When I was a kid, I used to imagine that I had a secret passageway from my bedroom to another world.

It wasn’t a “Lord of the Rings” world…or a “Lord of the Flies” one either. In fact, it was very specific. I could just open the vent beneath my bed and climb down to Michael Jordan’s secret training lab. It was in this gigantic underground clubhouse (with a full-size NBA court) that he and his friends (including me) would practice their skills and dunks. Nobody knew it was there except for me, and I had 24-hour access. It was my secret place.

When times were tough in our house or our family, I would just sneak up to my room and close my eyes — a necessary prerequisite to getting down the vent. I’d spend the next few hours with Michael, Kevin, Karl, and Vince — dribbling and dunking, the real world hundreds of miles above.

About a decade later, I was finding my escape in another secret place. As my life was colliding with the reality of the gospel, I’d find a place of solitude to meet God. The place wasn’t necessarily geographical, but spiritual. We’d meet there any hour of the day for any number of reasons. Questions, dreams, pain, joy, hope, guidance. Early morning, middle of the night, after work, during work. Just like Mike, God was always there — waiting for me to meet Him.

In these times, God would speak to me. Not always audibly, but sometimes. I would ask for daily (if not hourly) direction and in my spirit the path became clear. I coined the phrase, “If you want to know God’s will, just ask.” The secret place was my home base, I spent as much time there as anywhere else.

But eventually I became too busy to take the scenic route. I still wanted to know God’s will, but I didn’t have time for journey-learning. The secret place was becoming my spiritual vending machine. I would insert a prayer, hoping God would dispense an answer. I didn’t want a direction, I wanted a destination. I didn’t want a step, I wanted the map. I mastered context clues and assumed if God pointed me in a direction, it would lead to the most logical destination.

Why would God let me date someone if they weren’t my husband? Why would God tell me to switch jobs if it wasn’t a better environment? Why ask me to plant a community house if it would fail?

That sacred connection God and I shared in the secret place was fading in and out. After a massively failed relationship I thought was supposed to end in marriage, I questioned my ability to hear God’s voice. Man, I really blew that one. I took a “better luck next time” approach, and jumped into my next project: God was asking me to plant a community house. The provision was quick and profound. House: check. Finances: check. Roommates: check. The prayer request barely left my mouth and it was answered. I had the raw material, now it was time to build something legendary.

My visits to the secret space became less frequent. If God wanted that house to be a community house, I assumed any issues that might arise were my problem to fix, not His. It was as if He was my boss in a Fortune 500 company and when He issued a task, I shouldn’t come back until it sparkled with completion (The Devil Wears Prada Gospel). In my mind, He commissioned me to plant a community house and it better be nothing shy of an epicenter of radical love, community, and glory.

I believed He only cared about the ends, the means were of no consequence to Him.

(Insert Chapter 76 of “Adventures in Rachel Missing the Point”)

The rise and fall of “The Orchard House” was one of the most painful things I’ve journeyed through in my life. Every day was a fight for glory to break like dawn. Yet the harder we pushed to move forward, the darker it became. Our house became a place of isolation and unrest, misunderstanding and pointed fingers. I kept hoping one day it would all make sense, that we’d look back at our story and laugh. But it never happened, and I was finally asked to leave after a year’s worth of painful months.

I couldn’t possibly present this to God — this was a project that couldn’t go wrong and I annihilated it. I couldn’t face Him – either I had failed at hearing Him or failed at serving Him. I didn’t want to stand before Him in either predicament.

I moved into that house with one of my best friends and a complete stranger. Finding connection with the stranger was awkward and difficult. We didn’t know how to communicate and our lifestyles were drastically different. Yet over time, pain brought us together. We forged a bond that has changed me, in a forever sort of way. It’s changing me still.

I remember her telling me as I moved out, “This didn’t fail, Rachel. We found community – just not in the way we thought we would.”

But I couldn’t hear that, not yet. I was blinded by feelings of utter failure and crushed dreams. I hung my head that Thanksgiving night as I moved my boxes into my sister’s garage. That same day I sealed the entrance to the secret place, assuming I was no longer welcome there.

I determined I would never even attempt to hear God’s voice again.

It wasn’t so much that I was mad at God (I mean, I wouldn’t say I was thankful either). I was more angry at myself – how had I been so sure this was what He wanted me to pursue? I did everything in my power to fix it, and the damage was irreparable. Maybe I misheard him?

In this season of rest and recovery, I’ve been drawn time and time again to this powerful verse in Isaiah:

Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”

He doesn’t say, “This is the destination, ride the moving walkway to it.” Or, “This is how it ends, just sit and wait until it happens.”

This is the way, walk in it.

It’s not necessarily that I heard Him wrong in the secret place, but I stopped meeting Him there. He gave me a direction to walk in and He wanted to lead me every step of the way.

Keep meeting me here, Rachel. Are you hurt? Meet me here. Are you excited? Meet me here. Confused? Repentant? Victorious? At the end of yourself? Meet me here.

The Devil Wears Prada Gospel is a false one. God’s expectations of our perfection are summed up in Jesus: THEY ALL NEED A SAVIOR.

Maybe I did blow my community house – maybe the epic failure was my fault. I might never know if different choices on my part could have saved it. But it wasn’t because God’s expectations were too high for my pathetic leadership and creativity. It’s because I was too ashamed to show God I couldn’t do it myself.

Four months later, God and I are finally reuniting in the secret place. I show up late and not often. I don’t have much to offer and my wounds are bare before Him. But He meets me there. Always. As time moves on I’m learning to ask for direction again, one step at a time. I’m knee-deep in the means, letting the ends take care of themselves.

Endnote: Last Sunday my roommate moved out of Orchard House, another painful reminder that our project was over for good. I was feeling a bit defeated as we sat together in church, my wounds still open. As our pastor preached the gospel, he zeroed in on the essential path of community. He passionately declared God’s heart for community – and he pointed right at Becca & I, almost as a way of defining it. Maybe we didn’t fail. Maybe we found exactly what we were looking for, and more.

I recently read A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller.

I knew the subject of the book was story-writing, so I took the bait. I love to read stories, and even more so to tell a good story. Donald Miller is one of my favorite thoughts-to-paper authors, and reading this book was a pilgrimage. As I journeyed through the pages, I kept coming back to this simple idea he shares in the beginning:

A story is a character who

wants something and

overcomes conflict to get it.

He implores the reader to consider their life as a story, asking the simple question: “Are you living a good story or a bad story?”

Many people are living bad stories, perhaps by accident, because they’ve failed to define just what it is they are trying to achieve. We are all characters and we’re all overcoming conflict – but how many of us have stopped to ask exactly what it is we’re pursuing and whether or not it’s worth our legacy?

