Heather has been selected as one of this year鈥檚 graduating student speakers at Commencement. We鈥檒l be sure to share the video when we can, and in the meantime, you can catch up on all of Heather鈥檚 blogs on her author page.

Strange to comprehend these are the final words I leave you with before I receive my diploma, walk across a stage, give a speech, and release a squeal.

Seattle, I want to say thank you.

Strangely, I really do. Thank you for essential oils and chai teas. For sharing your swimming pools with me. For providing me one helluva black woman therapist to help me navigate your shades of white and gray.

Thank you Jesus, for your kindness. For loving me so. For your eyes always so full of compassion towards me, your hand ever extended to mine.

Holy Spirit, thank you for your Wildfire, for blowing your wind and waves over me until I listen. For introducing me to paint; for meeting me when I step out in faith.

Father God, thank you for containing me. For all the times I thought I would explode but I didn鈥檛. For all the times I began to fall and you caught me. I am so amazed that you showed up and did what you said you would do.

Thank you for the people of color whom you laid ahead for me to be my friends. Sitting in circles creating space to share our pain and joy together has been my greatest honor in this place.

To my white allies, thank you for your brave words, for your silly loveliness, for taking road trips with me to places in different states鈥攁nd countries鈥攂ut always with trees!

Mom, thank you for your faithful love for me, for your passed-along creativity. Dad, thank you for the indomitable spirit and listening ear. Brothers, your strength and solidarity holds me up. Sisters, your presence fills me with joy. Cube, I can鈥檛 believe how great you are!

Beloved, I am awed by how brave and courageous you have grown to be. You amaze me with your yeses! Let鈥檚 keep going. Love conquers fear, so let us just keep moving against it.

And of course, thank you to professors who guided me through schools of new thought, who cultivated space for me to ask hard questions and be myself.

鈥淭hank you to professors who guided me through schools of new thought, who cultivated space for me to ask hard questions and be myself.鈥�

And gratitude for friends who hold the ropes, in Seattle, the Bay, and L.A. You know who you are.

I am overwhelmed with joy because You showed me that I am a beloved, powerful, victorious daughter. Amidst the pain and the struggle, you have shown me that Love conquers fear. Every time.

I never would have chosen this dewy city, with its rugged mountains and Evergreens. Wasn鈥檛 on my radar. But once here, I found that God did what They said They would do: finished a season of healing. Ben Quash writes in Found Theology: 鈥淭he God who 鈥榟as stocked our backpack for the journey,鈥� so to speak, also 鈥榩laces things in our path鈥� up ahead of us.鈥� This playful, wild, tenacious God led me into the wilderness, equipped my feet for great heights, and led me out to a wide, open space.

There is space enough here for new blooms.

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When I was a little girl, I had a father who gave me everything I ever needed. Not everything I ever wanted, mind you, but I had what I needed…and then some. I was able to thrive in major part because of the great sacrifices of love my father (and my mother) made on my behalf. For my brothers and I, the parental units provided a stable home; plenty of land on which to roam and play; support to encourage us to be who we were made to be; and enough adventure for a triad of kiddos wearing personalities as different as their varying shades of brown.

I got my stubbornness, my tenacity, my desire for an adventurous life (and my rough edges) from my Dad. Ours is the kind of stubbornness which invokes desire to uproot from wonderful communities and move across the country 鈥榗ause there is a fire burning in our hearts to do so. Our tenacity can be to the extent that it causes us to demand to be taken to the bank to get things in order the first day after a health crisis. The desire to say yes and the ability to walk things out, even when I am scared鈥攖hese attributes, I get from my Father: from my Dad, and from Abba God.

And yet my father(s)…they were supposed to give me everything I needed, right? Where the disillusionment entered in was in areas where this truth didn鈥檛 seem to be the case. Disillusionment entered in where disappointment occured. Because disappointment does occur.

What I have begun to learn is that there is an abundance of nonsensical grace held in reserve for us. There is grace allotted for us from Father God when the disappointment we face in our lives leads to anger and resentment that we then harbor towards God. There is grace to be gifted to one another as we find ourselves stumbling along our roads in our imperfect human state. There is enough grace to be extended to our human fathers, when the reality of their choices are difficult to bear.

