Category: Alaska

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When the River Otters Leave…

“Though the fig tree should not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines, the produce of the olive fail and the fields yield no food, the flock be cut off from the fold and there be no herd in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will take joy in the God of my salvation. God, the Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet like the deer’s; he makes me tread on my high places.” -Habakkuk 3:17-19

When I opened my Bible last week, a letter from a sweet sister friend dated April 2016 fell out of the pages of Habbakkuk. 

When I went to slip it back into its spot, I saw my own chicken scratch in the margin next to the passage above listing two dates: August 2015, April 2016.

The first time I read that passage of scripture was in John Piper’s book When I Don’t Desire God: Fighting for Joy circa summer 2015. My then-boyfriend had suggested I read that book as I was coming apart at the seams while wrestling with the murder of one of my Denver Street School students. I carried that book around in my purse for months, slowly chipping away at it. (After all, how does one read a book about not desiring God, when one doesn’t desire God because they’re broken and angry and just so dang sad? I couldn’t tell ya…I honestly never finished it…) Some five months into toting that book around with me, I sat in a Starbucks and read the words of Habakkuk 3 with tears in my eyes. 

The relationship that had led me to that book was crumbling and I was preparing to walk away from everything I knew and deeply loved in Colorado to follow Jesus to Alaska, for no other real reason than because I knew in my bones that it was what He was asking me to do. My decision was against logic and I was a hot mess express as I pre-grieved my transition, and yet: I was simultaneously rejoicing because I knew I was doing exactly what I had been created to do. 

Fast forward another nine months from that day in Starbucks and you would find me crying once again– but this time in Alaska. Said relationship had in fact ended. My future plans were being upended as I battled my previous desire to return to Denver after my year’s commitment to the gap year program in Alaska, and a growing desire (that I’d never seen coming) to stay in the strange little village I’d come to call home; a village of 200, where I had the liberty to make up my own mailing address since roads don’t really exist, much less house numbers; one that had welcomed me in with wholehearted hospitality, even though I ended up in tears at most coffee dates and social events I was invited to by my new friends… 

That year I’d moved to Alaska to mentor two young women and four young men at Tanalian Leadership Center. That December, one of the young girls who had been living in our house, which I’d deemed as “723 Jesus Loves River Otters Lane” (after the otter I often sat and stared at from the dock in my backyard while I read my afternoon devotions), had gone home at Christmas break and chosen not to return to the program. By April, my relationship with the other was strained, to say the least. While things were going well with the boys I was mentoring and I’d found a few ministry niches in the local community and school, I felt like a failure and a fraud. Some “missionary” I was if I couldn’t even manage to maintain a relationship with the two girls I’d come all this way to mentor…

I’d called my sister-friend back in Colorado and sobbed to her on the phone sometime early-April that year and she’d sweetly sent up a little care package with a letter tucked inside. 

“Know that I love you and you have purpose. No matter what the day has held or will hold tomorrow, there is sweet purpose and enough-ness in being the daughter of the Father. He has not made mistakes in sending you to Alaska, or to Jesus Loves River Otters Lane…even if the river otters leave. May you find sweet satisfaction in Him today,” she wrote. 

Eight years later, care packages find me at 723 Jesus Loves River Otters Lane in Port Alsworth once again. And while so many circumstances in my life have changed, I am once again faced with the reality of a metaphorical river otter leaving my home– at least for a while. It’s a story that is in process and not entirely my own story to tell publically, so for now, I will refrain.

But what I can say, is that even if my family tree doesn’t blossom this year and no fruit comes of this season, even if all of my river otters leave and I’m left sitting in this beautiful little cabin in the woods alone with Jesus, I will rejoice in the Lord while I cry and wonder, lament and grieve. 

I may not understand the what, why, or how of any of this on this side of heaven, but I am learning more everyday that even here, He is still good, and that He doesn’t make mistakes. 

Jesus, make my heart believe. Lead me on as I journey to the high places with You.

