To remember

We leave tomorrow. I have not yet packed anything, well… besides the flip-flops and sunglasses I bought from Target about an hour ago. We are also all set with our “S-only” snacks :: Sweedish Fish, Skittles, Sunflower Seeds, and Some Coffee. Ok, the coffee doesn’t really fit, but it will be a crucial part of the trip.
I’m all moved into the new apartment, and I’m already loving life with Dawn and Julie. It was practically destiny that I lived here. Julie’s first name is Julie, my first name is Julie. My middle name is Dawn, Dawn’s first name is Dawn. Julie :: Julie Dawn :: Dawn. Ain’t life crazy?

Living in a community house/apartment was one of my life goals, and now I get to enjoy life among people I love and whom are iron to my iron. I’m excited to see what kind of change this will yield.

Last night I was talking with Mandy and we were talking about God and life and California and boys and feet and other such things girls talk about, but mainly about God. I don’t cry a lot, but, there are two things that consistently make me cry:: 1) remembering how much God loves me and 2) realizing that I have forgotten Him.

God rejoices when the lost come home and the angels in heaven raise a ruckus when the unsaved become saved. I know the joy that this gives God, but that has not been me. I do not have an awesome testimony that will leave someone speechless or in tears. I’ve spent the entirety of my life knowing God and living in His house. I’m like the nation of Israel who got to see God part the Red Sea and still wants to worship something they’ve made.

I have experienced the awesome healing he has done in my life, and I’ve seen Him do the impossible time and time again, but I still cannot keep a hold of who He is. I forget. When I hit a desert spell, a trough period, a silent time, I feel like I have been left all alone, despite the fact that He has never deserted me, ever. This hurts God. I’m surprised that God has not gotten so fed up with me complaining about my middle-class, white girl tragedies and buried me in a hole with ants. It’s always those who are closest to us that have the ability to hurt us the most. I have no reason to doubt the presence of God in my life, and yet I do. This has always been hard for me to admit because I grew up Christian and people just assume I don’t have doubt, but I can’t keep holding up that mask.
Now, I refuse to. I do have doubt; I have those times when I feel like I’m just talking to myself; I have times where I despise opening up my Bible because it confuses me more than it answers my questions. It’s been a struggle for me to admit this because this means I have failed to remember who He is. I had somehow made myself above needing grace. In the story of the Prodigal Son, I am the older brother. I am the lost one, but, in this realization, I somehow become the younger son in desperate need of being forgiven. So I guess this is just the beginning of my coming home story.