鈥淭here is an abundance of nonsensical grace held in reserve for us.鈥�

The reality is: my father gave me everything he had to give in the ways he was able to. He gave love and laughter and bravery and play, in addition to the harder things. As difficult as it is to admit, often we don鈥檛 have sight of the larger picture…even with God. Do we see His bigger picture amidst the disillusionment and pain we face? So often we find ourselves wrestling and fighting amidst the chaos of the world we inhabit to convince ourselves of His great love. Yet, there is grace enough. For the Father so named his chosen people Israelites: He gave them permission to wrestle with Him. He allowed grace for the misunderstandings that would come. He made room for the rough edges of his chosen ones.

Despite the things we have misunderstood about our father(s), about this process called life, despite the disappointment that is inevitable to the experience of being a human being, the reality is that he is鈥攖hey are鈥攎y heros. I have begun to embrace the imperfection of a father I so closely resemble in order to begin to embrace my own imperfection. So much of who I am is because of him. My rough edges flow smoothly through playful waters because of my inheritance.

*This post is dedicated to my Dad, an imperfect man; a loving father; a forgiven human being…and a great dad.

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During this hectic season of what I would hands down call the busiest, most challenging semester of grad school thus far鈥攁nd my second to last鈥擨 have been reading Found by Micha Boyett. Her reflections on grace and prayer allow spaces of sweet reflection and pause throughout this hectic season. I鈥檓 getting nostalgic, here in these last days of graduate school. Though life has taught me that nothing is constant but change, I am one prone to sentimentality. Now is a good time for it.

Of her own experience through transition, Boyett writes, 鈥淎nd here I sit in San Francisco, a city I barely considered three years ago, taking communion with a roomful of people I never imagined I鈥檇 one day share my life with.鈥� That is how I feel about Seattle. I never intended to bring myself to this place. Seattle sounded like a nice place I鈥檇 someday like to visit, but it wouldn鈥檛 have made my bucket list. The thing about God is that he has other plans. He is not afraid to surprise, and I鈥檓 starting to believe God delights when we say yes to those surprises. So that鈥檚 all I really did. Said yes to moving to Seattle when God said, 鈥淒ue North.鈥� Then I said a hundred tiny and massive and medium yeses in between. No big thing; and yet it is.

鈥淕od is not afraid to surprise, and I鈥檓 starting to believe God delights when we say yes to those surprises.鈥�

Had I known what I was getting into, what I was signing up for, I may not have come鈥攖hese two tiny years, on top of the several years that came before Seattle, have completely transformed me. They have taken me through fire, and water, and ice. And through that process I have come out differently than I thought I would. Yet it feels just right.

The building which stood just across Elliott Avenue from 天美视频 was demolished recently (). Its walls, beams, and foundation were completely torn down over the past several weeks. It was home to some whose names we will never know. Its parking lot provided dependable parking for moms who are simultaneously raising kids and working their way through graduate school. It was the view out of one of our professor鈥檚 windows. And then it was gone.

After six months of near constant rain, on one recent day, the skies shone clear. I plod-plod-plodded down Wall Street, peering over the buildings to Elliott Bay and the mountains. Distracted by the view, I was walking past the aforementioned building on the way to school鈥攐nly it wasn鈥檛 there anymore. Its walls had been torn down. Its foundations had crumbled. The parking lot was no more. Instead, someone had taken the time to smooth down the gravel into an extraordinary, simple design. I laughed out loud! I laughed, because this is what God does. He tears down our foundations until we think we will be no more鈥攁nd we are no more鈥攂ut then there is space and room for the beautiful design that can now be built.

Boyett writes, 鈥淭he wave rolls through my body, and I stand with my hands on the bed, breathing long and deep while the force grows wide in me. It鈥檚 almost like God: wild and dangerous and making everything new.鈥� Her words make my heart beat just a little bit faster in the way that lets me know they are true. There is now space for new foundations, new rooms, new life. Boyett鈥檚 words about God seem just right: wild and dangerous and making everything new.

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I am a 32-year-old woman of African descent, raised on the North American continent. Already, with just this little bit of information, one should have the awareness to know that makes my story a little complicated. Mine is an experience that has been both glorious and painful. I have beautiful roots of deep familial tradition and delicious Creole food out of southern Louisiana. The legacy of audacious, liberal Berkeley is also mine. There are roots that are from before both of these places, but to which tree they run, exactly, remains unknown鈥攗nless I trace my roots directly back to that tree in the Garden. This part of my story is not unique; it is one that is familiar to the estimated 42 million African-Americans residing in the United States. The fact that we don鈥檛 know exactly from where we come is one aspect of the pain experienced by the descendants of enslaved Africans who were separated from their homelands and loved ones (and, as a result, separated from their stories).

