Category Archives: Musings

My Little Lime Tree

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I bought a lime tree!

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Those of you who know my history with gardening know this was a huge leap of faith for me. But you also know I really love limes (and all they can produce– limeade, Key Lime Pie, Cilantro-Lime Shrimp and a new favorite discovered in India called “sweet lime drink,” among others).

There is a little intersection in Florida, called Tangerine, located near my parents’ home in Mt. Dora. Tangerine is apparently the citrus capital of the state–they grow all things citrus. Oh, and avocado trees too.

One day we were driving by, and I knew I had to adopt a tree. The sweet man who sold it to me knew I was a newbie. Did I get Persian or a Mexican Lime? Persian is what you find in the grocery store, he told me. Mexican is a key lime. Interesting.

“I’ll take a Persian, please.”

“Produces from September to December.”

Ahhh! So far away! I wanted instant gratification, but in the end, I was willing to wait so that I could have my own stash of those beautiful little green gems.

Nurturing this little tree feels like nurturing my own soul.

I want instant results. I want to read a book and suddenly experience joy. I want to understand parts of how God has made me and immediately feel fulfilled.

I want to see my little tree thrive. I want to see it be all it was made to be and bear fruit abundantly. Just as I want the very same thing for me.

But I have to wait. Only until September for my limes (hopefully!), but how long will I have to wait to experience fruit in my life?

To be honest, I can see the sprouts. I see the new little blooms beginning to show their faces. . . but they are so delicate. I feel they could wash away at any moment.

On my tree, the new leaves smell gloriously like lime, but they have to be watched carefully. There is a worm that likes to plant itself of those new leaves and suck away their life. I have to care for them every day and prune away any leaves a worm takes over.

Kind of like my heart. It needs to be nurtured every day. Every day I have to sit with the One who can really care for me. And I have to be vigilant against the tiny worms that can often work themselves in and cause destruction. I desperately want to see my little lime tree flourish. I am longing for its fruit. Just as I am desperate for the fruit in my life that shows I am again flourishing.

India, Part Three

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This is the last in a series of posts about our recent trip to India.

Once again, my life has been changed. I have listened to, prayed for, taught, hugged and laughed with dear brothers and sisters whose sacrificial lives could not help but humble this wounded soul, who feels I am trusting God for so, so little.

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India is a beautiful country in its collective longing for hope. Into every set of eyes I looked, I saw a longing to make life work. In most cases that hope came from karma or beads or industry. But in my brothers, the hope shines from the Light of the One who has called them. Their stories are just beautiful.

What is India like? It is the sound of dogs barking all day and all night. It is the piles of road that, having crumbled beneath the weight of the onslaught of new cars, are swept to the sidewalk and wait a lifetime to be cleared. It is cows, holy cows, walking down the street or feeding on the garbage on the side of the road. It is the sound of the Muslim Call to Prayer five times a day and the corner we pass populated with sheep and goats for sacrifice. It is the sight of temple after temple stacked between the fish monger and the hardware shop. It is people with beautiful brown skin, dark eyes and a longing for hope demonstrated in a thousand different ways.

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Could I offer what they most desire? Does genuine hope exist in my heart?

Joy suddenly fills me all the way to my toes. Yes! Hope exists in this heart! It’s been such a long season of trusting in faith that life will work out. I believed because I was suppose to, not because my heart was moved.  But now the trickle of joy is filling me. It is out of hope that joy springs. Both are bubbling in this heart that has felt numb for so long. . .

I will never forget the humility I felt in hearing our courageous brothers share their thanksgiving for the sacrifice we made to come and teach them. What sacrifice?  I would do it again tomorrow. Our friend Siju traveled for 42 hours–one-way–on train to be with us. Our friend Simon took a 17-hour bus ride from Bangladesh into India, where he took his very first plane ride to attend the training. For nine days, his wife and young son prayed for him, in his absence, and he made the same trek back home.

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Who I am that I get to serve God’s Body in this way? Who I am that I get to help our staff in India to have more resources to tell their countrymen about Jesus?

