joy.

Isn't it amazing how the littlest things can bring the greatest joy? How even the smallest shining moments can blow away the darkness of even the worst of days?

Today I am experiencing that joy.

Chocolate chip cookies.
A couple of great kid moments.
A good hair day.
And most of all, a very needed 20 minute conversation with my best friend (who also happens to be my person...).

That's all it took to make today a wonderful, happy, joyful day.

extraordinary.

This summer, along with other things, has brought a new addiction into my life: the show Grey's Anatomy. And although some of you will find this hard to believe, what draws me to this hour-long hospital drama is not, in fact, the drama. The relationships and romance, while entertaining, could be found elsewhere on television. No, what draws me in time after time, is the incredible surgeries performed week after week. And sure, I have no doubt that there are more staged dramatic medical emergencies in each single hour of the show than what really occur in a week in a real hospital, but I am impressed none the less. There is something captivating in the life and death balance, the romance of the high-powered job, and the constant state of uncertainty in which these "surgeons" live.

It makes me want to be a surgeon.

Of course, then I turn off the TV and remember that (a) I don't like blood, (b) I don't like science, and (c) I need at least 7 hours of sleep every night to function and realize that perhaps surgery isn't the road for me to take.

But I like the idea of being something extraordinary. Of being important.

And so I think - what is "important"? Isn't my job, the care and upbringing of 65 young children, important?

I think so.

So why don't I feel extraordinary?

Maybe extraordinary isn't about what we do to earn our paycheck. Maybe it's about the way we go about our vocation, whatever it may be. Because, let's face it: being a daycare worker isn't exactly a romantic job. There is nothing captivating about being called "giant gorilla" and having yogurt drooled on your shirt. It isn't glamorous.

But maybe it is time for me to reevaluate.

Every day, I walk into a room of children who are smiling and laughing and happy to be alive. They are innocent. They are vulnerable. And they trust me. And I'm starting to believe that I can change their world.

It may not be brain surgery, but it's pretty extraordinary all the same.

praise.

"Where morning dawns and evening fades you call forth songs of joy." - Psalm 65:8

Qumran.

The fact that we were 1500 feet below sea level did absolutely nothing to alleviate the wheezing caused by pushing my very out of shape body into doing things that no one should ever do. Scaling the side of this seemingly vertical rock wall at a breakneck pace in the 110 degree heat is not something I would normally call a good time. We paused at the mouth of a cave, gasping for breath and sucking down water that the desert sun had heated to the point of boiling. If I had stuck a tea bag in my water bottle, I could be drinking tea in a matter of seconds. However, the temperature of the water did nothing to phase me – the usually highly sensitive buds on my tounge were too enamored with the moisture to care that it was about 50 degrees warmer than it should have been.

As we stood there waiting for the stragglers to make it up, I gazed into the cave where they found the Dead Sea Scrolls. That should have shocked me. I should have had my camera out, taking a thousand pictures to document that moment, that place. But after a week of countless experiences like that one, I was finally over trying to fit the world inside a picture frame. I snapped one quick photo, just to have something to show everyone at home. But I knew that those experiences were being burned into my heart. Pictures truly were not necessary.

We took off again before my body had recovered – it wasn’t too many more scrambling steps before my calves were screaming again. I finally stumbled to the top. There were thorns inside my shoe, the beginnings of a blister, incredibly sore muscles, and the ever present wheezing.

But it was worth it.

I was surrounded by a beauty I'd never seen before. It was unpolished beauty – the kind you have to stare at for a while before you see it. The dust in the air combined with the evening light to cover everything with a hazy, golden glow. The earth there is brown, shades of tan and red and chocolate. The green is in patchworks, the grey of the olive trees contrasting with the sage of the bushes and the dark green of the cyprus. And the water that was below us is strange in its salty, deadly blue. But it is beautiful. Beautiful in its imperfection, in its difference from any beauty I have ever known before. And as I stood there, pouring sweat and covered in dust, I heard the voice of God in the wind. “Thank you,” he whispered, “thank you for coming and seeing and smelling and feeling this place.”

And I shouted into the wind, for all the world to hear, that the Lord is my God, the Lord alone. Shema, Israel!



It was all worth it.

connections.

Something on my mind lately is connection. The way that we, as humans, strive desperately for connection with those around us. We look for things to relate to, moments to share, secrets that can be conveyed with only a smile.

Since being at home this summer, I've found myself more and more searching for these connections. Perhaps the fact that my closest friends are no longer living in the same building as me has caused me to feel the loss of connection. Perhaps the days spent around others but not with them is the source of this newfound desperation. And maybe it's just the growing apprehension at my impending future, which is cloudy and frighteningly uncertain at this point.

I'm graduating from college in December - less than 6 short months from now. My college career will be done. Where on earth did the time go?! Just yesterday I was graduating from high school, terrified of moving to California and starting a new life with people I had never met. Now, I'm on the brink of another transition. And while I have a head full of information and a heart full of passion to prepare me for what is to come, something about this moment feels familiar in its mix of fear and excitement. God only knows what the future holds for me. And while that does scare the side of me that wants to plan and organize and be confident in what is to come, the majority of me is thrilled at the idea of throwing worry to the wind and trusting in the perfect plan of my all-knowing Savior.

So, what does all of this have to do with connections?

I'm not entirely sure.

All I know is that the connections I have made with people throughout my brief 21 years are the things I remember. Whether it is the life-long connection of best friends or the simple fact that a friend I haven't spoken to in years is reading a book by my sophomore year Old Testament professors, connections are what are important to me.

So I will continue to strive for those connections, and to build relationships. I will trust in the relationships set before me. I will be confident in the future planned for me by my Father, and I will look forward to the connections that are inevitably a part of that future.

home.

Phil Wickham is, in a word, genius.

This song is so beautiful, so poignant, so perfect...

I for one need to have my calloused heart stripped away...it is time for me to come home. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that, as wonderful as it is, human love is flawed. It is imperfect, incomplete, never enough. But the love of God, it is unfailing, perfect, more than enough. His heart is where all love starts...it's time to return.

Home.

Come riding on a rushing wind
Blow through our hair and touch our skin
I want to feel You now like I felt You then

Strip away my calloused heart
Set Your arrow hit Your mark
Bring me back to where love starts
Bring me back to where You are

Father I’m running Father I’m coming home
I cannot go on
Your child is running, Father I’m coming home
Back where I belong

I know You’ve heard this all before
When I’m down and crying on the floor
Saying I want You and nothing more

But I’m breaking in my heart tonight
I’ve tried to stand I’ve tried to fight
But I cannot see without Your light
No I cannot breathe without You

When I saw you I was ashamed
You were pure and I was stained
But You ran to me and You called my name
There were tears of joy upon Your face

It will never cease to amaze me, that I have a savior who runs to me, calling my name with tears of joy streaming down his face. What a love...

I pray that you would feel this love...that you would return home.

israel.

I know, I know - I've been home for almost a week, and I haven't written about Israel yet. There is a reason, I promise.

It's too hard.

I don't know how to put words to what I experienced during my time in the Holy Land. It was awe-inspiring, passion-kindling, life-changing...God is so good.

We (our flock of 49) spent two weeks hiking around Israel in HOT (usually 100+) weather, walking in the footsteps of Jesus and the disciples, standing in the land of God's chosen people, being inspired by the faith of those who have preceded us in this beautiful journey with our Lord.

There aren't words to capture this:


...scaling a cliff in order to stand in the wind where Jesus stood and prayed for his disciples...


...gathering a stone from the valley where a faithful little boy defeated a giant...


...singing amazing grace in a beautiful chapel, surrounded by those who were family for a little while...


...pledging to love God with all my heart, all my soul, all my might, and then being plunged into the rushing waters of the Jordan to symbolize that newly restored commitment....

I am still processing, and don't even want to attempt to capture this experience in words yet. I think I'll post little blurbs as I feel ready.

God did some impressive refining work on my heart in Israel...I pray that I never return to the person I was.

Thank God for his faithfulness!

For more pictures, you can look here and here.

bless you all...

harold.

a couple of weeks ago my grandpa died.

he was a wonderful man. compassionate, faithful, funny. i truly loved him, and i know that he loved me, too.

however, the grandpa i knew and loved had been gone for a long time. alzheimer's. over the past few years he had rapidly slid down a path of confusion and frustration, quickly losing the ability to recognize those he loved. and it was tragic. no words can capture the pain of having your grandfather, the man you know absolutely adores you, no longer know who you are or what your name is. however, the pain that i felt quickly transitioned from sorrow for myself to sorrow for my father. as my grandpa got worse, he stopped being able to recognize my dad. and despite faithfully taking care of him, visiting him, taking him out to lunch, i know it was hard on my dad. and that was heart-breaking to me.

but now, i find great joy in the fact that harold (or 'old hal'; as we often affectionately called him) is livin' it up in heaven. my mom and i like to think that he and all of his relatives that went before him are having a potluck right now. because that's what the quinlan family does - potlucks and home-made gift exchanges.

i will never forget the day my grandma died, the summer before my freshman year of high school. we were all at the hospital, and there was a nurse in there with us, trying to be comforting. she said something to my grandpa about hope for seeing his wife in the future. and his response has always stuck with me. "its not hope," he said, "its knowledge. i know i will see my wife again someday."

and now he has.

so now, it is with great joy that i think about my dear grandpa, finally happy and remembering all those he loves in the presence of his dear savior.