For most of my adolescent life I was living a bad story. A terrible one, actually. Over time I became a skilled manipulator, uttering more lies than truths – and I prided myself in my attention to detail and success in deception. I lied about everything from how I spent my summer break to which young men had been in pursuit of me as of late, crafting stories that made my life interesting. I was terrified at any other possibility. I just wanted to be liked.

In friendships I experienced much width, but very little depth. It’s not that I had shallow friends – in fact, if anything I was the superficial participant. I became very popular in high school – I was awarded “Class Clown” in our senior yearbook. It was an accolade I had invested all of my time and passion into achieving, yet I was still trapped in the grip of depression. My heart was secluded in an icy cold chamber, and even my popularity couldn’t get me out of bed.

I was living a bad story.

I went to college and thought my emptiness could only be filled by better plot lines. I devised greater schemes and tales, taking advantage of new territory. I studied humor and timing – hoping being funny would get me the kind of liked that would change the game. But the grander the fiction, the deeper the hole. My depression reached a critical mass, and I spent most of my sophomore days in the fetal position in my bed.

Being liked wasn’t a good story. It just wasn’t. It was a lame pursuit and the dividends were exaggerated.

I was sick of being liked. I wanted to be known.

Good stories always start with seemingly impossible goals. It starts with us pursuing something we’ve never been able to do before and taking the steps to get there. The story itself is written on the journey as we reach new personal heights – not for bragging rights, but because discomfort shapes character. It doesn’t matter if someone else has done it – the question is: have I?

My story started with a pen, a piece of notebook paper, and a shaky hand. I wrote six letters to my friends, attempting my impossible: the truth. I filled my waste basket with crumpled balls of fear, each letter containing more boldness than the last. I vomited in the trash can by the post office (I promise that’s true) as I clutched those six envelopes of not-yet-experienced. Releasing them into the slot was my first step towards a new story, a good story. (One that ends with a passion for community and intimate friendship).

One of my favorite preachers once said “We are the most entertained generation in the history of mankind and arguably the most bored.”

I think he’s right.

We have access to more stimulation in our hands than we ever have, yet we become mindlessly numb to it. We have more TV shows airing today than ever before, yet we go to bed exhausted and empty after a day of binge watching on Netflix. Airplanes afford us the ability to explore the world in hours rather than days and we spend our vacations on our phones and eating at commercial restaurants. We have more medical solutions and nutrition facts than any time in history, and we have to motivate ourselves to get our healthy bodies off the couch.

Entertainment is not the solution to boredom.

Maybe we just need to live a better story. Maybe we need to toss out our perfunctory goals – the safe ones, the predictable and acceptable ones. Maybe we need to pick something impossible and just try. And try harder than we want to.

Over Christmas, I borrowed my mom’s Jeep for a few days to visit a friend – stranding her at home (thanks again, Nanc!). While I was gone, I received this email from her:

20 degrees and 1-2″ of new snow.  Got the driveway and sidewalk shoveled, so nice outside I decided to walk across the golf course.  Got over to the sledding hill, decided the kids there were having too much fun, came back, grabbed the sled and headed back over.  There was the sweetest family there (I have a picture to prove it)–the little girls wanted to show me how to go down the hill, their 2 yr. old sister was so adorable.  I went down 5 (yes, 5) times.  Exhilarating!!!  I may just do it again sometime!

My 62-year-old mother with a historically bad back, living a good story. Sometimes living a good story is the compilation of a lot of little good stories, times when we were willing to try something new.

The good stories are told on TV and in books, not lived. Living vicariously through a box is a waste of your life! It’s not only possible, but so innate to our inner being to live a good story. A great story. If we’re going to overcome conflict anyway, it might as well be for something marvelous.

It’s not up to me to say who is living a good story and who is living a bad one, but I can ask you – are you alive?

Maybe the start to a good story is taking your TV to the dump.

Impossible, right?

We were having a casual lakeside dinner as the clouds began to darken and the wind to whirl.

My friends and I made our way back to our bungalow as the rain started to fall and the wind bent the trees. We were sleeping a few hundred feet from the shore of the Sea of Galilee, and we would be packing up our bags in the morning to fly home.

I had been praying fervently through our whole trip that God would put vivid images in my mind and heart about the places Jesus walked. In the midst of gaudy church structures and tourist shops, it was hard to truly picture the land as Jesus had known it.

Yet as this storm rolled over the Sea of Galilee, I knew I had to see it with my own eyes. I grabbed my coat and walked to the beach as the waves rose higher and higher. My heart was bursting as I pictured Jesus calming these exact same waves with His soft voice. I felt Peter in my bones as I imagined the horror of stepping out of a boat in these conditions.

I was drawn to my knees, yearning for a faith like Peter’s. For authority like Jesus. (I may have even tried to walk on water – I mean, why not?)

It was in that moment I heard the still small voice in my spirit:

Rachel, you will see even greater things than this.

Over the next year I would see miracles I could hardly count. Sickness healed. Boldness received. Clouds on fire. Chains broken. Freedom found. Reconciliation achieved. In that season of my life, I saw people coming to Jesus in literal masses. His power was so unmatched, it would have been absurd to assume anything was ordinary. My friends and I prayed about everything, there was nothing we didn’t trust Him with. If we didn’t receive, we rushed to the throne to bring Him glory anyway.

That spring, as I prayed where to bring the Kingdom next – I felt a clear word from the Lord to knock on a stranger’s door and pray for healing. He was a friend of a friend dying from ALS and we had never spoken – he did not know me, and he did not know Jesus. I hesitated and let fear slowly gain authority in my life. I was afraid I would offend him or that he would turn me away. Instead of running to the throne for greater faith, I ran away. I chose to be Jonah instead of Joshua.

I hid from the Lord for months, and the stronghold of fear assumed the throne of my heart. That fall, mostly out of guilt, I finally went to pray for him. He denied my request and I prayed with his wife in the other room. He passed away the following summer.

That encounter reordered and distorted my view of God, the world, and myself. Whereas once any earthly roadblock was only language for prayer, now it became central to my acting and thinking. I was so aware of everything working against me, I forgot about the power bestowed in me through the Holy Spirit.

As Bill Johnson says in When Heaven Invades Earth:

Our abundant life is hidden in the Kingdom realm. And only faith can make the withdrawals.

My bank account was still full, I just hadn’t been going to the bank.

As I approach this coming year, there is a Scripture passage I want to pray on my daily journey to the throne. It speaks of the disconnect between our human eyes and our spiritual eyes, a disease all too common in the body. It’s found in 2 Kings 6:8-23. My paraphrase enters the story as a group of men are sent by the king of Aram to kill Elisha the prophet.