One day, we were out looking for a few trinkets to bring back for our kiddos. On a sheet laid on the sidewalk, a woman sold beaded necklaces and bangles for 25-50 cents. As we began talking with her, her daughter came to check us out. She wore what I am sure are the only clothes she owns–a dirt-covered sleeveless shirt and skirt two-sizes to be for her. Her hair was cut short, like that of a boy, no doubt a result of lice. Dirt covered her face, but her eyes lit up. She was perhaps six or seven, and she was filled with all the curiosity of any other little girl her age.

Her mom continues to work a deal with us, when a very unsavory man enters the picture. He sits down next to her and listens to every word of her challenge to talk four Americans into buying her bracelets made by hand. Is her her husband? Her owner? We talk about the injustice of human trafficking in the States, and we are rightly appalled. The emotion is that much greater when you witness the fear it brings a woman’s eyes when she knows she has no choice. It made me want to throw up. It made me want to grab this woman and her child and run. But I couldn’t.

I think that little girl will haunt my heart for years to come. I wanted to take a picture of her so badly. . . To honor her simple child-like beauty. To let her know someone cares about her life.

In the end, we had to walk away and return to the safety of the sparse little apartment provided for us. Injustice, gratitude, humility and mercy ripped through me.

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What is India like? It is beauty and rubble. It is worship and idolatry, riches and poverty. It is the wrestling between hope and despair.

That wrestling has left it’s permanent mark. I will walk differently with a heart that has looked into the eyes of both and longed for Jesus.

India, Part Two

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As I shared before, I had never been to India. In fact, I had never been east of Europe.

On our way there, the most fascinating thing happened. We flew over Iran.

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Flying over Iran

I don’t know why I was so gripped for this country I was flying over at 35,000 feet, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the people below me. I gazed out the window as long as light remained. The land was filled with brown. Sand and hills were all I could see. Every so often, I would see the spots of buildings of some kind and wonder who lived there. Were Iranians having dinner? What were they talking about around the dinner table? What was their day filled with? What do their homes look like?

Iran would never allow me step foot in its country, yet I was flying over it, wondering what life was like for these people that appear so mysterious on the Nightly News. I wanted to understand, to picture, to empathize, to be weighed down with compassion.

Last year I took a developmental test called Strength Finders. My top strength was called connectedness. The StrengthFinders book says, “People who are especially talented in Connectedness have faith in the links between all things.  They believe there are few coincidences and almost every event has a reason. They are also inherently bridge builders between cultures and belief systems, segments of society, departments, business units, and cliques.”

At first, I could not see that. Heck, I didn’t even understand it. But now I do. My heart is burdened by the stories I know, and the stories I can only speculate on. It’s why I could not let go of wondering about the people in Iran I was so close to and yet so impossibly distanced from. They were made by the same Creator God who breathed life into me. He cares for them so deeply, and yet, there are so many barriers keeping them from Him.

I want them to know Jesus. I want them to know joy despite circumstances. I want each and every one of them to feel treasured by the God of the Universe.

35,000 feet might be the closest I ever get. Yet, as I stare at the land, the actual land Iranians walk on, pray on, become embittered on, I am again drawn to pray. I can not touch it, but as we fly over this hostile land, I pray God’s compassion over it. I pray that one day Iranians, in their own country, will proclaim the name of Jesus Christ as Savior.

India, Part One

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* This is the first of a series of posts about our trip to India. It was life-changing. I hope you enjoy reading about some of what God did!

 

I am sitting in the Frankfort, Germany airport. There is a cacophony of languages around me, and I am fascinated.

I am on my way to India. It is not a country I have dreamed of visiting, but I get to go and help Indians to increase their skills in telling their countrymen about Jesus. I am 15 hours into our 25 hour trip.

My eyes are blurred with sleep deprivation. Words are not coming easily. My heart aches.