Last month, I saw Black Panther. Twice. The first time I did it real big: paid too much money to take in the IMAX experience at Pacific Science Center with friends. The second time, I escaped into the cool of the movie theater, settling my brown body into the blessed darkness to again witness positive images of my people. I gazed up in wonder at the sheer number of compelling portrayals of African and Black people, in awe of the diversity of beauty and personality represented on the screen. I gasped aloud as T鈥機halla emerged, humbly grounded in the knowledge of who he was as the King of Wakanda (a fictional country in Africa, presented as the most technologically and advanced in the world). Owning his deep mahogany skin, T鈥機halla gazes up at the cliffs of the waterfall where members of his tribe and those of neighboring villages stand, diverse in their color, vibrancy, and desire. His people pump their chests and stand behind him as they rise before him. Their solidarity and quiet chanting of his name reminds the humble king of who he is; his ability to overcome adversity; his identity within the tribe. These positive images of diversity within African and African-American culture are not images we receive often from dominant culture.

That is why this movie is so important. It allows young Black boys and girls (who know some of their stories but not all of them) to catch glimpses of who they might be. This film reminded me, a grown woman, of the pride of my own culture鈥攅ven as one who is somewhat separated from her African-ness, even as immersed as I have been in the reality of my African-American experience. This film reveals to the kid in all of us the infinite possibilities of who we may become. It invites us to look more closely at who we are even as we dream of what could be, of what already is.

鈥淭his film reminded me, a grown woman, of the pride of my own culture.鈥�

To my fellow black and brown folks: go see this movie. Again. You are beautiful and deserve to see that beauty on the big screen so much more often than you do.
To my brothers and sisters who are underrepresented and represent every skin tone, sexual orientation, and other-ness: I wish a similar visual space to be created for you, where you feel represented and seen.
To those who have come alongside as allies: I am grateful for you who are entering into uncomfortable spaces, doing your own work even as you take action beside folks of color in the struggle for liberation for us all.

To white folks having trouble engaging, I challenge you: Enter into the hard spaces. Dare to be uncomfortable as you move toward what is right. And too, see the movie.

Black Panther reminded me: I am proud to be who I am, and from where I am from. Even if all of those places to where the roots lead aren鈥檛 fully known to me yet.

I feel like roaring. A bit like a panther, perhaps.

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Since moving to Seattle, I鈥檝e found myself collecting little trinkets here and there. A pair of tiny purple mermaids found a way to nestle between my steering wheel and glove compartment; a duet of Play-Doh containers jingle around with my office supplies. The art which spills out of my paintbrushes and onto the canvas is full of colorful shapes and figures. The pieces I produce are often playful, like a child鈥檚.

I know how to grind. Even in the midst of full-time graduate school and part-time administrative work, I鈥檝e learned to keep on keeping on. I can manage school and work and exercise and friends and family and creative expression. That Black woman survivor gene is strong. But what about giving myself permission to drop the sword? What about surrendering to the childlike joy of play?

鈥淲hat about surrendering to the childlike joy of play?鈥�

This is something my five-year-old friend Eliam is teaching me. 鈥淢iss Heather, Miss Heather!鈥� He exclaims, jumping up and down with excitement. In the several weeks we鈥檝e not seen each other, Christmas has come and gone, and he emanates joy, thrilled to introduce me to his new friends (playthings). 鈥淲ant to see my new motorcycle? Look at what my Dad built me! Want to play with this remote-control droid?鈥� Intimidated at the prospect of flying his tiny helicopter indoors, I take the remote control sports car on a whirl. We end up sitting, as we do most times, bottoms on the floor, eager to see what will reveal itself to us through the assorted tubes of paint.

This is where we play. Eliam has been the perfect partner-in-play during this season of emotional excavation and rebuilding of foundations. He shares with me his excitement for hummingbirds, his new works of art, the exciting new games he has learned. He inspires me to come up out of the deep and splash around in the joy of the surface for a while. My young friend makes it easy to laugh; to chase; to tickle; to play. I want more of this in my life! Frequent trips to visit my young friend (and his playful parents) are in order.