When the servant of the man of God (Elisha) got up and went out early the next morning, an army with horses and chariots had surrounded the city. ‘Oh, my lord, what shall we do?’ the servant asked.

The servant was seeing with his human eyes the impossibility of their predicament. Elisha responds:

‘Don’t be afraid, those who are with us are more than those who are with them.’

I’m sure his servant wasn’t looking for an inspirational pep talk at this moment. Obviously Elisha’s mathematics were a bit rusty – it was evident the city was surrounded by the enemy and they had very few hands in defense. But Elisha went to the bank and prayed this prayer, the one I desire to cement in my heart in 2015:

‘O Lord, open his eyes so he may see.’

God didn’t miss a beat with His response.

Then the Lord opened the servant’s eyes, and he looked and saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.

Elisha made a permanent residence at the base of God’s throne, and he was given proper eyes in return. How could he live in fear when he was gazing at the Almighty? How could He doubt God’s wingspan when he was looking right at it? How could he feel outnumbered when he knew angels were not dainty, but terrifying, powerful, and at his beckoning?

So many decisions I’ve made this past year have been rooted in fear. Too many nights lying in bed worrying about what will happen next or how to make things go my way. So many missed opportunities to let God’s glory reign in everyday situations. I don’t want that to be the case in 2015.

Man alive, I want to be brave.

I want to cling to the promise made to me on those distant shores – that I will see greater things than even the gospels recount. And the bravery begins at the base of the throne, with those 7 holy words:

Lord, open my eyes that I may see.

Another year in the books!

Tonight at dinner I was trying to explain to my 6-year-old niece why December turning into January is an extra special transition. In just a few short days, our calendars will not only boast a new month, but a new year. These 365 days hold much hope, adventure, and unexpected turns. As I reflect on this last year, I also take time to dream for what is ahead. Consider this blog my personal “Christmas Card.”

2014 was a year of adventure and accomplishment, hope and heartbreak, life and death.

My eldest sister wed the first weekend of the year, and it was nothing short of a party. She asked me to “DJ” (read: monitor the pre-selected playlist) and I’d say my biggest accomplishment was getting my mom to dance to “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore. It’s always a good time when I can be in the same room with all 3 of my sisters – dressing up just makes it more fun! (My mom’s presence is bonus points).

After the wedding, it was back to Williston for the final leg of my debt-free journey. I had about $12,000 left to pay and I wasn’t letting go of my June 15th finish line. I picked up extra shifts bartending and took as many sub days as I could. Some nights I would get 5 hours of sleep between jobs and hide my drooping eyes behind my glasses. With each day that passed my goal looked a little more hopeless, but I clung to the promise God made my senior year of college. All I could do was work hard and with integrity, the miracle was up to Him.

Early June brought an unexpected phone call – my beloved grandmother was nearing a finish line of her own. Though she’d been struggling with her memory for a few years, I couldn’t help but see the most vivid chapter of my life coming to a close. You see, the Bakken wasn’t just a lucrative opportunity for me, it was my heritage – the place my heart had always found its home. Saying goodbye to Margie was cementing the notion that my kids would only ever know her through my stories and old pictures. All 19 of her grandchildren gathered in her little white church for her summer memorial, a small testament to the legacy she left behind on her journey to glory.

Taking those few days off of work put me off my mark for paying off my debt on the 15th but I didn’t care. What was a day at this point, I’d be done by the end of the summer – and that was a feat in and of itself. But that was my version of the story – not His. $900 appeared in the envelope next to my bed, leaving me with $268 left to go the night before my birthday. The next night I walked out of the bar at 11:45pm, holding a paycheck for $314 and $300 in cash. Not only did I have enough to pay off my debt – I had a bit leftover to throw a party!

A few of my friends and family gathered at this place called “Orchard House,” and it occurred to me that I had found riches in North Dakota – and the money was such a small part. To this day, my friends in Williston hold some of the dearest pieces of my heart. What an honor to journey alongside these people of faith and dreams, integrity and humility.

The party didn’t end that night. Over the next six weeks I was able to attend the All-Star Game at Target Field (a lifelong dream), celebrate the wedding of two of my closest friends, and take a 9-day backpacking trip through Canada with 8 of my friends from college. We ended our trip with a free (!) outdoor concert from my favorite band, Needtobreathe – the cherry on top of a summer of adventure.

This fall I began to chase a new dream, not knowing I would spend the next few months slowly laying my current dream of a community house to rest. Living in community is risky – believing this idea that we’re better together than apart. Sometimes our dreams collide and they can’t find their place in the same house (at times, literally). After an emotional and painful season, we decided it would be best for me to move out of the “Orchard House.” I can’t say I fully understand why things happened the way they did, but I know God is unchanging. I still dream of having a home for the purpose of glorifying God in community. The same God that gifted us this first house has not run out of resources – I’m trying to position myself in a place of “availability,” whether that’s in Williston or somewhere else.

As for what’s next, Sarah, Laura, and I are waiting to sign some paperwork to breathe our dream of a restaurant into reality. As we reflect on our grandmother’s life, we think about the table – not just as a place to eat delicious treats, but to share stories and friendship. “Home Slice: Deli & Dessert” is an avenue for us to share the legacy we’ve inherited in a community where people are looking for a place to call home. We hope to be underway before the snow melts. (Unless spring wants to come in January, which we would accept with glad hearts). I will keep y’all posted!

This morning I sat around my mom’s kitchen table with our entire family eating “corn flake french toast” – a page from Margie’s recipe book. I watch as my mother becomes the grandmother Margie was for us – dreaming and playing, cooking and laughing. My children will know my grandmother even if they never trace the wrinkles on her forearms or lose to her at cards – I’m sure of it. What an incredible way to end this year – seeing that the most beautiful things live beyond their lifespan. Death is not always the end.

I’m excited for what the year ahead holds…not because I know everything will go my way, but because I believe God’s dreams are bigger than mine. I resolve to be brave.

– Rachel

“If it weren’t for the Bakken, we’d be walkin’.”

A few weeks ago, I was in Minneapolis for a few meetings and asked my favorite college professor if we could go out for dinner. He said he would buy me dinner if I would speak in his night class about my journey to Williston and experience thereafter. Always up for a free meal, I agreed.

I got to thinking about this strange “small” town I live in, and found surprising joy reflecting on the last 3 years of my life in Western North Dakota.

