew what it was like to really miss people: to really, deeply feel and love and be loved. To miss and be missed. I have had plenty of people in my life worthy of these feelings, but I had never been able to let real love in deep enough to penetrate the calloused heart of stone in my chest. God has been chipping it away for a long time, but it was there that it finally cracked through to reveal that heart of flesh that I’ve longed for.



was my DTS anything like I had hoped or dreamed or expected? Not in the slightest. It was by far, exceedingly, infinitely, abundantly better than I could have ever asked or imagined. Because that is always, and will always, be the God that I serve and the God that I know.

With Love,


DTS team photo


When You Decide to Lay Yourself Bare: Part 2


Do you ever have that feeling that you’re missing out on something big? Like you’re missing out on the thing you want most – the thing you need most – in life?

I’ve spent many years chasing down a destination like a cheetah chases its prey. Chasing down the idea of the end of this road I’m on: the end of this road of pain and sorrow, slavery and suffering, brokenness and fear. I’ve pursued that promised dreamland so fast that I’ve raced past most days without having stopped to pluck each glorious one, each with only so many moments: like a bunch of grapes, ripe for the picking right now only. Just one chance to taste them – to taste today. One chance to experience the sweetness.


Even in laying bare, I was running past them all – past all the people, all the moments, all the gifts that mattered. Running past all the opportunities. Turns out, in a sense, I was running nowhere. You can pack your bags full of all the right intentions and then take off in the wrong direction. Instead of risking it all, I retreated within. Instead of fearlessly reaching out, I fearfully kept my hands in my pockets. Instead of giving myself to the broken, I ended up burning them with my own broken-hearted venom.

But as I sought, I discovered. When you choose to be bare, that is how you end up. And wow, it is painful. Being bare was not me risking rejection to be a good person, to be a difference maker, a world-changer. No, being bare was more an exposing of all my imperfections and flaws. The real ones, you know, not those silly insecurities we all have. The flaws like pride that’s grown to be larger than you ever imagined, like selfishness that has made you the kind of person fattened with greed, like hatred that has left you gnarled and maimed in ten-thousand toxic ways. Laying yourself bare means letting God strip you of, well, you. It means beginning the process of literally ridding you of yourself.

It was Dietrich Bonhoeffer who spoke the famous words, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” This is a powerful statement, especially to my western ears. But I want to delve deep into the meaning of self-sacrifice through love and love alone. The kind of love that is described and demonstrated and embodied by God Himself. Love risks all and bares all and braves all to save all, heal all, be close to all.

Laying bare is only something you can do when you’ve abandoned yourself, and abandoning yourself is only something you can do when you stretch out your vulnerable being, expose your humanness, and welcome suffering. Abandon means to give up completely. Abandon self. Give *self* up completely. Those are just words until you live them and then they become a cross to bear, a key in your hand, a highway to freedom and heart-breaking love. When you say yes to getting hurt, you can say yes to connection, to intimacy, to love.


One last thing to share. The woman who I never stop learning from, Ann Voskamp, writes: “It’s strange how that is: everybody wants to change the world, but nobody wants to do the small thing that makes just one person feel loved…Why hadn’t I come to it long before I had to blow out this many [birthday] candles? When I abandon self into givenness, the feelings of abandonment give way to abandoning myself to God and finding full communion.”

You see, when we lose our life for Christ’s sake, that’s right where we find it, and it’s right where we find Him. “For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it” (Matthew 16:25).


So, part two was not what I’d expected it might be, but then again, nothing is ever what I expect it might be. When you decide to lay yourself bare, you find that it’s going to be a much longer, much slower, much more painful process than you could have imagined. But it’s going to be so much more glorious, so much more powerful, and so much more life-giving too.

Because maybe that thing you’ve been missing out on is actually life itself – and this – this laying bare, this laying down: this is the first step to losing your life in the givenness of Christ, and consequently, to finding what life really is.

That’s sure what has been happening to me.