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Swing dancing in the presence of Jesus.

dance6(Ancient swing dancing photo: circa 2007. Also, proof that I was once short!)

In dance, there are two very clearly prescribed roles: the leader and the follower.

When you’re out on the dance floor as a woman, more than likely you will find yourself in the role of the follower. When you’re the follower, you don’t get to plan. Instead, it is your dance partner that leads you in every step, twist, and turn that you take.

The gentleman in the pairing has to have a plan for the dance in mind, and it is their job to execute said plan by gently leading you, one step and squeeze of the hand at a time.

As the follower, if you try to anticipate the step or move that is coming next, you can almost guarantee that you will screw something up. You might step on your partner’s foot or maybe you’ll just trip both of you up… Either way it’s awkward and the only thing you can really do is apologize, try to get your rhythm back, and dance on.

As I was being twirled and whipped around the dance floor last Sunday night, by a partner far more experienced that I, I couldn’t help but see the similarities between swing dancing and my walk with God.

I tend to get too far into my own head while God is twirling me through life and whenever possible, I try to anticipate the next step in our dance together.

Then, lo and behold, I somehow screw up the dance every stinkin’ time with my anticipation and tendency to try to lead.

Always trying to anticipate God’s next move not only makes our dance a bit more clunky, but it makes it nearly impossible for me to enjoy what is happening here and now. I trap myself in the anticipation of what is coming next and struggle to see all of the beautiful things that He is doing in my life in that moment.

As an independent, mildly stubborn, day-dreamer and “go-er”, I’m always pumped about what God is going to do, where He is going to take me, what the next step is going to look like… and I don’t necessarily think that any of those qualities or thoughts are bad in and of themselves.

But as one of my beloved friends recently pointed out to me, my anticipation becomes a hindrance when I begin to miss out on what God is doing here, today because my eyes are always focused on tomorrow or the day after that.

It’s no great secret that I’m sort of in a season of transition right now. Being technically homeless, single, and relatively underemployed isn’t exactly where I want to be for the rest of my life (Shocking, I know.) and therefore some days it is hard not to look expectantly at the future.

I have full confidence that this is simply a season, and just like in swing dancing, God is teaching me to be present where I am and cherish this season, instead of trying to rush our dance by taking the next step on my own.

So while I royally suck at seasons of rest, I have realized that this summer is beautiful for a multitude of reasons:

Since I’m not working full-time or living in Vail like I had planned to for the summer, I get to nanny this absolutely precious little cupcake and continue deepening my friendship with her momma on a daily basis.

Hailes

Because I’m single, my priority for relationships gets to be in deepening my relationship with God through our morning coffee dates and singing worship songs at the top of my lungs in my car all afternoon.

coffeedate

Since I’m nomadic, I have the opportunity to travel where ever He takes me. In just the first three weeks of summer, I’ve been able to go home to southern Colorado, to camp with my students, backpacking with friends, and I leave for Alaska in less than two weeks to volunteer at a summer camp there for a week.

camping

This season is beautiful simply because it has been given to me by God. Period. Not just because it is leading me to something else.

God knew that I needed rest. He knew that I needed to be here near my family for the summer. He knew that I was struggling with being present… and therefore He is placing me in a season of quiet where I can learn to do nothing but look at Him, take a deep breath, and smile.

So, with that being said, I am laying here on a park bench by Sloan’s Lake, watching the boats sway in the harbor, learning to do nothing but lay here, on a park bench, and watch the boats sway in the harbor because this is exactly where God has put me for the summer, and it is magnificent.

Are you a sucky follower in swing dancing or just in life in general? An over-ambitious go-er struggling to be present? Let’s have coffee & form a support group.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
    for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
    I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
    your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.
 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
    forever.”

Psalm 23

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Messiness made beautiful

messybed

I like a healthy amount of mess in my life.

In fact, I think it’s beautiful. Mess shows that we are human. Mess leaves room for improvement.

Let’s take a practical look into my life, shall we?

If you somehow looked through your computer screen and into the room that I’m currently staying in for the summer, you would see a few milk crates of carefully stacked books, two bins of relatively straightened clothes, and an open suitcase full of random items that I’ve found to be necessary for my nomadic life.

I like my stuff to be put away and in its proper home. It makes me feel organized and at peace.

After you noticed the tidy boxes and crates, your eyes would likely drift over to my bed. Disheveled and rarely made in the morning– a small tornado of sheets, pillows, and my CSU blanket. (Go Rams!)