—

“Though the fig tree should not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines, the produce of the olive fail and the fields yield no food, the flock be cut off from the fold and there be no herd in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will take joy in the God of my salvation. God, the Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet like the deer’s; he makes me tread on my high places.” -Habakkuk 3:17-19

Since I wrote this, my oldest “river otter”, aka my adopted daughter and eldest kiddo’s mailing address has changed to a Teen Challenge program in Idaho. The expense of getting her the help she needs to be successful in life is steep to say the least. (Steep to the tune of approximately $42,000… Oofta.) I’m believing in a miracle for the financial provision of this program for her, since I certainly don’t have the funds for such a program as a single foster mom…

If you are interested in partnering with us to help keep her at this program, you can find out more or make a donation at https://www.givesendgo.com/ZTeenChallenge.

Thank you for loving her well and holding all of us in your hearts and up in prayer.

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Coming up for air

April 20th, 2020…That’s the last time I wrote anything in this space.

A few Sundays ago, I woke up and felt my creative energy come back to me for about the first time since I hit publish on this site over three years ago. That Sunday I saw the date of my last post and laughed; when I stop and consider how much has changed in those three years, it’s no wonder that my creativity abated throughout a long season of transition, grieving, and survival mode. If you haven’t been along for the ride on a daily basis, those three years have held:

  • A global pandemic that changed everything about our lives for a long while.
  • The beginning and end of a second Master’s Degree in educational leadership, which gave way to a career pivot or two (okay, four, but who’s counting..).
  • The gut-wrenching closure of my beloved Denver Street School’s East Campus and the end of the bittersweet season of being its principal and “school mom”.
  • My long awaited move back to the little Alaskan village of Port Alsworth that I proudly call home.
  • The thought of applying to become a foster parent, the placement of a very sweet and spicy then-fifteen year old girl, and the eventual awarding of my foster care license — in that order. (Because why launch into single foster-parenting the linear or logical way?)
  • Two plane crashes that rocked our little village’s world, but which everyone survived. *Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, praise the Lord!*
  • News in March 2022 that my sweet girl would become a Leyba forever– later, rather than sooner though because the bureaucracy of the foster care system is b-a-n-a-n-a-s. (Three cheers for finally having an adoption date of June 27th, 2023 over a year later!)
  • A lot of life and some hard to swallow deaths of beloved friends and former students.
  • More mental and physical health challenges than I thought one small family of two could survive.
  • The deepening of some of the sweetest relationships on planet earth.
  • Settling in to our sweet little cabin in the big Alaskan woods and the stretching of roots into its rocky soil.

As exhausting as it is to look back at that list, it’s hard to know that isn’t even an exhaustive list of the last three years’ occurrences. And yet, here we are: still standing, by the grace of God, and finally feeling the clarity of thought that comes with not only surviving, but finally feeling like maybe I can thrive again. Maybe I can breathe and dream and hope– and not just in the “I seriously hope the future is better than this hellacious five minute period, or the five minute period that preceded it” kind of way.

I don’t know what capacity I’ll return to my little corner of the internet in the future, but something in me tells me that I’m not quite done here yet. So here’s to bridging the gap, stretching everything in me back towards the Light, and coming up for air this summer.

I’m glad you’re along for the journey.

xo, Kacy Lou

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On Holy and Frozen Ground | #DSSDoesAlaska 2020

Precious BaptismFor weeks I’ve lacked the words I felt could do this year’s #DSSDoesAlaska trip justice. (Less than ideal when you know you have fundraising updates and newsletters to write…) The only words I’ve been able to muster have been to tell friends and supporters that that week was very likely the highlight of my nearly 13 years at the Denver Street School. And honestly? I’m still not able to pinpoint why. Last year, we watched the Lord radically break down walls for two of our students over this trip. That trip culminated in a friend of mine taking a chainsaw and cutting a baptismal hole in the 18” thick ice so that my vice principal and I could baptize one of our seniors. In just one week, we witnessed radical transformation and I am still mind blown when I think about it.

This year, nothing overly dramatic happened. Instead, I had the opportunity to spend 8 days doing the things I love most with a team of 7 DSS students and 6 of their teachers– all of whom were insanely engaged with the gospel and dedicated to pushing into its transforming power. 