The first time I went to Italy, we spent seven hours in the Frankfort airport. I sit at a McDonald’s McCafe, maybe even in the same booth I sat in seven years before, and I think of how different I am from the young mom who took two kids overseas for five weeks and couldn’t look back.

There are five Phipps now. I have a few more grey hairs and a few more pounds. There are also places on my heart that have felt a pain I didn’t know existed. I feel more deeply now than I ever dreamed possible. I have learned that I want my life to be about nothing other than proclaiming the gospel–to non-believers, to believers, to myself. I have also learned that as much as I think I know the gospel, Jesus has more to teach me.

Seven years ago, I longed for a country’s salvation like I have longed for few things. I dreamed and pictured a life filled with a language I learned at 34. I believed I could do whatever I put my mind to and tenacity would win out. My life was simple, as was my faith.

Seven years later, I have grown up. I understand now the complexity of life and decisions and missions and relationships. My faith is deeper. I have trusted the Lord for so much more than I dreamed possible.

As I let all of these thoughts wonder through my head, I wish the result was a lessening of fascination. I only continue to dream of my life in Italy, however, and all I wish we would have seen happen in the name of Jesus. It drives me to prayer. What started seven years ago still grips me. It is evidence of the Holy Spirit, and so I participate in what He is doing. I do my part. I sit surrounded by countless nationalities, my eyes struggling to stay open, and I pray.

Drowning

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There have been many days in the past months when I have grasped for words to be able to express the darkness of depression. One day it came out as, “I feel like I’m drowning.”

Yes. Those were words that captured the struggle. I was drowning.

I was gasping for air, struggling to keep my head above the water. Working so hard just to take one breath. My legs would kick and strain and then still from the exhaustion. My arms would flail and reach, hoping to grab something–anything–that would bring back life.

But then my arms would still too, and the sinking would begin again.

Quiet. I just wanted quiet. And darkness. . . yes, I wanted the darkness. One day I had to leave my house, and the sun accosted me. I was blinded, exposed. It shone too bright for the darkness that had wrapped its arms around me. I had to disappear.

Thoughts swirled. They blew around like a tornado in my mind. I. just. could. not. focus. I could not follow my thoughts to the end. Even the most simple of tasks, of thoughts, overwhelmed me. How would I ever reach the surface if I didn’t have enough energy to remember I was suppose to be kicking?

And for a while, it all went dark. I couldn’t maintain the struggle any longer. Days were spent in bed. In the quiet darkness. Not thinking. Not feeling. It didn’t last long, but it felt like the bottom of the sea. I couldn’t tell which way was up, nor could I conceive of ever getting there. I was drowning, in the most literally figurative way.

Somehow though, air came. My husband grabbed my arms and hoisted me up. I felt too numb to recognize the arms of God wrapped around me, but He spoke to me so clearly through the words of the psalmists. I lay in bed, my blinds closed, my blanket protecting me from the world, reading the words of these psalms over and over.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

“You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.” Psalm 32:7

“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.” Psalm 23: 4

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Psalm 73:26

Air. The Word of God was breathed into me. It was God’s breath sucked into the gasping, the flailing, the darkness.

I wish I could say I didn’t drown because of my ability to swim. But it just isn’t true. I swam for all my might. I swam until all I could do was try and float. . . do nothing and hope to survive.

And I did. I did survive.

One day, light creeped in.

Weight lifted.

I could kick again, I could move my arms in long strokes. I could breathe.

My Dirty Little Secret

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Can I tell you a secret?

At heart, I’m an urbanite.

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I didn’t know this about myself until we moved to Italy. We lived right on the corner of two major streets. I went to sleep every night with the not-so-quiet hum of Italian drivers circling the roundabout in front of our bedroom window. I loved it.

I didn’t realize quite how much I loved it until we moved back to suburbia in Florida. No more walking to get my fruit and veggies. We drive the kids to school now. I can walk around my whole block and not see one person. There is an energy I lived on that is gone now. I’ll be honest, I need it back. I’ll spare you the details, but after doing several personality and strengths-finding type assessments, I’ve learned that I NEED the urban. I was made for it, quite frankly.