I’m not a bed maker (I never have been, sorry mom!) and I like it that way. To me, my bed shouts comfort– a place that I can crash and relax at any moment. Having an unmade bed at all times makes me like a real person and less like some weird OCD robot living in a Better Homes and Gardens ad.

Sure, my strict grandmother would say that my unmade bed shows the lack of structure in my life and is an area in which I could drastically improve, but who cares? A messy bed is beautiful and real and inviting to me.

This little area of mess makes my heart happy. It reminds me that it’s okay that I’m imperfect– that I’m not a bed maker or a do-laundry-every-week-er. I don’t mind having people over to my house when it’s in this imperfect “state” because they are getting the “organic” Kacy.

But for some reason, my brain doesn’t quite operate the same way when it comes down to the other messy areas in my life.

I’ve heard gobs of people who were raised in the church say that they struggle with letting people into the depths of their lives because they want to put up a front of perfection to the general public. As Christians, they don’t want their mess exposed because they are afraid that it will scare people off, either from themselves or from Christ. This has always made sense to me on some level, even though it wasn’t something that I quite experienced until recently.

You see, because of the way that I was raised, I never really was able to put up the “pretty Christian” facade… or any pretty facade for that matter…

Everyone who I’ve known since, well ever, has known my family as “that crazy family”.

That crazy family that lives in the pink house with the white picket fence.

That crazy family that lives in the home for Alzheimer’s patients.

That crazy family with the “unconventional” mother.

That crazy family with all those wild kids.

That crazy family who takes in stray children and animals like they were loading Noah’s freaking ark.

That crazy family… You know, the one where the cops know the names of everyone in the house for one reason or another.

Growing up, and even until I moved out of Aurora, I couldn’t have hidden behind a curtain, even if I had wanted to because the reputation of the Leyba/Hexamer/Spaulding house far preceded me.

But life is different now. Now, I’ve moved far away from the parts of the city where people knew me because of my wild antics, or because of my mother, siblings, or living situation; now I have the absolute pleasure of meeting people and showing them who I am.

Or at least showing them who I want them to see me as…

By surrounding myself with a completely new community, I have realized that I have the opportunity to hide my mess if I want to.

If I wanted to, I could easily avoid talking about the brokenness that I hail from.

I could sweep the fact that several of my close family members struggle with drug addictions under the rug.

I could choose to never talk about the fact that the neighborhood cops know my full name because of how many police reports I either helped to fill out or had filled out because of me.

I could skip the insane stories about growing up in a nursing home. Like that one time when Adolf, one of our Alzheimer’s patients, broke my arm and chased me out of my own house with a knife. Yeah, I could skip over those and simply pretend that I grew up in a normal home with no one but my siblings and parents.

I could pretend that I never took care of my two beautiful godchildren for years on end, dropping out of school on two occasions to do so.

I could pretend all of these things.

But if I pretended that I wasn’t messy and broken– if I put up a “pretty Christian front” so that I wouldn’t scare off the people in my life, I would be robbing God of the glory and goodness that has come out of each of these situations.

Yes, all of the aforementioned bizarre things have happened to me. (I don’t think I could make these things up if I tried.) And yes, part of me wishes that they hadn’t– that I had grown up like a “normal” person, in a family that wasn’t riddled with abuse, addiction, and weird, elderly people, but I did.

As much as I want to simply sweep my mess under the rug and pretend that none of it ever happened, I can’t. Because it did. It happened and God has used all of those circumstances to make me into the woman I am today.

As of late, I feel like God is slowly teaching me not to be ashamed of my mess, but to embrace it and proclaim all of the beautiful things that He has done & promises to do with it all in the future.

Mess shows that we are human and leaves room for God to be God.

My mess shows that He’s not done with me yet, while simultaneously showing off all of the things that he has already made beautiful.

Messy people create safe spaces for other messy people to be loved and learn to love in turn– and after all, isn’t that what we’re all here to do?

I invite you to share your mess with someone else today.

Will it be uncomfortable? Definitely.

Will you be embarrassed? Perhaps.

Will it be worth it to share what God is going to do within your mess in the long run with another messy person? For sure.

Trust me. Learn to let people in and let God be God, both in your neatly packed life boxes and in your areas of disarray.

“I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure.

He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord.”

(Psalm 40:1-3)

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Destroying mud pies

Give up your small ambitions

There has always been something about the American Dream that never quite sat right with my heart.