We cooked and ate meals together each day, and students experienced new cultures and states. We enjoyed snowmachining, flying in tiny planes, skiing, snowboarding, ice fishing, trapping, dancing, sledding, bonfires, and so much more after our daily conference sessions. And yet, the “in between” moments when we watched students learn to truly connect with those around them, undistracted by technology and the drama of their home lives, may have been my favorite… Every night at curfew, we would scoot the boys out of the main house. And every night all of the students were genuinely sad to have to be apart, even long enough to sleep. “Miss, we’re a family! You can’t tear a family apart like this…” they would tease as I ushered them out the door and back to their cabin.  

#DSSDoesAlaska / Journey to the High Places Conference 2020 Highlight Reel

As the “outside world” began shutting down due to the spread of the Coronavirus, we were safe and sound in a small village, 165 miles away from the nearest city, with only one working phone. Sporadic calls home to loved ones and the unbelievable updates they gave us reminded us that the world did not stop spinning in our absence. Similarly, DSS did not stop being DSS just because we were in Alaska. We saw students work hard to process through trauma, and gently stood by them as they had moments of meltdown and breakthrough, similar to what we experience at DSS on a daily basis. As teachers, we had opportunities to practice patience and grace, as hell hath no fury like DSS students being “forced” to hike through the snow to a glacier-capped waterfall and none of our students are “morning people”.

While most phone calls home yielded updates about school closures and new city policies, one phone call brought us all to our knees. It was news that a young man, who had been a good friend of two of the students with us in Alaska, had been shot and killed the night before. As teachers tried to calm one of the grief-ridden students down, he turned and punched a solid wood end table, dealing with his grief and shock the most familiar way he knew how. But then, he cried. And as a team, we gathered around him. One of his basketball teammates held him while he wept. Teachers and his peers held his feet and shoulders as we prayed and cried for everyone back in Denver who had been thrown headlong into grief overnight. As I looked around, I discreetly slid off my shoes, acutely aware that we were all suddenly on Holy ground.

That moment was a microcosm of what the Journey to the High Places Conference is all about. This conference and trip was created four years ago specifically for Denver Street School students to provide them a safe place to work through the trauma and grief in their lives. It’s about leaning in, learning to hold one anothers’ stories tenderly, and choosing to believe in the Hope of the Gospel that is woven through every lesson plan and conversation at the Denver Street School.

We circled back to Philippians 3:12 a few times throughout our time in Alaska– repeating Paul’s words over our students: “Not that I have already obtained {perfection}, but I press on to make {the gospel} my own, because Christ Jesus has made me His own” (English Standard Version). 

It’s a long race, walking with Jesus… working at DSS… Some days the transformation in our students is dramatic and evident. Some days it’s slow and steady and sweet. Regardless, we press on, and what a joy it is to watch our students slowly make the gospel their own as they learn the depths of Christ’s love for them and the lengths He went to to make them His own. 

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Grief is a vehicle

I drive his 1985 Mercedes SEL on Sundays.

It feels right when I stop to consider that our shared faith was one of the more driving connections between the two of us, my grandfather– my “Papa”– and I.

When I felt the Lord tugging on my heart to follow Jesus to Alaska without rhyme or reason back in 2015, my family’s reactions were varied:

“Your getting too old not to settle down.”

“That lifestyle isn’t one for a respectable Hispanic woman.”

“You’re out of your damn mind.”

With him, it was different.

“Well kid, if that’s what you feel like He’s telling you to do, ya’damnsure better do it.”

Never one to mince words or be flustered by what his greater life experience had proven to be only a seasonal change, my grandfather was my sounding board, my strong backbone, and simultaneously the safest space my heart had for nearly twenty seven years.

Fifty two years ago, nearly three decades before I was even thought of, this man redefined the idea of family as I would one day inherit it. He and I never shared a bloodline, but rather became family through his choice to adopt my mother. With his quiet stability, he dared to interrupt a storyline and thereby changed the life of my mother, me, his “granddaurter”, and hopefully that of generations to come.