When I first decided to move here (in short because my cousin offered me a furnished basement to live in, and I was looking to pay off my college debt quickly), I was almost ashamed to admit to my hipster Minnesota friends that I was moving to North Dakota. (In fact, I’m pretty sure I told a lot of people I was moving to Montana because that’s about 25 short miles shy of the truth, and it sounds a lot more mountainous and cool.)

I used to joke that when Lewis & Clark were unveiling the Midwest, they remarked upon the beauty of the Minnesota lakes and trees and marveled at the big sky and mountains of Montana, and figured they needed to put a name to the large piece of nothing in between them – hence: North Dakota.

A week before I left Minnesota, my friend Allie saw a segment on the Today Show about Williston. The caption read “the scum of the earth are all moving to Williston, North Dakota.” After telling her a sarcastic “thanks,” I paused and wondered if it might be true. What if I’m moving to a town full of criminals and roughnecks? I had heard from a few sources that the ratio of men to women was as vast as 75:1. After some thought I stocked up on mace and heavy unattractive sweaters and decided to stick with my decision.

I packed up my little green car and left behind the bright lights and skyline of Minneapolis for the plains and rigs of the Bakken. For the ten hour drive I was nervously tapping my knee, wondering what in the world I had gotten myself into. The only person I knew was my cousin (who is 24 years older than I am – and 24 years cooler) and I would soon learn my T-Mobile phone only got reception in the parking lot of the train station.

I moved to town without a job (which is the case for most of us immigrants), and spent the first few weeks trying to find a good fit. After a desk job with an oil company fell through, I got a job making pies at a small marina 25 miles out of town. It wasn’t the most glamorous job, and at the end of the day I wasn’t making much more money than I had been making in the city. But the few months of experience I had at that little cafe landed me my first big break.

I was looking for a job somewhere in town, but finding the “right” one wasn’t as easy as it sounds. A friend told me a new fine dining restaurant had opened up in town and was incredibly shorthanded. I had never eaten in a fine dining restaurant before (except for Olive Garden one time in high school, if that counts), but I thought it was worth a shot. I walked in for the interview which consisted of 3 questions:

1. Do you have restaurant experience?

2. Do you have black clothes?

3. Can you be back in an hour?

That night was one of the most horrifying nights of my life. I didn’t know anything about seafood, steaks, wine, liquor, cheese, or dining etiquette. I lied my way through the specials (most of which I had to write phonetically and hope the customer knew what word I was saying) and held back tears when a table asked me what kind of “bourbon” we carried. (What is bourbon? Is that a liquid or a solid?). I broke the cork on a $90 bottle of wine and was spared by a kind gentleman from Texas who said he liked an “oaky” taste in his wine.

I miraculously walked out of there with $275, realizing I had never owned a hundred dollar bill before.

Working every night made it hard to make friends, but I was blessed to be working alongside all kinds of immigrants. In fact, only one of my co-workers had actually been in Williston for more than a year. We were all newbies, trying to get a fresh lease on life. Even if we didn’t have a lot in common, we found solidarity in writing our life stories in a boomtown.

My first year here I’d walk through the parking lot of Walmart and count a dozen different state license plates, wondering if there was anywhere else in the world quite like Williston. Even though it was chaotic and crowded, I was beginning to sense there was something special about this place – and it wasn’t just about the money. Maybe the critics were only telling half of the story.

Yes, our crime rates are up – so is our population. My sister Laura (another fellow immigrant) works as a police dispatcher here in town and swears it’s not that bad – and she ought to know! Yes, our strip clubs are packed. But so are our restaurants. And churches. And grocery stores.

Yes, people live in their cars. But you know what – they’re living in their cars to earn a paycheck, not a government check. That has to tell you something about these people! In a society that is growing more and more entitled, how refreshing it is to be around people who aren’t afraid to work for their money! It’s a character trait that couples well with integrity and ingenuity. Williston is a breeding ground for small businesses – I’m in the process of opening one with my sisters! (More to come on that).

Yes, we have the lowest unemployment rate in the country. Yes, our median income is $70,000/year. But we don’t get paid just to show up. I picked up a bartending shift last night and got home at 2am, having not sat down in 10 hours. I’m fortunate to have a job indoors, most of those in the oil patch aren’t so lucky. People here work, and they work hard.

I had coffee with my best friend from high school last week. She just got back from doing the Peace Corps in China and is trying to adjust back to life in Minneapolis. She noted her greatest struggle is making quality friends. It seems in the time she was gone everyone solidified their group of friends and no one is really looking to expand. 25 is not an easy time to make new friends.

The culture in Williston couldn’t be more different. We all know what it’s like to be on the outside. We’ve left family, friends, and communities hundreds of miles away to move here. Our lack of entertainment options magnifies our need for authentic connection with others. My roommates are from Alaska, Montana, and New York. In a lot of ways we are different, but we’re building a friendship on what we share. And it’s real.

Williston is a place of second chances and good people. As an employee of the school district, I watch teachers desperately try to meet the needs of the dozens (if not hundreds) of new students flowing into their classrooms. The churches and non-profits are finding ways to meet the unique needs of this community. The people are willing to lend a hand to help newcomers get a good start.

Because of the Bakken (and Jesus), I was able to pay off $35,000 in college debt in 2.5 years – reaching the finish line the night before my 25th birthday this summer. I took a month off of work to spend back in Minnesota, reflecting on where I’m headed next. About two weeks in, I was ready to get back to Williston. I missed my friends and my job. My house and my church. Even the hustle & bustle of the trucks and traffic.

I stumbled upon a truth I never thought would be mine: this place has truly become home.

3 years ago I was quickly climbing the corporate church ladder.

After surrendering my life to Jesus my sophomore year of college, I was thrust into a calling of being a voice for my generation. Within months of saying “Yes,” I was preaching the gospel in the Alaskan wilderness to teenagers and adults from all walks of life. I barely knew my Bible but I had my face buried in it every second I had. Without constant help from the Holy Spirit, I was completely unequipped for the tasks at hand.

I came back to the lower 48 and my responsibilities grew. I was now a toddler in the faith (inches past “baby”) and was doing my best to teach Jesus to a bunch of college freshman (though the teaching was completely mutual). I attended my Bible classes and took vigorous notes, trying to wrap my mind around something so epic. It was a time in my life where I couldn’t hardly order a burrito without asking for the Lord’s direction – I was so aware of my inabilities that the Holy Spirit was in the driver’s seat of my life.

The night before my senior year of college, a worship service in our chapel sparked a campus-wide revival that burned for months and miles. The Lord called a few of us “B-teamers” to lead the way and it was incredible to see the transformation of our student body. Guys that had been cheating on their college exams a year earlier were now leading discipleship groups in the dorms. People were sitting on the floor in chapel because there weren’t enough seats. We built in extra worship services during the week because people were starving for Jesus.

