I got out my guitar case today to put away my capo, which has been sitting on my desk for at least the past month. Inspired by the bluegrass version of Relient K that I've been listening to, I tuned up my guitar and tried to play a few songs. I didn't get very far for a couple reasons.

I haven't played in one, possibly two months. My callouses and muscles in my left hand are shot. Second, all I can think about while I'm playing is how much I blew it back at choral camp. I was asked to lead the hour long worship time over the weekend for the counselors. I put hours and hours of preparation work into it. I put over five hours of actual practice time with my band into it. I prayed. I did everything I was taught to do as a worship leader. It was in the middle of my breaking down emotinoally. I was exhausted, I was hurting, I was trying to figure out things from the past and from the future while giving 100% of my energy to the campers. So what do I do? I get up there and one whole song falls apart. Awesome God, Holy God - which used to be one of my favorites. Now I can't sing it without remembering that terrible moment when all the music stopped and I had seventy some people staring at me from the pews.

It was horrible. It was embarrassing. I promised myself I would never lead worship again, or maybe even be on another worship team (I really blew it another morning a few days later when I tried to play guitar). I haven't even really played since then. I felt betrayed. I was trying so hard to do things the right way and to do it for God and He still let it fall apart. I knew a couple of people on the worship team and in the congregation were judging me... We have a long history (that's gone sour recently) and they're very critically musically. Many people from the Mennonite world I live in were there. I wonder how many of them look at me and think "Oh, yeah, that's the girl that really blew it during worship at choral camp?"

It's all I can think about now when I try to play. That and trying desperately to lead worship for my team in Kenya when I was so dry spiritually and just wanting to cry instead of struggling through the worship songs. I don't enjoy playing any more. I feel tormented while I play. I hate it. I used to love playing and I loved being a part of the worship team. Now it's just another burden in my life.

I'm so torn... I really want to go back to college - I really want to get involved in the web design field. I really want to go back to Africa - I really want to make a difference in this world. Can the two go hand in hand? If I'm years and years into debt because of school fees, will I be able to go back to Africa anytime soon? Definitely not long term. Why would a web designer go to rural Africa? Wouldn't it make more sense if I was a teacher or something? But I don't want to teach here in the states, and it'd be nice to have a degree in something I would enjoy here in the states if Africa is short-term or never even happens. But I want to keep the door for going to Africa open... Ugh... so many decisions. I need wisdom, God!

I spent so much time in Africa wishing I was back in America - wishing I could connect more with my friends and family back home and wishing for the comforts and happiness of American life. Now that I'm here, I'm reminded that life sucks here, too. I'm no happier. I don't connect with my friends as often as I like. I do get to spend more time with my family, though, which is good. Oh, how I long to be content.

You know I ran across an old box of letters
While I was bagging up some clothes for Goodwill
But you Know I had to laugh that the same old
    struggles
That plagued me then are plaguing me still
I know the road is long from the ground to glory
But a boy can hope he's getting some place
But you see, I'm running from the very clothes I'm wearing
And dressed like this I'm fit for the chase

'Cause no, there is none righteous
Not one who understands
There is none who seek God
No not one, I said no not one

So I am thankful that I'm incapable
Of doing any good on my own

- Thankful by Caedmon's Call

I found these lyrics appropriate on several levels today. I spent hours at my storage unit sorting through all of my earthly possessions. I'm about halfway done. I have a big pile of things that I'm boxing up to take to Goodwill later this week. I also found a box of old letters (goodness, I saved almost every letter I've ever received). It's quite the process and brings back so many memories as I read through them and decide which ones I want to put back into that box and which ones should be let go of. Today my favorite find on the letter front was many large, manila envelopes decorated by my best friend, Jody. She used to send me a magazines (that we authored ourselves) and extremely long letters in those envelopes during our high school days. It made me smile. They went back into the box of "keepers".