For two years in college, I was a TA for an American Civilization course and taught along side one of the wackiest communist professors I’ve ever met in my life. (Not that I know a lot of communist professors… but you get the point.) After seeing his view of American politics, I began to attribute my anti-American-Dream / idealistic-socialist viewpoints to the fact that I had worked along side him for so long.

But the deeper I fall in love with Jesus, the more I realize that the American Dream doesn’t sit right with me, not because of Charles Angeletti and his shenaniganry, but because it is essentially in direct contradiction with the life that we, as Christians, are called to live and love.

Here in America, we are taught to value success, as dictated by your bank account or the size of the home that you could one day buy with your spouse and then fill with your 2.5 children and dog. Once we attain this status of “success” we are to spend the rest of our lives buying things from stores to fill our homes. Pretty stuff. Practical stuff. Stuff to put your other stuff in. Stuff to organize the stuff that you have put your other stuff in… I think that we can all agree that we are over-stufffed.

And in this cycle of stuffing our lives with stuff, we lose sight of what is important. The Gospel. The sick. The dying. Those who desperately need clean water or just the love of someone, anyone…

In our relentless cycle of buying and selling, moving up, and out doing each other, we are neglecting our one true calling– to love God’s people, even if that means sacrificing everything we have.

These things– our stuff, our account balances, our job titles and degrees– become not only the way the way that we measure our success, but they also become our affections and ambitions.

As this school year has drawn to a close, God has pointed this out in my own mixed up soul.

For the last six years, everything that I have done has been devoted to either becoming or being a teacher, and now that season of my life is over… and I’m mildly freaking out.

As I pulled my students’ posters and my infamous glitter-glue Jesus painting off of my classroom walls this morning, panic set into my heart.

This is happening.

I am not a teacher anymore.

One of the largest comforts that I have been clinging to within my life here in Denver has officially been shaken up.

I am homeless.

I am taking a job for the remainder of my time here in Denver that has nothing to do with my degree.

Aside from the fact that I have a plane ticket to Alaska for a week in July, I have little to no plans for the next seven months. And even though I’m not a huge planner, my mind is whirling with the chaos that God has placed me within.

But as I stood staring at my blank purple classroom walls, the last part of that sentence rang in my brain: the chaos that God has placed me within.

I am not alone here. He has a plan– a plan that I’m sure is far superior to anything that I could ever think up. I simply need to follow Him and make Him my focal point and the one that I find all of my comfort in.

In 2 Corinthians 6:12, Paul addressed the Corinthian church saying, “You are not restricted by us, but you are restricted in your own affections.“

As I read this over and over again, I couldn’t help but realize that while God and His will is my affection and one true desire, that I have some secondary affections and desires lingering in the depths of my heart because of the culture that I have been raised within.

I am affectionate toward comfort– a mailing address, a bed to sleep in, you know… the things that I never thought much about until recently.

I am affectionate toward the idea of being perceived as successful and not just as some crazy hippie girl who has gone rogue against society.

I am affectionate toward my job and the idea of being able to use the degrees and teaching license that I slaved away to earn.

I am affectionate toward the idea of settling down in a cute house in Denver with my someday husband and our cute outdoorsy, Coloradoan children.

I want things. Stuff. Comfort. A 9-5 life including volleyball tournaments with friends on the weekends and lots of camping trips in the summer.

I have been sold a dream– the American Dream– and it has seeped into my heart. But God is in the process of rooting that out. I am being called to give up my small ambitions and affections for a life much greater.

Yesterday, as I gardened in the wet mud of the house that I’m currently staying at, I was reminded of C.S. Lewis’ mud pie analogy from The Weight of Glory:

“It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with worldly ambitions when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”

I refuse to remain comfortable here with my mud pie dreams; even if it kills me (which it won’t, because you know… Jesus and stuff) I am going to follow my King. For He is my comfort and my rock in hard times and life tornadoes.

I am going for my holiday by the sea where my teaching license is nothing but a piece of paper and Jesus is my everything.

What are your affections and ambitions? Are you willing to lay them down to follow Christ where ever He is leading you?

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Love personified

I love Jesus.

(Okay, I’m sure some of you just rolled your eyes, but hear me out on this one.)

I love Jesus because He is everything that I am incapable of being.

Jesus was patient; when a pharisee was out of control, Jesus didn’t slap him. He just calmly said what He needed to say and went about His loving way.