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When I first realized this, a whole heck of a lot made sense. I gained energy from those around me, so be surrounded by silence and empty streets sucked energy. But I was also a little bitter. We had just bought a house in the land of suburbia. No plans to change our residence any time soon. . . . so was I destined to have the energy sucked out of me forever?

My sweet husband came up with a practical solution. I need to travel to New York City on a regular basis (at least annually).

This was actually a huge step in moving out of depression. Depression is a sucking of all energy until there is just none left to live productively on. I’ve learned that when a lot is being drained through the sieve of my emotional tank, I have to work hard to make extra big refills. Walking the streets of NYC and coming alive with its energy was a huge refill.

photo (7)I went for the first time last Fall, and stayed at this absolutely delightful brownstone on the West Side, two blocks from Central Park. It is a house specifically for pastors and missionaries traveling through the city. As such, rooms are rock-bottom rates. They aren’t anything fancy, but it’s clean, quiet, comfortable and in a perfect location. Oh, and the perfect price.

I was in the city for two and a half days. I walked and walked and walked. I felt cool air blowing on my cheeks. I sat in Starbucks and watched people. I ate incredible ethnic food. I stopped in countless unique shops and bought nothing. I rode every method of public transportation possible. It was glorious!! I came home full. So very full.

One day, I hope the Lord takes us back to the middle of a city. I’m not even that particular which one. I know it will be a long time until that happens. So I work hard to experience the urban in my surburbia. I shop downtown at a local market where people recognize me. I look people in the eye and wonder about their lives. We made the decision to enroll Hannah in a much more ethnically and social diverse Middle School–not for my benefit but it’s diversity was a definite value in the decision. I am working hard to have my life connect with the lives of as many as possible. And I’m planning my next trip to New York. Hopefully next time Cody will come with me.

There you have it, my dirty little secret. I’m an urbanite living in a suburban world.

Experiencing “Normal”

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Anyone know what normal is? To me, it has seemed illusive for years, and yet, so longed for. . .

This weekend, I think Cody and I glimpsed it. We celebrated his birthday, and it felt so normal, I hardly knew what to do with myself.

As I mentioned last week, we are huge fans of the show Duck Dynasty. About a month ago, I heard that the brothers from the show were going to be in Orlando at a charity event held by golfer Bubba Watson (2012 winner of The Masters). And the best part was that the event was going to be held on Cody’s birthday. How could this not be God’s will for our lives?

So, on Friday, we headed down to Downtown Disney and the House of Blues. The House of Blues! How hip does that sound!?!

This was a great event. Bubba Watson loves Jesus, and he wants to use the platform he has for God’s glory. He started the whole night out by praying. Then about eight musical artists performed. A couple were country but the rest were hip-hop and rap. All were Christian artists. This was the point in the evening when we didn’t feel so hip. . . not the music I would listen to at home. 🙂

After three hours of music we didn’t exactly understand, Bubba and three guys from Duck Dynasty came on stage for a Q&A.  It was awesome!

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These guys were exactly like they are on the show. They don’t take themselves very seriously, and they really don’t care if people agree with them. They love Jesus, and they love hunting. That’s really what life boils down to for them. And about five minutes into their time onstage, Jase said, “I never leave home without three things: my wife, my duck calls and the Scripture.” For the next ten minutes, he gave one of the best gospel presentations I’ve ever heard. How refreshing it was to hear a “celebrity” talk about how Jesus is the most important thing in his life and not sound cheesy.

Bubba Watson’s story was great too. He talked about how he loves golf, but he doesn’t let it dictate his life. His faith and his family are his priority. He admitted he knew he would never win another Masters because he doesn’t live his life that seriously. More than anything else, he just wants to honor God. Part of the money this event was raising money for was a children’s hospital in Africa he and his wife had become connected to through a missionary. The rest of the money is going to help foster kids in the Central Florida area. The Watson’s adopted their son a week before he won The Master’s, and they are passionate about supporting the system.