I also can relate so much to the line "But you Know I had to laugh that the same old struggles that plagued me then are plaguing me still." Man. I have long found these lines applicable to my life - eerily true. I am struck again by the truthfulness of them tonight. Last night I had a conversation with a good friend and I was told that I have to let go. I have to let go of my fear, of my pain, of my hurt, of my shame, of my bitterness. It took me back to REACH DTS where I let go of many past hurts. It took me back to the process of accepting the forgiveness that Christ is (or would it be has?) extending to me (a more accurate and Biblical way of saying "forgiving myself"). It took me back to that night in Lodwar where I was wounded and betrayed in a way that I had never experienced before. It took me back to long conversations with Allyah about letting go of the bitterness. It took me back to that last night in Mombasa where my team shared strengths and weaknesses before flying home. It took me back to the anger and frustration as one by one my teammates all said a similar thing: "You need to let go of your bitterness." "You need to forgive." It took me back to Zach saying that I need to give people the grace to suck and mess up. It's all true. Every last bit of it.

I still struggle to forgive. I still struggle to allow people the grace to "suck" and hurt me and fall short of perfection. I still struggle to accept Christ's forgiveness. I carry it all around like a burden. No wonder I'm so tired all the time. I give it to Christ sometimes. It's wonderful for a few days - I remember those few weeks during DTS after I gave it all to Christ. I have never, ever felt like that before in my life. I was FREE. Blessedly free. A few weeks later, it all came crashing back. The pain, the shame, the struggles, the self-condemnation. I was angry. What happened? I sure didn't go looking for it - I was ecstatic to be free of the burden. Why did God let it come back into my life? I think I still struggle with that question. Maybe that's why I'm so hesitant to try to give it to God and let it all go again. I did that once wholeheartedly and it came back. Isn't it easier to just keep living under this burden than to have it taken away only to fall back on my shoulders a few weeks later? I want to be free. I want to trust Christ. My experiences hold me back. What to do? Unfortunately I don't have any answers tonight. I guess I'll keep praying about it and keep struggling until this gets resolved. Prayers would be appreciated. Also, any suggestions or comments you have about this struggle and the question (Why did God let all the freedom I felt in Christ leave my life after only a few weeks) would be welcome.

Today I found myself making a dessert I have made many times, starting in high school. It's a delicious recipe for Sour Cream Apple Bars. The first couple times I made the recipe, I did the math wrong and doubled the butter. Once my mistake was discovered, everyone decided they liked it that way better. So I guess it's kind of my recipe now. I was mindlessly going through the motions of mixing the batter together. Things started to get interesting when I started cutting the apples.

The recipe called for "finely chopped" apples. So I started cutting the apples in a way that I was quite familiar with - slice the apple long ways, turn them on their side and slice them long ways three or four more times, then chop them down the length. This leaves you with teeny-tiny little apple pieces. I cut up half an apple before I realized what I was doing. I was following the silly little diagram from camp.

See, I worked in a camp kitchen for two years. We had this amazing recipe for tuna salad that called for finely chopped apples and celery. The head cook had drawn out diagrams of how she wanted them chopped. It took forever. It was quite the day we decided to do things our way and use the food processor. We got a very pointed look and a good talking to when we were discovered! Remembering this made me smile. We were always trying to get away with things and push the limits that year. Brown sugar, anyone?

I then remembered cutting up forty apples or so for lunch at camp that same year. I actually enjoyed the challenge of forty green apples bobbing along in a sink and a limited amount of time to get them all cut into eighths (and peanut butter scooped into souffle cups). It made me think of the time that Aaron was cutting apples with me and somehow the knife slipped and, whoo, there was a lot of blood! It seriously squirted over five feet, probably closer to ten. I have never seen blood squirt that far. I found the whole thing rather hilarious, other than the fact that Aaron was hurt. Thankfully, his finger recovered and there really wasn't any blood on the apples.