That Spring, I spoke to the student body about community in chapel – a calling to a higher level of friendship and authenticity was burning in my heart and we all needed to step into it. After that message a few people came up to me to share how the Lord spoke into their lives. A professor told me I was “anointed” and there were “big things in store” for me.

I look back at that day as a turning point for me. In that short few minutes the enemy got a grip on my soul by speaking the simple phrase “You’ve got what it takes – you don’t need him anymore. Fame and glory are within reach.”

From that point on my mentality shifted from “I can’t do this without Jesus” to “nobody can do this without me.“

I stopped sharing the role of teaching with my brothers and sisters because I believed I did it best. I would listen to others preach and wish it were me because I believed I would have more impact. The next summer I was the “Camp Pastor” at a summer camp and was so obsessed with my way that I actually re-preached a speaker’s gospel message after he sat down. (I call it my personal Kanye moment, a low point).

I didn’t quite have my plans in place for post-summer, but I figured I’d be touring the country somehow. I was interviewing with the fastest growing evangelistic movement in the country, assuming I would be the “next big thing” in Christian speaking circles.

But that’s when God in His radical grace provided exactly what I needed:

I got benched.

Not just “sit this game out” benched, but “pack your bags, leave everyone you know and who knows you, and move 500 miles away to the middle of nowhere” benched.

Before I moved I had a few speaking engagements which I thought would be “no sweat” – they were topics I had taught on multiple times and it would require no prep. But as I stood up on stage at a women’s retreat I couldn’t put two words together – a few people walked out before I even finished my introduction! I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I felt like Michael Jordan in Space Jam. Straight zapped.

I made the move to oil patch and everything in my life changed. I went from being a leader to a dishwasher. I went from being the “next big thing” to the girl who didn’t know the difference between detergent and fabric softener. All of my securities were stripped away like a rug being pulled out from under me.

I spent a lot of the first two years clawing my way back up. I tried to write a book (the next bestseller, of course). I took strong political stances via Facebook to gain followers (and opponents). Any chance I could get to display my prominence I did.

But nobody cared.

Over time I settled into my new lifestyle and I started to realize just how idolatrous I had become. The surest way to find your idols is to lose them – lots of anger and tears will ensue. (Google the 2006 Twins playoff run and imagine how I responded).

I saw a quote about a year into my sabbatical that struck me.

“Spiritual maturity is the consistent application of elementary things.”

At some point I had found myself “above” the elementary things and only pursued things that had a big payout. I viewed “alone time” as a waste of time. I only wanted to invest in people I thought would change the world. Ministry trumped sleep every time. My physical health found a permanent spot on the back burner of my priority list. I viewed anyone who wasn’t getting bloody on the mission field as complacent and even questioned their salvation.

It was time to cultivate the elementary things.

Getting 8 hours of sleep. Making it to work on time. Doing thankless jobs. Making a budget. Tidying my apartment every day. Evaluating my commitments. Giving up my lifelong addiction to Mountain Dew. Submission to authority. Reading my Bible every morning. Deleting my social media accounts to create space for God to speak into my life. Creating platforms for my brothers and sisters to use their gifts.

All things that are “elementary,” but I had neglected on my journey to stardom. I had platforms and followers, but I was growing more immature by the minute.

I can’t say these last three years have been my favorite in my timeline. So many days I would wake up wanting to do something that mattered – to make an impact on the broken world I lived in. But I was just a girl washing bar glasses and stocking beer, facilitating nightly parties for wealthy men. The growth in my life was slow and grueling – offering little fruit or trophies. But God continued to hold me in that place, shaping and molding me into something He could use.

My roommate and I decided to plant a garden this year. It was our first year planting one of our own and we got mixed results. Our spaghetti squash took over our entire garden, with vines stretching a dozen feet from its origin (we’ve deemed SS an extrovert). Of course we had tomatoes coming out of our ears (most of which we lost in a random freeze that we were both out of town for). But so many seeds didn’t yield anything – no peas, cucumbers, carrots, or peppers.

One morning I was wrestling with God (we do this a lot). I was thankful for this season of refining, but afraid I was still in the same place I was two years prior when I had been benched. I went out to the garden to pick some beans and pulled back a leaf to find the biggest cucumber I’ve ever seen in my life. I checked the other plants and found zero cucumbers, not even a pickle! Just the one.

I had checked that cucumber plant 50 times and never seen any fruit – I swear that cucumber just appeared. I laughed to myself. It seemed it was God’s way of saying “you are growing, even if you can’t see the process.”

I used to measure growth and progress in conversions and disciples, radical movements and miracles. My production became such an idol that I forgot the simple truth that I am God’s beloved. He has called me into His family not because I am worthy, but because He wants me (Romans 8!). How could I possibly carry His flag to the nations without that foundational truth?

This blog doesn’t end with a radical announcement that I’m diving headfirst back into the mission field with a role that puts me center stage. As of today I’m not leaving Williston to go abroad and I don’t have a “ministry” job lined up. I’m just waking up every day, applying those elementary things. Learning what it looks like to rely on the Holy Spirit again. God will move me at the right time, not necessarily when I’m ready – but when He is.

“If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones. But if you are dishonest in little things, you won’t be honest with greater responsibilities.”

Epilogue

I’ve been bartending for two years to pay off my loans, and felt the Lord give me “October 15th” as my final day. I was looking forward to being done with that vocational season of my life, but slightly frustrated that I had seen so little fruit in that environment. Two days before my last shift, I got word that one of the chefs at my restaurant had had a brain aneurysm overnight. We had worked together in two restaurants for a total of two years and had become good friends. A few of my co-workers and I went to say goodbye to him at the hospital the morning they would take him off life support. We were able to meet his son and 4 of his 5 sisters – who were all in town from Sacramento. I felt convicted to offer to do a memorial service for him – even though I’m not “ordained,” I’m probably the closest thing to a minister in our line of work. The next night we had a small memorial service at the restaurant I worked at. With the leading of the Holy Spirit, I was able to preach the explicit gospel in all its fullness in front of most of my co-workers past and present.

What a crazy way to end that season of my life. Almost 800 days of elementary application leading up to that single opportunity to preach Christ crucified. 

Every October at Bethel University (my alma mater) there is a time-honored tradition that has led to many marriages, future children, and broken hearts: Gadkin.

Gadkin is a giant group date designed by the Student Activities board six weeks into fall semester. The participating guys are required to buy a ticket and ask a girl in some prescribed creative way. They aren’t allowed to ask until after midnight, so the girls gather in the hallway of their floors waiting to see who will be asked.