My dark features and string bean build may not emulate his sturdy German stock, but it’s unmistakable that my inability to sit still when music comes on is a trait of his I’ve carried in my body since he first enrolled me in piano lessons at the age of five and taught me how to tap my foot to the metronome atop his old piano.

After years of botched recitals and your standard small child temper tantrums, weekly piano lessons were abandoned and monthly jazz concerts took their place. The scratchy tulle of the dresses my mother would wrangle me into scraped the back of my legs and I would pretend to be far more irritated than I was. But there I would sit, in the second row of a jazz concert one Saturday a month, transfixed with the way the musicians’ fingers danced up their saxophones and across their basses. My Papa would close his eyes and drink it in, moving as many muscles as he could to dance in his seat without being noticed. But oh, how I noticed.

On Sundays such as this, I unlock his car and slide into the old burgundy leather seats. I run my fingers across his jazz tape collection and close my eyes for a moment before I drive. I can’t manage to get the old stereo to work to save my life, but some days in the silence as I drive, I swear I can hear him quietly humming Bucky Pizzerelli’s Stars in Your Eyes.

With every passing Sunday, I learn a little more deeply that maybe the grief that continues to come, even a year after losing my grandfather is just another vehicle. One constantly moving me closer to the heart of the One whom me grandfather taught me so much about, and imitated so well in word and deed.

So I wipe my tears and drive toward Jesus, just as my Papa taught me to do.

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Tattoo baptisms

The reality of my line of work is that when students come up to me and say, “Miss, I have something to tell you,” I’ve learned brace myself; typically that phrase is followed by some sort of confession or a pregnancy announcement. But when Lisa walked into my classroom and said those words to me last year, she didn’t seem upset or panicked (as is usual with the teenage pregnancy announcement shtick) so I took a deep breath and tried to shake some of the tension out of my shoulders that had instantly accumulated there.

“What’s up?” I asked as I shuffled papers around on my desk, failing miserably at being non-chalant.

“Uhm, maybe I’ll tell you later. You look busy.”

I didn’t protest and instead tried to take a deep breath and blow it off. Inevitably “DSS happened” and I got swept away with my day teaching, completely forgetting about Lisa and the emotional cliff she had left me hanging on.

After lunch, she sauntered into my classroom for senior English. Before I could say anything, she turned her back to me and swept her hair to the side. As she did so, she revealed a tattoo reaching down her upper spine that read God is love and only love.

“Whaaaaaat?! Lis, I love it!” I stammered, allowing my pulse to slow (incredibly relieved that the thing she was dying to tell me about that morning was just a tattoo).

“You like it?” She launched into a story about how she had been on the verge of making a stupid decision after getting into a fight with her mom over the weekend. “Instead of smoking weed or something though, I decided to go for a “solo” like we learned to do at the conference in Alaska. I grabbed my coat and walked for a few hours while I thought about everything I’ve learned about God at DSS and on our trip— you know, how He’s always there for us… how He loves us… all of that. As I kept walking, I kept thinking about Eric’s words in Port Alsworth: “God is love and only love”. Before I knew it, I was standing outside a tattoo parlor. I decided I never wanted to forget those words, so I got them inked on my back; I want to live my life knowing that God loves me.”

By this point, the bell to begin class had rung and I had an audience of senior girls staring at me like I had lost my mind as I stood next to Lisa with my hands cupped over my mouth and tears running down my cheeks.

“Oh Lis. That’s beautiful. And such a big commitment for someone who wasn’t all that sure about God (let alone, Jesus) at the beginning of this school year.”

“I know, Miss. But I wanted to write it on my heart— I want knowing God’s character to change everything I do.”

By this point, I was in full on water-works mode. “Do you guys know what a baptism is?” I choked out, turning to the rest of my class. (I figured we were studying Mere Christianity and Screwtape Letters, so this conversation was mildly pertinent to the rest of my girls for academic reasons.)

“Isn’t it when someone gets dunked in water?” One of my girls pipped up.