Jesus loved everyone, even when He seemed weary. In Luke 18, we see the disciples try to keep people from bringing their children to Jesus because they were afraid that He was tired. Instead of turning them away, He opened up his arms to he wee ones and compared them to the ones who would inherit the Kingdom.

Jesus was joyful; He had plenty of opportunities to gripe in the face of adversity, yet He chose not to. Instead, He fixed His eyes on the Father and went about His merry way.

Jesus understood what was being asked of Him and He sacrificed his life for Love.

As I lay here in my hammock, a part of me wishes that I could have lived in the times of Jesus so I could experience His great Love first hand.

And then I am reminded that I already have.

This last Sunday, I got news of the tragic passing of one of the most formative people in my spiritual walk, my Papa Dean.

Papa Dean was not my blood relative, (Who is in my family anyways? Sheesh, talk about a mish-mash of people!) but He was family none-the-less.

I first met him as an uneasy, socially awkward 8th grader at Aurora Christian Academy. At the time I was sure that he was a teacher of some sort, even though he was clearly in his late seventies. But as time went by, I came to find out that he was just a volunteer at the church school that I attended.

At seventy-something years old, he would play kickball with us, (He was ALWAYS the pitcher because he was positive that he had an amazing curve ball), tutor us in classes we were struggling with, and help serve lunch. Famous for dancing his way through the hallways of the elementary and high school, and making off the wall comments that made everyone laugh, he became everyone’s grandpa and friend.

From sitting through just about every volleyball, basketball, cheerleading, and soccer practice and game, to being the star of all of our pep rallies, (Forever riding into the gym on the back of Coach Tschetter’s Harley wearing a tiny leather coat and bandana) Papa Dean was the life of every school and church event.

As time went on, he remained involved in the tiny ten block community around Aurora Christian Academy, even after the school closed and our church eventually moved away.

When I got a job at Starbucks my senior year of high school, exactly one block between ACA and his apartment, he quickly became one of our regular customers, visiting three, sometimes four times a day. By this time he was well into his eighties and therefore had to use a cane, but that never stopped him from giggling to himself as he did his shuffle-jig through the drive-thru and into my store every morning.

When I was old enough to move out and get my own place, Papa Dean became my neighbor and would walk my dog with me early in the morning and sometimes late at night. On those walks we talked about everything from Frank Sinatra to crafting, but his favorite topic always stayed the same: Jesus.

Oh man. Papa Dean was CRAZY about his Jesus. And his joy was simply contagious.

When he danced, he danced for the Glory of God.

When we would sit in his tiny apartment cluttered with his crafts (typically rubber ducks duct taped to some random unrelated object) he would talk about how weary his body was in his old age, but how he simply longed to live the rest of his life for God and tell others about His Love.

Papa Dean had seen more than his share of heart break and pain. After recovering from the pain of losing his wife years ago, he lost his beloved daughter three years ago unexpectedly. He longed to live in heaven with the ones that he loved, but he understood that God had him here still for a reason. Living here, with us… Being our angel on earth… That was his sacrifice for Love.

Papa Dean was hands down the most patient, joyful, loving, and sacrificial person I have ever met– a nearly perfect picture of the love of Christ. And while I am saddened for myself (mostly because I know that I won’t be getting anymore random voice mails where he accidentally forgets that he’s on the phone with me and begins praying, only to end the voice mail with a Christmas tiding in March) I can’t help but smile, knowing that he is dancing for his King in heaven right now.

I am thankful beyond words for this crazy old coot. I might not be able to hop in a time machine and experience biblical times, but I have met a man who knew and loved Jesus so much that it was nearly impossible to see where he ended and where Jesus began.

His name was Dean Jones and he was the true Blue Angel of the Aurora Christian and Alameda / Ironton community.

Rest in peace Papa Dean. Just like the nights when I would sing Frank Sinatra while you played the organ, I’ll be loving you always.

PoppaDean

 “For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.” (1 Corinthians 2:2)

 

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Butterfly season

I seriously believe that every person who has been in ministry work for a while has had the “I quit” moment.

This moment comes when our work begins to feel pointless: So-and-so relapsed back into drugs. That kid got thrown into jail. My favorite woman at the shelter decided to run back to her abusive husband. The orphan I had been nurturing back to health for months died in my arms. These are all real stories that I’ve heard come from the mouths of my friends in ministry, and regardless of your ministry platform, I can guarantee that if you’ve seen these things, or things of that nature, that you’ve had that I quit moment.