There’s the first knock on the door, a few girls open it and wait to see who is being called – he recites a poem, she says yes and they take a photo. The process takes only a few minutes and just a handful are asked. After the knocking has ceased the waiting girls head to bed, some hoping they’ll get an ask later in the week (which we all knew wasn’t likely, considering the BU gender ratio was 3 gals: 1 guy).

I have nothing against the idea of Gadkin (one of my best friends just bought her first house with her Gadkin date), but I can’t help but wonder if that picture of a freshman hallway represents how many of us treat singleness: sitting and waiting to be asked.

Some of my best friends from college met their husbands and wives through events like Gadkin or “Roommate Roulette” and are approaching their 2nd or 3rd anniversaries already. Others (myself included) are still flying solo, figuring out life after college independently. Our early twenties are an important time in life, whether we are married or single.

But when we treat singleness like the waiting room of life, we waste some of the most fundamental years of our lives. 

With most things I’ve succeeded at in life, I found a lot of the preparation had taken place in seasons before.

Just because I don’t know who my husband is doesn’t mean I can’t begin the process of becoming his wife.

As I write this blog, I want to be intentional about communicating my purpose. The ultimate goal in life is not to be married, as if those who don’t get married fall short of God’s plan. Our ultimate goal is to be holy – and that is only the result of an ongoing fellowship with Jesus. That being said, marriage is a path for many (though not all), and many of us enter the journey completely unprepared. There are things in marriage you can only learn as you go, but there are many steps we can take in the meantime to become a blessing and worthy partner to our spouse.

Here are 5 ways I’ve learned to be strategic in my singleness:

1. Be a good friend.

No, I mean be a good friend. This requires more than the basic “keep them around” duties of friendship. To me, being a good friend requires asking “Am I helping them come alive?” It’s not just being there when they need you (which is important), but it’s helping them become who they were created to be. It’s creating platforms for them to shine.

Choose to work through conflicts with friends instead of running from them. Learn the power of reconciliation, and that strength and depth comes from resolving tension. Practicing this with friends will help you overcome your fear of confrontation (which I’ve heard happens in marriage sometimes).

Take part in their world. Give strategic gifts. Ask challenging questions. Learn about their passions. Visit them at work (which is especially awesome when they are an OB nurse – fresh babies!). Let them into your life and your space, and not just when it’s convenient for you. If they are trustworthy, give them access to your life – ask them to observe how you are living your life and if it lines up with the gospel.

2. Figure out your gifts.

I had a major life change when I was 21, and I attribute a lot of it to finding language for my strengths and weaknesses. At that point in my life I was so focused on what I couldn’t do, I never developed the things I could do into something dynamic. In fact, a lot of my natural strengths were current weaknesses because I wasn’t working on them (my desire to be strategic often made me inflexible and stuck in my own way of seeing/doing things).

Just because we’re not gifted in a certain area doesn’t mean we can’t grow into it, but it also helps to know where you can naturally contribute. In my house I tend to be the visionary (i.e. I like to plan parties), but I need my more organized roommates to help me throw an event that blesses, not stresses™.

Going into marriage with language for your tendencies, strengths, and weaknesses can only be a tremendous asset. Also, learning how your strengths interact with your roommates, friends, or family members’ strengths will help you and your future spouse communicate. It might also help you discern if you and your significant other are a good fit for each other for the long run.

Here’s a few personality tests I would recommend:

•  Strengthsfinder: This assessment was designed after years of research and polls by Gallup (the poll king). It has identified 34 strengths that people tend to identify with on some level. After taking the assessment (available online for $19.95), it will give you a list of your Top 5 strengths and a detailed description of each. (My top 5 are: Individualization, Woo, Strategic, Ideation, and Communication).
• Myers-Briggs: This test is more a map of mental/emotional tendencies. Are you an introvert or an extrovert? How do you process what is going on? Are you more emotional or logical? It’s used around the world by corporations to help their employees know their tendencies (instead of be ashamed of them). The MBTI is also available online for $49.95. (I’m an ENFP!)
• APEST: This test is geared more towards spiritual giftings, and it’s the best one I’ve found so far. It outlines the five spiritual gifts listed in Ephesians 4:11 (Apostle, Prophet, Evangelist, Shepherd, and Teacher). It will give you your top two and explain how the combination works together, giving you a few ideas for areas of ministry to pursue. This test is FREE, and you can take it online here. (I’m a “Prophetic Evangelist”).

3. Hang out with married people.

I confess: it’s easier for me to befriend my single friends than my married friends. When I have a free Tuesday night, it’s not my instinct to text Joy & Kenric and see what they’re up to – I assume they’re doing married things and are only available when their spouse is busy. But the truth is, a lot of married people are lonely because they receive that same treatment from their single (and married) friends.

When we avoid our married friends, we miss out on seeing the beauty and struggle of marriage. If we only ever hear our wife-friends venting about their husbands (which should be rare and purposeful), we might forget why it’s worth all the trouble.

Our pastor and his wife have been intentional about inviting my friends and I into their lives. His wife, Dayna, is a good friend of mine (that is a massive name drop because she is awesome), and she is intentional about pursuing me – but not just in my own context. My roommate and I have sat around their table for dinner and babysat their kids a few times. It’s been a great opportunity to see a Christ-centered family in action – I’m growing in my understanding of what it looks like to be a Godly wife and mother because of her influence.

4. Declare war on your sin.

A few years ago, my accountability partner (AP) and I made a list of the things we didn’t want to pass on to our children. It was a combination of current and ongoing sins in our life and unhealthy patterns that had been present in our family lines for generations. By putting these things on paper, it empowered us to believe our goal was possible. These things weren’t simply “inevitable” – the gospel renders nothing inevitable.

Last year I was hanging out with my nephew (who is 6) and he asked his typical question “Can I play with your phone?” I was in the midst of texting a few friends and was annoyed that he wanted to use it – especially since he already has access to an iPad and an iPod (which can do arguably more than my phone). I realized later that he didn’t want to use my phone because it was the best electronic device in the house, he wanted to use it because I was using it. Not because he was trying to bother me, but because he wants to do what I’m doing.

It’s not easy for me to have a smartphone – it’s a consistent distraction and I’ve been told by multiple people it consumes my focus and energy, even in groups. If my kids are going to want to do what I do, then I don’t want to model an obsession with technology. I exchanged my iPhone 5 for a more basic phone in hopes of releasing myself from that idol – I’m still working on it, but I’m glad I’m learning this before I have 3 tech-addicted toddlers. (Cool epilogue: the next time I visited I was reading my Bible on the couch and my 12-year-old niece ran and got her new Bible and started reading with me – I shared a few of my favorite stories with her and she highlighted them!).

