Washing Dishes and Washing Feet

   I finally made it on the plane to Caracas, Venezuela after 6 years of waiting to return. 

I still remember the feeling in my gut stepping back onto American soil after an incredible and life-changing week at the Samuel's House orphanage. 

The United States would never again feel like home to me. Sure it was comfortable, but home? 

No more. 

The first hug I received from a wide-eyed, dark-skinned little girl with seemingly no reason to rejoice altered my universe-one that once revolved around me. 

I was a selfish, arrogant, rebellious 17 year old child even though at the time I saw myself as an adult. 

What a joke. 

I knew a lot about Jesus but I had no idea who He was. 

My relationship with Jesus has morphed and turned my world upside down, inside out and shaken everything I thought I knew about being a follower. 

I have made a transition from fan to follower. 

Pain does that to you. 

In the past 6 years I've gone through seasons of dryness, anger, mourning and joy. 

When I originally planned this trip my life was in a completely different place than it was today.

I have recently suffered great grief, great change, but great freedom. 

I have lost some people that I pictured holding my hand through every life's season. 

I have planted seeds in new places and taken roots in fresh soil. 

I have learned to smile again for no reason. 

I have learned to not force people to stay in my life, but to remain open to anyone willing to stay. 

I have learned to laugh at life and change. 

I have learned to love people so deep it has consumed every thought and keeps me up at night.

I have learned its okay to let go when you've fought yourself to your own collapse. 

Part of me thought I should cancel the trip to Caracas all together. 

I let a select few's words poison the dream God planted in me before I even had a name. 

God wasn't going to let that happen. 

Words to any of you: 

Nobody, I say NOBODY can wipe away the identity Christ has given you. 

NOBODY can write whatever they want on you without your consent. 

In a matter of three months I have been shattered into a million pieces, to sitting on an airplane with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. 

How? 

I ask myself that everyday. 

Jesus is in the business of broken people. 

God met me while my face was buried in that off-white carpet that day. 

I was screaming, hurting and angry. 

I was clawing my nails into the carpet and sobbing uncontrollably like a child away from his mother for the first time. 

I was doing much more talking than listening that day. 

God laid on that carpet by my tear-stained sleeves and reminded me of Who I was dealing with. 

I was dealing with the same Jesus Who took a murderer and turned him into a ruler. 

I was dealing with the same Jesus Who took a stuttering man and with him parted seas of red. 

I was dealing with the same Jesus Who took adulterers, killers, losers, screw-ups & turned them into vessels. 

There was no way Jesus was letting me off that easy. 

My life pivoted at that moment. 

Jesus came into my life like never before. 

I have become head over heels in love with Jesus. 

Ive fallen so hard and deep I find myself loving people I couldn't love before. 

God took me, broke me, rebuilt me from the bottom up. 

He shook me, washed me and clothed me with new garments. 

When I see old friends they notice that thing some people have in their eyes after they've just had their honeymoon. 

That's what it feels like to be in love, in obsession with Jesus. 

I went into the week absolutely blind, but open to anything and everything Jesus had for me. 

The week was not what I expected. 

At first, I questioned God as to why He would bring me all the way to another country to...clean dishes and mop floors. 

That week I witnessed servant hood in a real and tangible first-hand way. 

One morning as I washed dishes, staring at the beautiful Caracas mountains God stood next to me and spoke in a quiet, clear voice.

My heart had been broken for this exact week, this exact moment in my life. 

God allowed me to experience brokenness in order for me to experience restoration. 

All the scrubbing, drying, washing, mopping; it was for me after all. 

To go and give of myself, asking for nothing back. 

To go and wash another's feet. 

I expected to go and teach others about Jesus, but ended up being taught lessons by people who never spoke a word of English. 

They didn't have to. 

Isn't that amazing? 

The woman who cleaned/cooked everything every day with a smile on her face showed me Jesus in a way I've never know before, and she couldn't even speak my language. 

This week was to show me that this life I live is not about Britney, but about everyone else. 

I learned how to shred 10 pounds of meat by hand, fold trash bags, prepare plates for upcoming groups of volunteers. 

I swept a floor that I knew would re-dirty within ten minutes of my cleaning. 

I washed dishes I knew would be stained with food again within 2 hours of my labor.

Sometimes you must minister behind the scenes of another ministry. 

You may never get recognition. 

You may never get servant of the week at your local church. 

That. Doesn't. Matter. 

Jesus has washed my feet for so long, knowing I'd wander off to only get them muddy again. 

Yet He washes them again. 