But how do we create space for playfulness when not hanging out with our tiny role models? I think we must be intentional about creating mini adventures that allow us to jump, laugh, and roll. Play may be as simple as making space for it. Reading Week is just around the corner. Perhaps it looks like running up to the mountains or taking a roadtrip with friends (as I intend to do). Maybe it’s checking out the new movie (shout out to Wakanda!) or ducking into a new restaurant with delicious expectation. Whatever it is, let鈥檚 take advantage of this built in space to laugh, to dance, to play…and oh yeah…to read!

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It鈥檚 not something we haven鈥檛 heard before, but some sayings find themselves reiterated time and again. I will relay one here, now: a New Year is a time of new beginnings. Many are glad to see an old year go and are eager to feel the hope of a new year descend upon us, like the dew drops which dance their way to the fertile ground of Seattle.

As we enter into this season of hope, this season of new growth, a single word has descended upon me: Afresh. Just hearing it makes me think of rain showers, renewal, and refreshment. A quick search shows this word to mean anew; once more; again.

As 天美视频 students, we have spent the previous semester (or semesters) entering into the hard parts of our lives. We have intentionally begun to turn and face the sources of our pain and suffering. We have also, many of us, just returned from visiting our families and the communities from which some of our trauma has come. Over this last break, we have rested, we have been challenged, and we are more aware than ever of the ideas, places, and people which have led us to this point.

At the dawning of this new year, I returned to dewy Seattle and the work that has begun. Striding out of SeaTac, I found the mist hovering around the evergreens, which ever stretch their branches to the sky. The cloak of the trees was heavy, the glory of God full in them. I inhaled their wildness. It felt familiar. I was surprised to find myself releasing a sigh of contentedness to return to this dewy wilderness. I found myself relieved to continue this work, which reveals my wounds and cools its scars with a soothing balm. I find myself strangely excited to continue the healing that has begun in this place. I recognize this now: I have become wild.

Returning to the forest, there is an invitation to linger for a while in this word, afresh. With this word comes a challenge, even a calling. It presents an invitation to reflect on what was learned in the past year. It asks that we take stock of the new awareness each of us has stepped into through the work of 天美视频, counseling, and revelation of the Holy Spirit.

As always, there are questions of challenge associated with new awareness. Will we turn from what we used to think we knew, thought patterns which weren鈥檛 working for us? Will we be open to new revelation which may appear in this new year? Will we continue to step into the truth of who we have been called to be, who we are, and continue to leave the lies behind? Will we begin afresh?

This meditation on a metaphorical raining down of dew over the first weeks of the year has made me hopeful. Hope may appear to be trite, but in actuality, hope is audacious. Hope is not piteous. Hope is a tenacious game-changer. I wonder what might happen if hope is embraced at the beginning of this new year, even as it asks us to turn from the old and look to the new. Perhaps in embracing audacious hope, as we upturn all the tables under which fear and lies hide, we might be renewed? We might be made anew; once more; again.

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A few weeks ago, I attended a play with some friends. It took place in the old INS building in Seattle鈥檚 International District, which has been converted into a space that is now rented out by artists and inhabited by their work. After the play, we ran wild through the building, discovering the art displayed throughout. One piece by Robin Siegl, entitled Urgent Matter, stood out. It was a cargo ship.

I鈥檝e always been an artist who loved to illustrate and write. But it wasn鈥檛 until three years ago, when I left the east coast to follow the Holy Spirit west, that paintings began to spill out of me. Suddenly, I had an affinity for brushes and acrylic. I began habitually buying canvases. Great healing work was done in in the hours I spent sitting on the floor in my apartment, applying wet strokes to blank canvases. The time spent curled over a taught canvas was as necessary as swimming and counseling were to the healing process.

Over that period of time, the Holy Spirit began to reveal himself in thrilling ways. Visions were scribbled across the skies. Images bearing messages would cross the path I was treading. One of which was a cargo ship. This was awesome, because it reminded me of my Grand-dad, a stubborn man whose resolute strength and faithfulness has guided me throughout my life.

The Holy Spirit has used this image of a cargo ship to direct, guide, and encourage me at different points on the journey. One revelation of this image lead me to graduate school in the Pacific Northwest. Another鈥檚 fortitude and breath assured me that even though its turning was nearly imperceptible, underneath the surface, the work of the rudders was being done. It encouraged me that, in the midst of pain and sacrifice, progress was taking place. That my investment would be worth it.

Part of my story has been waiting for my ship to come in. Yet a thought occurred to me recently: What if the work Father God and I are undertaking, in this most intimate of throne rooms, is not necessarily about waiting for my ship to come into port, but realizing that I am the ship?