“Usually… Does anyone know why people get baptized?” I pressed, doing my best to dry my happy/ sappy tears and put on my teacher hat.

*Crickets*

“Baptism is a public declaration of a person’s faith in Jesus. When someone gets baptized they’re saying to the world that they want to follow Jesus and live their life in a changed way because of the way He has changed them.”

I glanced around the room and met a bunch of empty, unimpressed stares before catching Lisa’s eye.

“Lis, correct me if I’m wrong… but I think that’s what you did this weekend. I think you got a Street School style baptism…?”

She smiled slyly, nodded, and took her seat.

~ ~ ~

My tears that day (as strange as they must have seemed to the rest of my students) were all joy, enhanced by the knowledge that mere months before Lis made the conscious decision to declare her love for the Lord, she doubted His existence, His goodness, His love for her (or anyone else for that matter).

Today, I sat in a similar posture as Lisa had the day before she brushed her hair to the side and revealed her new ink. With my arm extended, I chose to have someone etch Truth into me— similar to the way the body of Christ, my friends and family have done over the last year since our plane disappeared.

IMG_0750It is for freedom – Script by the lovely Katie Brown

“It is for freedom Christ has set us free.”

Those words from Galatians 5:1 are ones I have spoken to myself often since the evening of December 7th, 2016.

I will never forget the out of body experience that came with being curled on my knees on my kitchen floor, clutching the phone on which my best friend in Alaska had just delivered the news of the disappearance of Scott, Kaitlyn, Zach, Kyle, and our plane. I will never be able to stop seeing myself there, nor can I seem to forget the feeling of all of my breath leaving my body as my head was plunged back under the icy waters of grief, not even six months after Kevin and Geno’s deaths. I can still vaguely feel the way my lungs remained contracted for months, unable to fully inhale for fear of breathing in water— my own tears. A very wise friend assured me one afternoon that maybe that season of feeling like I was under water was meant to be a baptism, not the vengeful drowning of me, an “unworthy sinner” by my most Holy God. (Oh how I have kept that wisdom close to my heart.)

The words from Galatians 5:1 are those which I heard the Lord whisper to my spirit upon my first ever flight as pilot-in-command in April of 2016. As I manned the yoke in our Cherokee and screamed, “Oh my God! I’m flying!! I’m flying a plane! Who thought this was a good idea?!” like the spazz I am, I almost audibly felt him calm me: Shhhhhhh, sweet girl. I have set you free so that the freedom of the gospel might be spread to places only planes can go; it is for freedom Christ has set us free.

Those words are the ones which Scott teased me for mercilessly when I said I wanted to get them tattooed on my arm once I solo-ed in the Cherokee for my pilot’s license. In his typical snarky way, He would always extend an interpretation of the verse to include: “do not be yoked again to the slavery of the ground!” where scripture says, “stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to the yoke of slavery.” Pilot jokes… they’re almost as bad as dad jokes… (And oh, Scott had such a knack for both.) 

Those words have been my constant reminder that the Lord has not allowed our loved ones’ deaths and Homecomings to be in vain; rather that their transference into the Heavens has been a means by which the gospel has been spread to the very ends of the earth— the most remote Alaskan villages, the Cambodian countryside, humble living rooms all over the US as Julie’s story has been written and read, and all over the world as the body of Christ has rallied our little Alaskan village in prayer.

Those words are a reminder of my calling in life: to be unashamed of the Freedom I carry within my bones because of what Christ has done on the cross, and to call others into that glorious Freedom.

So today, a day where my own grief and the grief I carry in my heart for my dear friends seems strong enough to suck me back under the icy waters, I chose to take a leaf out of Lisa’s book and baptize myself in Truth:

Even here, even now, the Truth remains that God is love and only love. In the midst of trials and sorrow, anniversaries of deaths, and the reminders of dreams and hopes deferred, my God is a God of freedom.

Christ came that we may be set free– that we might proclaim the beautiful, even if tragic, ways that His coming into world and our lives has changed everything.

Jesus, make our hearts believe.

Broncos2016