And again. 

And again. 

What God spoke to me as I stared out that window has changed the way I see myself in future ministry: 

"Britney, don't you see? I have brought you to the perfect place for ministry: on your knees." 

God brought me across the world to shake me up and open my eyes to my lack of a servants heart and need to only minister in the lime light. 

May I always remember washing those dishes. 

May I always serve in small tasks to make big impacts. 

Dust To Dust

A good friend said something so simple the other morning, yet it struck me in such a deep way. 

"We are DUST." 

All of us. 

Piles of dirt. 

We could easily be washed away, blow away, kicked to the wind. 

Our time here is so limited before we sink back into the Earth. 

What are you doing with it?

Girls who spend their entire time here seeking recognition from man: you are DUST. 

Those who spend their entire time here concerned with the life of another pile of dirt: you are DUST. 

Those who cling to their security blanket of fear: you are DUST. 

Those who let the small, earthly things ruin their relationships with fellow believers: you are DUST. 

I know I'm guilty as charged here. 

Until God grabbed a hold of my face and showed me all the things I was completely wasting my time here on, I was headed in a horrible direction. 

I was chasing wind. 

I was overly concerned with my looks. 

I was overly concerned with what other people thought. 

I was forgetting that I was just dust. 

I was forgetting that God could blow me off this planet at any given moment, and what would I have to show for my life? 

 

When I think about Caracas and the orphanage there, I see a lot of dust. 

Literally. 

My last time there I was covered in it. 

I walked in it. 

I played in it. 

I worshipped in it. 

All the children's hands were covered in it. 

No matter where I went, dust followed. 

When I was there at age 17 I got a small glimpse of dust and how beautiful it was to get dirty in it. 

I discovered for a moment what it was to realize how small you really are. 

Here were these kids who didn't know so many of the simplicities that I had taken advantage of since I was a child. 

Here were these volunteers who sacrificed their time as DUST to put hope into a small child's eyes. 

What was I doing? 

At the age of 17 you rarely know who you are much less if you'll ever find your way. 

Here I am, 6 years later asking myself the same question. 

What am I DOING? 

I am dust. 

Am I loving as much as I can? 

Am I working as hard as I can? 

Am I taking the dust God has given me and sprinkling it everywhere I can? 

I encourage you to try to wrap your mind around the fact that you are DUST. 

Are you making beautiful things out of the dust? 

Or are you just dust? 

Hanging around until you're blown off the side of the Earth? 

Don't sweat the small stuff. 

Take the leap. 

Let go of fear. 

Step up to the plate. 

Maybe you have a grudge you haven't let go of. 

Maybe you harbor unforgiveness  and have a lost relationship God keeps prodding you to fix. 

Maybe you spend your time obsessing over the opinions/life choices of others. 

Maybe God has called you to a mission field but you just can't let go of home. 

Maybe you just exist. 

Remember: 

We are DUST. 

Don't get to the end of your life and still be holding all the things God has given you clenched in your fist. 

Spread it. 

Jesus can make beautiful things from the dust when it's willing to become clay. 

18 Days of Solitude

Last night on my run God took me back to when He called me to missions.
I think to remind me that His calling still remains, even in the midst of the flood.

My feet were dangling above the rust-colored snagged carpet in my childhood children's church.
A beautiful woman with curly hair and stories of love and hope began to fill the room with words of excitement.
That woman was happy.
No, not happy.
Something more.
As a child I couldn't quite put my finger on what exactly she had, but I wanted it.
God wanted me to have it too.
As other kids giggled and let their minds be filled with thoughts of the soon approaching buffet at Western Sizzlin, God reached down from the heavens and wrapped his hand around small Britney's heart.

As a child the call to missions doesn't seem so serious.
Or real.
It's just like being told you're going to wear blue jeans tomorrow.
No big deal.

But I could see it was a big deal in my mothers eyes when I informed her I was going to be a missionary one day & maybe give my life for this man named Jesus in a way no mother would ever want for her child.

It was a mixed ocean of emotions in her eyes that day as I buckled my seat in the car next to her.
A gleam of pride in her baby girl and a teaspoon of fear.

The first time I went to Venezuela I was scared to DEATH.
If you know me well, you know I worry.
From the plane crashing to not measuring up once we arrived, my worries were at an all-time high.
The experience from 6 years ago  is vivid.

I met my best friend Courtney there in a twin sized bunk bed with no air conditioning or hot water.
I saw things I didn't understand.
I saw girls with no mother to brush their face at night or to tell them they're beautiful.

I saw a thirteen year old girl scream my name when she broke her arm because I was that connection for her that week.
Someone was yelling MY name.
That was a moment.
At age 17, that was a moment I didn't yet understand.
Many of my dearest friends were prophesied over that week, including my beautiful Courtney.
I have never met a heart more innocent or open to receiving.
Courtney has yet to stay in one place, just as the man told her.

I was passed over that night for good reason.
I was in no place ready spiritually or emotionally to have someone say, "You're going to be a missionary. Got that?"
Uh...hold up.
No.
I'm just here because the other option was governor school and people told me I'd vote democrat or something if I went there.


My heart was not mature in the summer of 2007.
I was not in love with Jesus nor did I truly know Him.

I knew felt-board, prosperity, pulpit, "Jesus."
I knew the Jesus everyone else had told me about, but not the Jesus I know and love today.



Today I know Him.
On the last day many will claim to know Him, but He will say, "depart from Me I never knew you!"
The  usage of "knew/know" that we see here is the same one used when Mary KNEW Joseph as man and wife.
Wow.
This changes everything.

A lot of people know ABOUT Jesus.
A lot of people can recite facts about Jesus.
But a lot of people do not KNOW Him or His heart.

I know Jesus intimately.
I know Jesus in a very raw way that sometimes is a little uncomfortable.
But being in love with Jesus will never give you a comfortable life.

I am a big mess.
When God opens doors for me to share His love I am still confused.

Of all people, I'm the last person I would give the job to.
But Jesus is cool like that.
He takes yesterday's left overs that nobody wants and makes a gourmet meal.
He's Jesus.
He can do that.
I have to trust that He has chosen me carefully, even if all I see is a broken and useless piece of clay.

July 1. 2013 I will board another plane to Caracas.
Again, why God opened the door and how He convinced so many people to support me to go is mind-boggling.

I'm not going with a group.
When I board that plane there won't be a familiar face in the seat next to me convincing me the plane won't burst into flames or that it's going to all be okay.

I think that was sort of Gods point.
"Britney, I am more than enough."

God asked me to lay down a lot of every day normalcies for me last night.
I have 18 days until I board that plane.
God wants all of me and my heart cleared of all the mess cluttered up.
The rap music (grimace).
The anxiety (me, anxious?).
The distorted self image.
The quick temper.
The impatience.
The sharp tongue.
The fingers so quick to point at everyone else.
The broken heart.
Will I be perfect when I step into that airport?

Of course not.
But Jesus wants my heart open and my mind focused for the mission.


The next 18 days I will be clearing out Britney's wants and making room for Jesus' wants.
My heart needs to be healed to be re-broken for Jesus.

July first, I'll be seeing you.

Thunderstorms & Egg Sandwiches

In the south where I was raised, storm season is practically eleven months of the year. 

It's rare to go more than two weeks without seeing your state stained with that red "severe" blob on the weather man's map. 

When I was a child, I was fascinated with weather. I wanted to know every possible type of cloud that could produce harmful conditions.

When most kids my age were reading books about bunnies and rainbows, I was reading books about cumulonimbus clouds. 

When a tornado was predicted to move in my family's direction, my father would toss canned goods from the pantry. 

I had a few close calls with some cans of sweet corn. 

We would huddle in the pantry or throw mattresses on top of us in a narrow hallway. 

Then wait. 

In silence. 

For our inescapable impending doom. 

Just kidding. 

We're all still alive and kicking. 

Regardless, I developed an obsession and fear of storms. 

Not because I was so educated on them, or had even known someone affected by them. 

I was afraid because I was out of control. 

I was afraid because those around me were reacting in a way that made me afraid too. 

I didn't even know what I was afraid of, I just was because it was instilled in me to be so. 

I remember my mother would always start making breakfast when a storm would begin to brew. 

Typically my stomach would be in all sorts of knots, but when my mother began to toast the bread and scramble eggs I felt better. 

She just seemed so calm when there were so many reasons to be scrambling around for shelter; 

Instead, my mother scrambled eggs. 

She buttered toast.

 She poured me a glass of milk and sat down at the kitchen table. 

She talked about simple things.

The neighbors cat probably whipped past the kitchen window to its death, yet we laughed and ate our malt-o meal between lightening strikes. 

Those scrambled egg sandwiches simply meant distraction to me as a kid from the storm, but as an adult they taught me life lessons. 

I face many storms through the seasons of my life, mainly spiritual/emotional. 

Life sometimes knocks me on my butt, in the middle of a summer storm. 

I have two choices: run to the mattresses or make a scrambled egg sandwich. 

I know what you're thinking: 

"What in the...is she talking about?" 

It's simple. 

God is currently scrambling me some eggs and pouring me a glass of milk, asking me to come sit down and stop emptying my pantry in a fearful rage. 

Someone recently pointed out to me that God wasn't making a friendly suggestion when He said "Do not worry," He was giving us a command. 

Do not worry. 

Do not fear. 

Do not pass go or collect $100. 

Just kidding, that wasn't in the bible. 

Duh. 

But really, do not worry. 

Eat a scrambled egg sandwich. 

Storms always pass, even if sometimes with a cost and some debris. 

But they always pass. 

If I'm going to wait out a storm, I'm going to take it with stride and a side of toast thank you. 

We've all heard the cliche saying: "it's not about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning to the dance in the rain." 

Don't do that. 

That's stupid. 

You'll get wet and look like an idiot. 

You're probably a terrible dancer.

You can find shelter without hiding from reality. 

You don't have to wallow in rain puddles to prove you've been through a storm, but you also don't have to find a fraidy-hole to duck into like a coward. 

Go through your storms with dignity. 

Seek protection from the elements. 

Do not wallow in your despair. 

Do not gloat in your battle scars. 

Simply pop open your umbrella and move forward. 

Then sit down and eat a scrambled egg sandwich. 

Loving Your Body When the World Hates It

Even though this blog is directed towards the ladies, men may benefit from it too. I know many men who also feel the pressure to possess a specific physique.

I want to get something straight here and be real before I go any further.
I do not promote any woman to be unhealthy and proclaim she's happy how she is in a body that is slowly killing her.
We were made to be confident not complacent.
Obesity is not okay.
Obesity is a slow death.
There is a difference between being a healthy curvy woman and a woman who is feeding herself into her own grave and claiming "curves are sexy."
Harsh? Maybe.
I see two things consistently:
1. Promotion of an unhealthy, underweight image.
2. Promotion of an unhealthy, overweight image.

Both are wrong.
Both are deadly.
Both could destroy you as a woman and strip your life of happiness.

Our society began to push the "stick thin" image on women for so long that we revolted in an extreme way and actually began to push the image of a "curvy is sexy, bones are for dogs" mentality.

We just can't seem to get it right.

Each woman is her own.
Each woman will not look like the other.
Each woman's healthy will be different.
Skinny is not wrong.
Curvy is not wrong.
Only unhealthy is wrong.

I've been on both sides of the spectrum before finally finding my own balance.
When I was a preteen, I was a total butter ball.
All my friends were transforming into young women with their training bras and forming waist lines.
Then there was me.

I still wore over-alls, had baby weight and honestly didn't need a training bra until high school.
I hated that I didn't look like all my friends.
Developing my eating disorder, I became a scrawny version of my old self.

Looking back on photos all I can do is scrunch my nose at the pale, flimsy looking girl looking back at me.

I think each woman has a moment of finding herself along her own journey.
That moment is hers and hers alone.
Some women find it in a man telling her she's beautiful.
Some women find it in a woman's conference.
Some women find it in sports.

We may be 16 or 96 but at some point we find ourselves fully woman and we can embrace our bodies as they are even if the world hates it.

I'm a fair skinned, short girl with minimum cleavage and will always appear a good 5 years younger than I actually am.

I used to always want to be tan, tall, slender and trade my frizzy locks for long silky ones like my sister.

But I had my moment in my walk of life.
I'm Britney.
Nobody else can be Britney.
I am a beautiful woman.
My body is a precious rental that God Himself chose just for me.

So when you find yourself wondering why running is so close to my heart, it's because running was my moment.
Yours will look different than mine.

You might find yours in the weight room or a delivery room.
My moment was found in running shoes.

Am I what the magazines call "hott?"
Uh no.
Will I ever find jeans that don't drag the ground when I walk?
Probably not.
Will I ever get that cleavage?
Probably not.
Will I wake up tan tomorrow ?
Probably not.
Am I beautiful?
Of course.
And unique.

If you've found your moment, I celebrate with you.
If you're still on your quest to find your moment, try new things.
Pick up roller derby.
Or power walking.
Or parasailing.
Or weight lifting.

A body belonging to a mother of 3 is just as beautiful as the body of a 20 year old.
No beautiful will look like the other.

Get healthy;
Whether that means eating more than two carrot sticks a day or finally chomping down on your first veggie.

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139:13-16 NIV)