I鈥檝e thought I鈥檝e been standing at the port, waiting impatiently for my goods to come in. What if this whole time, I鈥檝e been the vessel? What if the work of this throne room of God is to realize that I鈥檝e been the ship, and He鈥檚 been the port? What if, in His Gentleman-ness, it鈥檚 been me He鈥檚 been waiting for, to drop anchor? He who鈥檚 been waiting for me to arrive at an understanding that He is a Safe Harbor?

Could it be that God鈥檚 greatest desire is not for religious action, but rather relationship with His creation?

I held bitterness and resentment because He wouldn鈥檛 bring the ship into port. But if I am the ship, I must choose intentionally to come in from sea. Cargo ships may be blustered and abased by the wind and waves at great depths, yet it is not these elements alone that drive them to port. It is only through an intentional decision of the captain to turn the ship toward Harbor that causes it to find its way home. Intentionality, it appears, is key.

So many of us have been burned and deeply wounded from the things that we don鈥檛 understand about life (and religion) and for this and many other reasons, have left belief in Christianity behind. But could it be that the Christianity is man鈥檚 doing? Could it be that God鈥檚 greatest desire is not for religious action, but rather relationship with His creation? We get deeply hurt by life, then confused as we try to figure it all out. Because the chaos we鈥檝e experienced doesn鈥檛 make sense, we turn angrily from the one who created us. We choose to face the swells and tides of life on our own. The chaos of evil tosses with the unpredictability of the sea. Having fought the rough seas for a time on our own, we find ourselves exhausted, longing to come in from the deep.

The Father waits patiently at the port, peering steadily out at the horizon, willing our vessels to come home. But He won鈥檛 make us do it. He continues to send out His beacon, continues to sing out His call. Continues to will His kids to return, anticipating their choice. So it appears, Father God is waiting for His ships to come in as well.

Yet another lesson learned from a stealthy Cargo. Some nights, you think you鈥檙e just going out to a play with friends, and Father God shows up. Thanks for the lesson, Grand-dad.

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My body, too, was tired. Making time to do homework and write essays was beginning to feel weighty after a year of being in school full time. Working part time felt costly…as though more energy was being exerted than was being paid back. And then, upon delving into the work of the Integrative Project, the enemy began to sow seeds of discord in relationships. Yet another level of challenge and testing, in a time where energy was a valuable resource.

I remember the stress relief of the gym, and swiping my badge to swim countless laps, shaking the weight off. I worship in the multicultural church I have called home in Seattle. I make time to laugh over meals with friends, and play with their kids on the floor.

Amidst this season, there is a pull. An invitation, perhaps, to a space with God which I will call 鈥淗oly Anger.鈥� Where I send passionate inquiries towards the skies.

鈥淲hy didn鈥檛 you heal her?鈥�
鈥淚s breakthrough ever going to come? For black people; for the marginalized; for me?鈥�
鈥淲hen will glimmers of the promised land become things that are not simply hoped for, but things that are seen?鈥�

I am learning to lament in ways that are not trite. There are no shiny, neatly tied bows in this space. There is anger. There is honesty. And truthfulness, as I turn toward God.
Truth, even the ugly parts of it, are being exposed. Lies are being brought into the light.

It was the kindness of Jesus which led me to repentance, the Holy Spirit that met me in waves of fire and prophecy. Now, I find myself here. Just when I think the Holy Spirit has lost his mind, I am led by Ruach to the throne room of God the Father. At which point, the door is shut and locked.

Jehovah-Sneaky!

鈥淚 don鈥檛 want to be here,鈥� I find myself crying out, but to which situation I am referring 鈥� this season of wilderness, the darkness of this city, the throne room of God 鈥� I鈥檓 not sure yet.

Suddenly there I am, faced with the melodrama 鈥� the very real existence 鈥� of Holy Anger. I turn towards Yahweh, this most bewildering of persons, finally deciding to meet this One face to face.

Locked in the throne room, there I stand. Furious. Honest. Incensed. Thoroughly annoyed.

I am still here. Am I here because the Holy Spirit locked me in? Or am I just staying? I don鈥檛 quite trust this Father God yet. But I鈥檓 relying on the relationships I鈥檝e built with the other two that led me here. I鈥檓 trusting that they鈥檒l uphold me in the stilted places, as I confront the gaps in the relationship with this One.

鈥淵ou,鈥� I say. The questions are numerous.
He has yet to give the answers I demand.

A little girl steps into the throne room with her anger, and presents it to Father God.
He surrounds.

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As I delve into Alice Walker鈥檚 In Search of Our Mother鈥檚 Gardens, engaging in the work of claiming my own heritage and identity despite what empirical society would say about it, I have to chuckle at the title鈥檚 irony. Because it is my mother who finds joy, release and freedom in cultivating her own sprawling garden. Who better to write about than a woman that I have had the privilege to observe for nearly 32 years?

My mother is many things: a beauty from southern Louisiana who has never lost her lovely drawl. She is a mother and a wife. A devoted follower of Jesus. My mother is an introvert: sensitive, private, and joyful. My mother is fierce in her love for those she loves and devoted to those she cares for. Her allegiance is one that will not be divided. It will not be her who ever stops looking for a solution, an answer, or a comfort for those she loves.

She is not a perfect woman, though perfection is a part of our story. But when I look back over the years…over the losses and struggles, the people that have gone before us and left this life… When I recall the things that she has walked through and experienced and seen, I know that she is one definition of resilience.

For years, my mother would maintain a beautiful home and three square meals, creating a loving family environment for her husband and three kids. Then she would drive 45 minutes to work as a Registered Nurse, dealing with life and death and sickness, workplace politics, and the reality of what is it to walk around in the skin of a beautiful black woman. She would return home late, tired, having given of herself. And still continue to get up day after day, loving, serving, creating, giving and receiving joy to her family. And she would make time to work in her garden.

In order for such a woman (whose life I could never do justice here because I will not give away her secrets) to maintain such resilience, she requires joy. Where my mother got to play was her garden. Imagine wild Poppies and Lupines that are allowed to stay, sprouting up amongst Rosemary you can pop in with roasting potatoes. Sense the Morning Glory providing shade in warm summers, Ivy crawling along hedges, and Oleanders taking up more room than they were initially allotted. See the vivid orange-red of Geraniums tucked safely away in their pots.

In imagining all of this, imagine a woman who, in order to maintain such beauty, must fend off its enemies: snakes, gophers, deer. A woman who must stand her ground. Who must give of herself, kneeling, coaxing. Imagine a woman who is not afraid to get dirty, who is quick to come to a gentle but defiant defense. This is a woman who has learned to face a world, despite the incredible punches and setbacks and challenges it sends her way, and stand in staunch defiance and great faith.

My mother isn鈥檛 a perfect woman. Who of us is? But she is a nurturer, a cultivator, a lover. She is a beautiful black woman, as shy as she is fierce. A faith that allows her to get up and face each day as it comes, with its blessings and its curses.

We are quite different, she and I. But the thing is, I inherited my mother鈥檚 creative, beautifully sensitive heart. How can I not carry her with me wherever I go? She鈥檚 the reason that I buy geraniums in every city that I live in. You see, resilience is a familial trait. A necessary part of the tradition, passed down from mother to daughter, again and again. As it turns out, the more I turn in curious, truthful discovery of my own mother鈥檚 garden, the more I find beauty blossoming out from amongst the weeds. The more I find the most surprising blossoms out of thorny places. Despite changing seasons, rupture, weeds, thorns, enemy attacks, does not my mother鈥檚 garden still stand? Does she not cultivate it, still?

In such a time as this, I hope as she stoops to tend the blossoms, and wipes the dead away, that she looks up to find a thrill 鈥� a beautiful bird streaking across her skies, due north, marking the way ahead.

*This post is dedicated to my mother and to her beloved sister, Mildred Briggs Haynes, the rarest and freest of birds.

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In times such as these, to believe in a good God can be a hard thing to 鈥渄o.鈥� It鈥檚 easy to fall back on nihilistic, cynical thinking when we are faced with the seemingly hopeless condition of the world. Sometimes life can be so full of hardship and disappointment that it influences the way we find ourselves believing.

I know a bit about nihilistic, negative thinking. A past which included panic attacks and hope deferred caused me to carry a plethora of beliefs rooted in disappointment. What began as survival mechanisms evolved to rebellion and, over the years, a deep mistrust of God as protector and provider. He seemed to be one who wasn鈥檛 overly concerned with the desires of my heart or the panic that plagued me in the past. I knew Jesus, I knew the Holy Spirit, but Father God? Who was this Father God? It wasn鈥檛 until recently that I began to take a deeper look at my lack of belief in Him as protector and provider.

This trend in my belief system was illuminated recently when it became clear I needed a new housing situation if I was to complete another year of hard work here in Seattle.

Amid finals week last June, I ventured across the West Seattle bridge to view a room that had been listed for rent on a classifieds list. I found the place to be so much more than I ever hoped I could find (in my price range) in Seattle. 聽The newly built townhouse was clean and spacious. Not only would I have my own, sunlit bedroom looking out onto three majestic evergreens, but a sunlit writer鈥檚 nook as well. I would be sharing my very own, sparkling bathroom with no one but the guests I鈥檇 have over! The townhome was in a beautiful, ethnically diverse neighborhood on a quiet street. It allowed space and distance from school and work and proximity to the beach. The housemates were lovely, and the room I鈥檇 be renting a mere 30 bucks more than I was paying in my current rental.

I was thrilled as I sat down with the potential roommates and got to know them a bit better. After we said goodbye, I wandered through the neighborhood, feeling joyful. It was as if hope had renewed in my spirit at the prospect of committing to life in this not-so-simplest of cities for another year of hard work. The varying skin tones of the faces I crossed 聽ranged the full scope of the rainbow. This was the diversity I had craved for much of my first year here. The sunlit, third floor bedroom, with its own bathroom and office, were more than I could have imagined, from the view of the basement bedroom I鈥檇 inhabited my first year.

Yet, amidst the hope, a hint of dread threatened to sink into my belly. What if I didn鈥檛 get it?

God wouldn鈥檛 be that cruel, would He? To dangle a carrot in front of me of everything that I had been desiring since my arrival in this city, and then snatch it away? He wouldn鈥檛 do that, would He? The temptation to believe that He would let me down was present. The temptation to believe that He was not good, but cruel, taunting me with what was ideal only to yank it back, was there. Was palpable.

I continued to walk throughout the neighborhood, simply glowing with possibility. My feet led me to a park with a look out point, gazing Northeast toward Downtown. There lay the entire skyline of this unique city. I could see as far as the Cascades in the East, Downtown a bit closer, the Sound closer still. Cargo ships gleaned stealthily across its depths.

Suddenly, a cacophony of joy exploded from a flock of birds overhead. They were a breed I have never noticed before. Every member of the flock was doing incredible flips and turns and twists. They were playing chicken like Blue Angel pilots, performing nosedives and cartwheels. These birds were celebrating with joy similar to that I had felt just moments earlier. Before dread had opened the door and slunk into the room.

I felt a question, gentle yet firm, hit my spirit: 鈥淒o you believe that I will give this to you?鈥�

The reality is that three months after that initial walk through that neighborhood in West Seattle, I walk the same street to our house from the bus after work. I do so smiling. I laugh at the multi-skinned children, playing together. I invite friends to sit in the park under the trees to drink chai. I snuggle into cozy couches and learn to be present to two unique women.

The coincidence is that I chose to believe that it would happen, that God was good. That he was not dangling a metaphorical carrot that met every need I had been praying to be met. No, this time I had chosen to believe that He was good. That He cared about my needs. Seems like a little thing, but this is kind of a big deal. Anxiety and the disappointments that came with living鈥攜ears of expectations not being met鈥攈ad caused me to doubt the goodness of God. Had caused me not to believe.

This simple lesson of finding housing riveted my spiritual attention. Because I no longer wake to the view of people鈥檚 feet and spiders nesting in a basement window. Now, the light filters through those three Evergreens, into my bedroom. Now, the laughter of children (unaware of what time it is) beckons the neighborhood to open its eyes to the world. Now, I not only write in that writing nook, but I paint there too. Now, I feel at home.

This newfound reality has led me to a series of questions:

• Could it be true that we are playing a part in this whole thing that influences the outcome?
• Could it be true that belief actually influences how things play out in our lives and communities?
• Could 鈥淒aughter, Your faith has made you well鈥� (Mark 5:34) be literal?
• That 鈥淏lessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his purposes for her鈥� (Luke 1:45) is true?
• What if 鈥淭ake delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart鈥� (Psalm 37:4) isn鈥檛 a suggestion, but a promise?

If that鈥檚 the case…whoa. Because that changes everything. It makes me want to ask myself, our community, and our city, especially in these most troubling and chaotic times鈥�

What are we believing?

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