Serenity is the 21 year old house mother at a home for women trying to escape homelessness, drug addiction, and domestic violence in Oklahoma. She spoke about her experience last weekend at Nomads saying,

I’ve had women break my heart. In fact, the first woman that I took into the house was also my first heartbreak when she chose to prematurely leave the program and return to life on the streets. I wanted to quit then, but I continued on. A few weeks later, I had a woman pull me into an alley and dig into every insecurity that I’ve ever felt. You’re too young to do this. You think you can run a home? You couldn’t even finish college. You’re stupid. You’re worthless. You’re… You’re… You’re… That day is the day that I tried to quit. I got into my car and instead of driving back to the [mission agency] headquarters, I started driving to Arkansas, where I’m from.

But as I was driving, it hit me. I was leaving everything and going to nothing. I had sold everything I owned. There was nothing left in Arkansas for me. My home was here now. My support system was here. And so I turned around and drove to my friend’s house at the headquarters, sat on his sofa, and cried for the afternoon. Eventually my ‘I quit’ turned into ‘I quit for the day. I don’t quit, but I can’t go back today.’

You see, I can’t quit. I can’t go back to living my old life. I am broken for these women now and there is nothing that could ever fill my heart like the calling that God has given me to live in this home with these women, even when they break me in turn.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve had my fair share of “I quit” moments. Things around the school seem exponentially more difficult than they have during any other fourth quarter I’ve ever seen. And I know that it’s spiritual warfare.

As a staff we are intentionally praying for and with our kids more. More of our kids have come to know Christ than I’ve ever seen in one school year and even more still have begun to seek Him. Students are asking for Bibles to read at home and asking to attend church with us.

These kids are thirsty for God.

And in turn, the devil is pissed.

It’s not something that I can put into words, but I can feel it in the depths of my soul whenever the ish hits the fan.

Part of our jobs is to be close with our students. And I’m not talking “I know each of your academic goals and reading level” close, but the kind of close that happens when you get crying phone calls at 2 am from a teenager and end up on their sofa eating Popsicles and processing life together.

My kids are my life and in turn, they know about my life.

They know my insecurities and weak places. They know where I struggle and stumble, and therefore they know just where to stab me when they are angry.

Because of this, I’ve gotten fairly wounded by the ones that I love as of late. I’ve spend my fair share of time crying in the hallway or in my coworkers’ classrooms.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that my students are the ones attacking me; to be honest, I don’t think they mean to hurt me. But I know the enemy does.

And so with every stab wound, he throws in some salt– the same salt every time. No one likes you. You’re stupid. You’re a b****. How did you get to be a teacher? You’re worthless. You’re too young to do this. God? He’s not using you for anything. You should just give up.

Last Thursday, as I sat in my empty classroom after school and sobbed, I was close to giving up and letting the darkness win. But God has created me to be far too stubborn for that nonsense.

So instead, I quit for the day and after work I bought a floppy sun hat, a pair of gardening gloves, a shovel, and absolutely went to town on weeding the garden of the house that I am currently staying at.

As I yanked plants out of the ground and cried, I also prayed. For my kids. For my coworkers. For my sanity. For protection from all of this insanity.

As I was nearing the end of my weeding mania, I sat against a fence post and took a break. Right then, a gross looking lime green caterpillar crawled onto the fence beside me.

I don’t understand how something so funny looking and gross can turn into something as beautiful as a butterfly. And then my English-teachery brain made a connection:

I love my students, but sometimes they are gross kinda like the caterpillar. No, they don’t ever look that weird (thank goodness) but because they’re still growing into butterflies, their actions and words are weird and gross sometimes. Sometimes they’re pokey and hard to hold onto, just like the creepy wormish thing crawling next to me.

But eventually that weird worm will turn into a butterfly and will be something that will take my breath away. And I know that God will do the same thing with my kiddos.

The darkness will not overcome us. They will grow into the magnificent young men and women that God is planning for them to be and I will be able to say that I survived working with a bunch of gross caterpillars while I sit and bask in the sunshine that will be butterfly season.

Like Serenity, I can’t quit. I love my weird little worms far too much. And in the most beautiful way possible, they’ve ruined my life. I can’t go back to living life without a parade of teenagers following me everywhere. I can’t go back to “normal” because God has called me to something so much more beautiful.

 

*Ps. Prayers are seriously SO appreciated right now. I know that God is bigger than all of the devil’s tomfoolery, but the onslaught of it is annoying. Prayers for protection and the mending of relationships within the school is also much appreciated. xo, Lou