My thoughts turned to the apple orchard where we bought the apples. We've been going there since I was in high school. I remembered all the amazing caramel apples we've eaten from there and how much I love going to the orchard. I thought of the Highland Festival we went to one year and all the cool displays and shops that were set up for that weekend.

A memory of standing in the SEND House kitchen came to me. I was standing in front of the built in trash can, eating apple peels. I don't really remember who was with me, but I'm guessing Amanda was there, because I highly doubt I would have started eating apple peels on my own volition. However, now I eat the peels sometimes when I peel an apple. It's quite tasty.

I thought of Kenya (it always seems to come back to Kenya anymore). I remembered how amazing the apples tasted when I splurged those two times and bought them. Mmmm. Ah, crisp, amazing flavor. They were small, but they were so delicious. They reminded me of home and of my favorite time of year.

So many memories, over so many years - all brought to mind by cutting up an apple.

I was e-mailing a friend from Kakuma refugee camp back and forth today. It made me miss Africa and all my friends from Kakuma. As I wandered down here to go to bed this evening, I found a few books that my mom bought when I was in Kenya. They are awesome books - they have a lot of pictures and information about Kenya. I started to page through them. I realized again how much I miss it.

I simply don't understand it. For the majority of my time there, I felt like I was dying and couldn't handle living over there. Right now, thinking about the people and all the things that became familiar to me, my heart aches. (It's not too much unlike the ache I feel at the thought of possibly being alone for the rest of my life - random side note to help put this in perspective.) I'm glad my heart aches for Kenya. It's something I longed for while I lived there, but always seemed to be semi-elusive (my time in Kakuma was getting there). I long to see those people again. I long to walk down the crowded streets of Lodwar. I long to barter for fruit and smile and talk with the children who are staring at me. I long for the sights (and even smells) of Africa.

I only wish that world wasn't so far from my world. It's nearly impossible to live in that world and this world simultaneously. Relationships here have to grow stale out of necessity - phone communication is too expensive for any regular use, and internet really is rather limited (although, I suppose it does depend on where you live). It's so much different than simply living on a different side of America from a good friend. Being across an ocean changes things. The thought of going back for a vacation or a summer to do volunteer work sounds wonderful - I long for the opportunity. The thought of going back for another six months, a year, or longer terrifies me... But at the same time - the thought, the possibility... It's there. It's in the back of my mind and it's no longer stomped down into the ground where it's dead and buried.

I don't even know what to do with these thoughts. They're completely random thoughts. I don't know if I'm being called to Africa. I'm just writing them out.

I know the famine has killed a lot of people where we worked. Apparently, Todd is telling people that some of the children we worked with in Lodwar have died from it. My mind goes to Fibi. It kills me inside. I love that girl. Writing those words... moves me to tears about this situation for the first time since I've been home. I've been too numb to cry. Too afraid to think about it - too tired. Now the tears come. What if she's dead? What if she's starving? I wish I was able to bring her home with me. I miss her so much. I suppose I could ask Benson about her - but I'm so afraid. I'm not sure I want to know if something has happened to her, but at the same time, every time I look at a picture of her (which is frequently), I wonder if she's still alive.

Which brings me to a question that's come to mind frequently the past couple days. Why does God allow such injustice? Why have I been blessed so much? Why can I get away with spending an entire summer not working and traveling with my family and still be well-fed and have a little extra cash on the side while children like Fibi are starving and orphaned and their toys are random pieces of trash? What do I do with that realization? At one point I thought not shopping at Wal Mart was the answer - trying to make sure I was consuming products that paid their workers fair wages. But how does that help Fibi exactly? How does that help the person who loses their job when the sweat shop closes down? Do sweat shops really ever get better - or do they just close down and then leave people without any source of income (no matter how small)? Don't get me wrong - I desire to see good businesses that are paying people fair wages, but how do we really make that happen? How do we really help the people who need it most? As far I know, there aren't even any big factories in northern Kenya. They're simply living in a desert - no way to raise crops. They're starving. They're helpless. How can I make a difference?