5. Develop good habits.

I’m guilty of making decisions that affect only me (or at least I think affect only me), but whether I like it or not even the simplest of decisions I make will affect my spouse. This includes (but is not limited to): how I spend my time, how I spend my money, my hygiene, how much sleep I get, my organization, etc.

For instance, right now my budget revolves around me – I make money and I spend it. I’m not really accountable to anyone and it’s easy to be selfish and impulsive with the way I spend my money. I’m working on having a more long-term and communal vision for how I spend/earn my funds. Part of this has been paying off my student loans ahead of schedule, not expecting my husband is going to be delighted to take them on because I’m so awesome.

One of the toughest things for me has been learning to say “no” to things I want to do (and things I don’t want to do). When I was in college I survived on power naps and Mountain Dew because I was so over-committed I didn’t have time to sleep. It was hard on my friendships because I was so focused on pouring out, I wasn’t giving attention to the people that were pouring into me. I wasn’t investing my heart in my friends because it was already over-capacity. As I pray through my commitments, I’m learning that not every good thing needs to involve Rachel to succeed!

I’m also growing in the spiritual disciplines. If my time with Jesus is not a priority as a single person, it will be much harder to cultivate in marriage. I try to be awake at least an hour before any commitment I have in the morning (which might not sound like a lot, but for the former college bum who was in my first class 3 minutes after I woke up it is a giant leap).

All 5 of these things apply not just to marriage, but active participation in community. Our pursuit of growth is a shared process – the journey and the fruit. I am becoming a better friend and partner to those around me.

When we let our singleness fuel our insecurities, all we are doing is becoming more self-focused.

As a bartender I observe so many couples who are so self-focused, trying to stretch their partner’s capacity to meet their needs. It’s the result of two people who thought they could merge their independent lives seamlessly and have become miserable in each other’s company.

I hope my husband marries a gift. But in order for that to be true, it will require a lot more than just hope.

Just think what a difference 5 years (give or take) of intentional growth would look like next to 5 years of moping and waiting. 

An era has ended in the Bronx.

[Necessary disclaimer for this blog: My mother has been my most faithful follower in my attempts and scribbles at writing the turmoil of my spirit in these last five years, and this post is meant to be no disrespect to her. Mother, you have taught me from birth one unalterable truth: The Yankees are the Antichrist of Major League Baseball. Please know that this sentiment is buried in my heart and can never be shaken. I’ll do my best to communicate that as I proceed to write a blog about one of their players. I love you.]

October is right around the corner – and for me that only means one thing: POST-SEASON BASEBALL. You laugh to yourself, because you probably know the Twins haven’t made the postseason since 2010, and they’ve finished in the basement of the American League Central ever since. But you best believe I have my underdog teams picked and I’m already maneuvering my work schedule so that I can be bartending during the best games (I don’t have a TV at my house, so if I have to work I might as well kill two birds with one stone).

This last week, an era ended in the Bronx. For the second year in a row, the Yankees have missed the playoffs (holla!) and their last games of the season were played in September. Derek Jeter, a lifelong Yankee (one of the few who hasn’t been plucked from another short-on-cash team), announced at the beginning of the season that this would be his last. He would retire a Yankee and go out on top. There wasn’t much special about this season for the Yankees – it was obvious by July that they wouldn’t make the playoffs (which, to be fair, is better than the Twin’s June death sentence). However, Derek Jeter was able to participate in a national tour to say goodbye. Each team offered him gifts and awards as the Yankees played series in their stadiums, and it was evident his influence on the game of baseball will last for a very long time.

Thursday night was his last game at Yankee Stadium, and with no prospect of moving on, he and everyone else knew that. They were playing the first place Baltimore Orioles and the game didn’t hold much weight for either team. It was simply Derek Jeter’s final game. With packed stands, the game decision was brought to the bottom of the 9th inning. Tied at 5 runs apiece, Jeter stepped up to the plate with 1 out and a runner on second base. This would be his final at bat at his home stadium – a venue where he had stood in that spot thousands of times. Here is the result of that at bat, and I don’t think it could have been a more fitting ending for #2.

I watched nearly in tears (I say nearly because he is a Yankee and we don’t cry for Yankees) as he made a final lap in front of all of his fans – most of which have watched him play in pinstripes his entire career.

Jeter ended his career with class and cemented his place in baseball history.

Never once has Derek tested positive for Performance Enhancing Drugs and his name has never been associated with a scandal of any kind. He’s just a guy who showed up every day to play the sport that he loves. He never cheated or took a shortcut, and he has a few World Series Rings and whole lot of Yankee and MLB records. Except for the pinstripes, he has everything in the world to be proud of. He did it the right way.

That’s not true of every good athlete. In fact, to draw a distinction we just need to scoot down a few seats in the dugout to his teammate Alex Rodriguez – more affectionately known as “A-Rod.” Initially drafted by the Seattle Mariners, this young player rose to fame at a young age. With a hot bat and a good glove, he quickly became the desire of most organizations in the MLB. He signed the biggest contract in baseball history with the Texas Rangers and the pressure was on to be the best and show he was worth the paycheck. As shown below, he’s always adamantly denied his use of PEDs. In the last few years, he’s been heavily investigated after steroid distributors have listed him as a faithful customer.

Since the above video, he’s confessed the pressure got to him and he did use PEDs while in Texas (though evidence shows that is hardly the tip of the iceberg). But he still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. He’s currently serving a two-season ban from baseball and fighting tooth and nail against the system. He’s an embarrassment to the Yankees organization (who signed him 10 years ago with an even bigger contract than his previous record) and if he ever plays another game he will be booed at every stadium in America.

As far as super stardom goes, A-Rod has more talent than DJ. At a year younger than Jeter, he has hit 2.5x more home runs. He has 600 more RBIs and has crossed the plate 1,919 times for a run scored.

But it doesn’t matter.

His records will likely be forfeited, and his own legacy will be one of lies and cheating. Nobody will remember his talent without thinking of his dishonesty. His finish won’t be by choice – he’d be lucky to even be put on the field by his own team. It’s over.

As I watched Derek take his victory lap on Thursday night, it was such a picture of finishing well.

I want to finish well. When I meet Jesus, and He goes to the throne on my behalf I don’t want to have to plead my case. I don’t want to convince the God of the Universe that I’m the best saint He’s ever seen. I don’t want to have to make excuses for the life I pursued and the gods that had ownership of my heart.