And if that wasn’t enough, Cody’s cousin took us to see Star Trek on Saturday night. I can’t tell you the last time we went to see a movie on a Saturday night, let alone on opening weekend! It all just felt so normal.

But then, what is normal? I can’t imagine doing this weekend again. . . we were exhausted! It was fun for a couple of nights, but we couldn’t keep up with it. My normal is bed by 9:30, family movie night with homemade pizza and the cheesy Christian radio station playing in the car because it’s “safe for the little ears.” In light of the disaster so many are living through in Oklahoma and Texas, I couldn’t be more thankful for my normal. Normal is the day-to-day. My normal is mine. Your normal is yours. Comparison only leads to discontentment.

Comparison only leads to discontentment.

What a lesson to learn. Today I am practicing. I am practicing the contentment of my normal.

Welcome to My Crazy

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I’m going to just jump in and let you know about part of the crazy in my life I am slowly learning to embrace. Please be gentle with me.

This pic was taken on our anniversary trip to St. Augustine last Fall. I look so happy. It really was a delightful trip. But that face doesn’t tell the whole story.

For the past 18 months, I have been battling through depression. Even this day had a heaviness on it.

When we found out we were moving back to the States, it was like the rug was pulled out from under me. I knew it was the right decision, but I wanted the ” right” decision to be different. I wanted to stay in the country, the city, the apartment that had brought me so much life. I couldn’t fathom leaving–it was like someone was removing my skin.

When we made the decision to return, we had only ten weeks to pack up our lives. I don’t do well under stress. And I’m a planner. We had not been planning on making an international move at a moment’s notice. It was all just too much for me. The stress was incredible. But it was even harder emotionally.

By the time the day arrived for us to finally fly home, I was a mess. I literally had to force myself to put one foot in front of the other to get on a plane that would take me away from the place my heart was firmly planted. It was hard for our kids too–on the airplane Gavin and I sat next to each other and just cried and cried.

We arrived in Orlando, and I wanted to be anywhere else. Knowing we were in the right place didn’t make the pain and hurt of leaving any less. I found myself unable to do almost anything. I wanted to hide in my bed all day. The kids wanted to go to Disney, I couldn’t fathom ever having the energy to take them. I found joy in nothing I had usually loved. I was overwhelmed with everything. Even deciding what cereal to have in the morning seemed to send me to tears.

The crazy thing about depression is that as much as you need help, the mere energy needed to pursue it seems beyond grasp. I couldn’t even make the phone call to get a doctor’s appointment. All I could do was ask Cody to please help me to get help. He picked up the phone, he drove me to the doctor, he filled my prescription.

Yes, I was a missionary taking an anti-depressant. And I’m not the only one.

I know there are those reading this now that can intimately relate. I know there are those who are experiencing the same overwhelming feeling of not being able to fathom how to make it through the next hour.

I want to share my journey so you know you aren’t alone. You aren’t the only one. Putting my journey into words will be an ongoing topic. My desire is they bring the comfort of understanding.

Thanks for listening today.

The Beginning

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Sometimes you just have to jump in. Today is one of those days.

Welcome to my blog!

As you’ll read over the course of time, it’s been a pretty rough couple of years. We’re in a new home, a new city, a different country, and a different job. About the only thing that hasn’t changed is the number of kiddos we have. We did add a dog though, so maybe even that has changed.

For a while, I have been saying, “I just wish I could feel like myself again.”

This little blog is one attempt of helping me get there. I need to be writing. I need to be introspective and have an outlet. I need to celebrate the little things that make me smile. I need to be creative in our home and have a way to share it. I need put into words the journey Jesus is walking me through and allow His glory to be revealed in all the craziness.

There have been plenty of times my life hasn’t felt very beautiful. But the truth is, it is beautiful. If for no other reason than the truth that God brings beauty from ashes.

I’m grateful to have you peak in. Pull up a seat and make yourself at home. Check back for new posts on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays!