Love is not tolerant.

Steel metal colored clouds consume the sky. The sun, hidden behind them, the way I would love to be hiding under my covers.

It is raining.

I stand outside letting the drops hit my face and roll off with the wind.

It smells beautiful. A smell so fragile I need to inhale deeply to grasp onto all its fragrance. Clean and crisp with a hint of something clinging to the edge. Memories, of ebony faces, and the time it poured as we walked to the dukas and sat on the barbers couches until the clouds stopped crying over us. Of the first time I met them and loved them. Of the endless days of walking with squishy wet mud between my toes.

Coolness surrounds me and I close my eyes to relish in the moment, in the memories, in what the smell of the rain brings.

I cannot capture the words.

I cannot capture the memories fast enough.

I cannot capture the beauty and grace of God.

All in the rain.

My African blanket is pulled tight over my shoulders as I write this. I'm cold like always, it's a never ending thing, no amount of hot chocolate or layers of clothing seems to keep my body warm. So I'll just pull on my wool socks and lace my fingers through my steamy mug of chocolate and pour out the warmth that is coming from my soul.

We all have treasured words written upon our hearts. They're the truths we keep locked beneath a cage of bone and a cloak of flesh; and I don't think there is ever a sudden revelation, a complete and tidy explanation for why things happen or why things ends or why or who we are. You want one and I want one, but there isn't a pretty definition to tie it all up in a bow and deliver. I think it comes in bits and pieces, of growing and loving, of trusting in God. And we stitch all these things together where they fit and when we are done there may still be holes in places, we are imperfect, and yet God is still working and still moving, There is no other way.

I am just blown away by God. Blown away by His faithfulness and His love for me and just the way He sneaks in all quiet like and answers my prayers and blessed my life. And I'm just mad at myself for how selfish and how ungrateful I am. Seriously, I mean "Paul said it perfectly, 'I am the worst of these!' but every now and then I swear I think I got that guy beat."

And we could boil it down to me being hard on myself. But I am not. I think that's what this world needs. Christians, Christ followers, reckless Jesus lovers to be hard on themselves. We are too easy on ourselves. We are tolerant. We don't want to make people upset, So we walk on eggshells and go to church on Sunday and say we will do all these things. But we go home curl up on our couch and watch as the world literally goes to hell.

Do we speak out about the racism about Miss America, Or stretch out our hands to the families and victims of the shooting in Washington D.C.? Are we really praying for Syria? What about that kid in the back of the church, searching for answers, did we just walk past him?

We're not fighting the good fight. We're not running the race. We're not fleeing the evil desires. We are not loving.

Love is not tolerant.

Love speaks out. Love throws punches. Love sprints. Love crushes evil with good.

We have this checklist, these guidelines we think comes with following Christ. Go to church. Read your Bible. Tithe. Say grace before meals. But that's the thing loving God is not a checklist, it's not a thing to do. And I am the worst of these. I get so caught up in the things pastors and teachers and books have said define what it means to be a Christian. But there is only one definition of a Christian and that is Jesus.

And we're missing the point. I'm missing the point. That there are much greater things going on out in this world than what Miley Cyrus's new video means, or what's trending on twitter. There is a full out war, there is a battle raging. For souls and live's.

It's not who belongs to what church or what kids belongs to whom. They are all Jesus's and we are getting lost in competitions rather than loving. Lost in numbers rather than sharing Jesus.

Yes, I'm ranting. I know it. But as I sit here wrapped in a blanket, hands warmed by my mug I can't help but be angry with myself.

I didn't thank Him for the breath in my lungs today, for the roof over my head, for my family, my friends, for my little blanket and my mug. I missed it. And it kills me, because the rain reminded me of these memories. These faces of children and women and families who may not have breath in their lungs today, or a roof, or even a tattered blanket. My heart breaks for the injustice of these faces in my mind and heart. And my heart breaks for the blindness of my generation and so many generations before and after me. Caught up in self, while people are literally DYING out there without hearing about or feeling the love of Jesus.

It wrecks me. And so my cheeks match my windows, water trailing down. As I cry out and pray that God open eyes and hearts. That we become a people, that put down the guidelines and let go of self, and of ideas and competitions, of trying to be the best. And just let God have us, hold us, and lead us to be His hands and feet.

To stop being tolerant.

To stop pining for attention.

But to begin loving until it hurts.

And as Mother Teresa said, "That if we love until it hurts, there can be no more room for hurt, only more love." Until the day Jesus returns.

Having a heart that breaks for what breaks HIS.


Sitting with open hands and a tear-streaked face,


HIS and yours,


   Cami