I know I’m not perfect (praise GOD the One who is standing in my place is!), but I want to be that girl. The one who showed up every day and pursued holiness. Who fought the good fight. I don’t want be the one who pursued my own fame and realized at the end I was a nobody. I don’t want there to be a question of God’s response to my life.

What’s it going to be?

Well done, good and faithful servant.

or

Away from me, I never knew you.

There’s no middle ground. Either we were faithful and longing, or we were selfish and the god of our own lives.

Farewell, Captain. Well done.

#finishwell

We sat in silence on the phone, both crying but not knowing what to say.

Finally, she spoke. “I surrender it Rachel. If this is God’s will, then it is perfect. I don’t understand, but I love Him. His plan for my life is better than my own.”

About a year earlier, Lauren had received a word from the Lord in prayer. As she was seeking His will for her life, she felt a strong sense in her spirit that she was supposed to make a commitment to celibacy. Hurt and confused, she had no idea where this word had come from. It seemed inconsistent with the loving Father she knew. She called me the next week and hoped I could confirm that God would never ask something like that of her. Knowing Lauren, being a wife and a mother was her greatest dream. God couldn’t possibly take that away from her. He had instilled that desire and passion in her – it made no sense. We prayed and fasted over the next several days, trying to find clarity. But neither of us received any release from this word – it seemed as if God had spoken it, and He confirmed it in our prayers.

The next year was extremely painful, and hard to watch as my closest friend grieved her greatest dream. We were still trying to find loopholes – pieces of Scripture that were evidence we were mishearing God. But God’s call was there – He was asking Lauren to commit to a life of singleness.

I was sitting in my backyard in Williston on a sunny day in April when I received the above phone call. Lauren was done fighting – done running from God. She surrendered the prospect of ever being married and having her own family. We prayed together and courageously stepped into a new chapter – hoping that God had a glorious plan that would trump marriage.

The next morning I was reading in my Bible and found myself in Genesis – the passage detailing Abraham’s sacrifice of his son Isaac. In the chapters leading up to this momentous story, a picture was painted of Abraham’s supreme desire to bear a child with his wife Sarah. After many decades of trying they had given up – Sarah was too old for childbearing and that window had closed. Yet miraculously after a promise from the Lord, she conceived a child at age 89 (wait..what?).

As the story goes, God calls Abraham to sacrifice his new son Isaac on the altar – not a metaphorical sacrifice, but a literal one – taking his son’s life. Pain and grief consume Abraham (one can assume), but he is unwavering in his faith. He takes Isaac atop a mountain and prepares the altar for sacrifice. The passage says that “he reached out his hand and took the knife to slay his son. But the angel of the Lord called out to him from heaven, ‘Abraham! Abraham!'”

Do not lay a hand on the boy, he said, do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.

I read the passage, trembling. “God, is this what this was all about?” It was so clear in that moment that the Lord had brought Lauren to the place of raising her knife. Abraham was about to step into a huge calling (like the father of all nations), and God needed to make sure he was his guy.

And because of Lauren’s faith, she would be blessed beyond measure.

I called to tell her the news – that the Lord was preparing her for something beyond her wildest dreams. His plan for her life not only included marriage, but a marriage that would set a Kingdom standard. She and her husband would be a force for the gospel, and many would look to them for guidance. She took my words to prayer, and felt the Lord release her from her commitment. For the first time since the “word”, it was clear that God was not leading her into a life of celibacy.

She didn’t meet Danny the next day.

In fact, this redheaded hunk would not even enter her life for another year and a half. But she remained steadfast – following the Lord with each step. Believing that in singleness or in marriage God was real and He was glorious. I cannot begin to tell you how her faith has changed my life.

I’ve only had the chance to meet Danny a few times, but there is no doubt in my mind he is the worthy partner and leader of this woman of faith. I’ve known Lauren for a long time – I’ve seen her in many seasons, her heart in many places. But I have never seen her so alive – so authentic as she is partnered with Danny. She is radiant with a love for Christ that is contagious – I’m so blessed to find myself in its wake.

This past weekend Lauren and Danny wed in Minnesota. In front of about 260 people they declared their love and commitment to Christ and each other. It was truly an honor to be by her side in this journey and at her wedding. Their wedding was signature Danny & Lauren – from the music to the burritos to the first dance. They nailed it.

And now the real journey begins.

Early on in our friendship, Lauren and I made a friendship covenant. I have a small slip of notebook paper in my Bible that she wrote 6 years ago – listing 5 things she committed to me as a friend before God. And in these last six years she has stood by her word, fiercely committing to love me and dream for me. To be honest with me and to pray for me. She is a faithful covenant partner, and Danny will be the recipient of her marriage covenant and commitment for the rest of his life.

Danny and Lauren, receive the blessing. Continue to bring each other deeper into the vastness of Christ. Keep adding to the list of inside jokes. Start praying for your radical little children. Know that your marriage is anointed and prayed over. I love you both – can’t wait to see God’s dreams unfold.

Some of the greatest ideas are given in a lightbulb moment. Some take years to develop. For me and my fellow adventurers – sometimes it just takes a cool picture on Instagram and a late night twitter conversation.

cole/gerald/johnson and I go way back. Something about the place we met seems to inject a sense of adventure into people that is hard to get rid of. We didn’t get around to one last summer, so we knew this summer had to be epic.

We wanted to go up to Banff National Park in Alberta, Canada (the Canadian Rockies), but we needed some fellow travelers. A few texts and minutes later we had 8 people locked and ready. Most of us have real life jobs and responsibilities, but we don’t want to forget the kid inside of us. It’s a priority.

After weeks of planning, we decided to spend 5 days in Banff and hit up Glacier National Park for two on our way back. This was mostly because Needtobreathe (whom I have gushed over in multiple blogs) was putting on a free show in Montana the night we’d be driving back. Why not end with a bang?

It’s hard to describe our trip in words.

The sights were breathtaking. The community was authentic. The adventure was intoxicating. The freedom was necessary.

Last week one of the guys at my bar asked me “why in the world would you go camping with your week off?” (This was in response to me telling him I didn’t shower for a week).

Because for me and my crew it has nothing to do with luxury. We love each other and want to remember why we’re here. We want to see God with no filter, and we want to do it together.

The word “Banff” sounds an awful lot like the popular, vulgar acronym “BAMF” (if you don’t know what it means, don’t google it). Cole wanted our trip hashtag to be “#BAMFinBanff” so he found some Hebrew words and declared our team name “Bara Adonai Midbar Fellowship.” 19 grammatical offenses later, what we’re trying to say is “Filling up with God in the wilderness…together .”

Here’s a quick highlight video from our trip – I did my best to capture a glimpse of our experience. What a crew.