Yassir's Story.

For the three lectures this morning we had a guest speaker named Yassir talk with us (I apologize deeply if my spelling is way off). Yassir was born in Sudan and grew up as a fanatic Muslim. Miraculously, he ended up converting to Christianity and now lives as a pastor in Germany with his wife and kids. He shared the most amazing story with us, the story of his life. To be honest, it was one of the most incredible testimonies I had ever heard, and I have a really strong desire to share it with you guys…at least the shorter, less detailed, “Gee, I sure hope I listened correctly and got all of my facts straight!” version of it:

As a child, Yassir was born into a Muslim family in the country of Sudan and memorized the Qur’an at an early age, like every other Muslim child. Allah, the God of the Qur’an was his motivation, and he’d do anything for him. In college he ended up sitting next to a kid named Zachariah; now, Yassir absolutely hated this guy because he was a Christian. And as we all know, Christians and Muslims do not mix well, because of their theology respectively. Zachariah suffered terribly because of Yassir and his Muslim friends. One night after class, Yassir and his friends hid up on the branches of a tree, and when Zachariah was walking beneath, they jumped and began beating him. With Allah as their goal and God they broke his bones, they bruised him, and they caused his blood to spill. Without a reason or a thought, Yassir told his friends to stop; so they fled the scene and Zachariah was left there under the tree, closer to death than ever.
Later Yassir’s uncle, the minister of finance for the government was ordered to attend a Christian church service to kill the pastor. He entered the church and sat down in the back row with a pistol in the right pocket of his jacket; he was ready to fulfill his duty. As the service went on, Uncle began to actually listen to what the pastor was saying. He was preaching on Acts Chapter 9 about how Saul was threatening to kill all of the Lord’s followers. And all Uncle could think was, “What? How did this pastor know me? How does he know my story? How is it possible that he knew I was here to kill him?” So after the service, Uncle approached the pastor and asked him these same questions. The pastor replied with, “Sir, this was simply a story from the Bible, the written word of God.” Together they ended up flipped through pages of the Bible and talking for hours. Uncle’s heart was changed, he began to see the beauty of who God was, a God of love. He converted from Muslim to Christianity that day. When Yassir’s whole family heard about this, they were furious and knew that the only thing they could do was kill Uncle. In their eyes, killing Uncle and saving him from living life as a Christian was seen as an act of love. But Yassir felt a much deeper love for his uncle and desperately wanted to change him back to Muslim, so he thought that the only way to do this was to study the Bible just as hard as he studied the Qur’an. It turns out that this was the best idea that he’s ever had, since the word of God ended up changing him from the inside out. Yassir was amazed at the story of salvation: how God sent his only son to die on the cross, as a sacrifice for all of our sins. Yassir fell in love with God, and became a Christian with his uncle.
After telling this good news to his family, they disowned them. His father said, “You are no longer my son.” His family dug a hole into the desert ground, placed a rectangular box in it, and with a funeral service, pronounced Yassir dead. Because of Yassir’s conversion to Christianity, he was dead to his family. After Yassir lost everything he’d ever known, Jesus turned his life around. He moved to Germany where, like I stated before, met a German woman, fell in love, had children together, and became a pastor. An amazing ending to this testimony is that just two years ago, he went to a church in Egypt and was talking with a man there. The man said, “Yassir, do you remember who I am?” Looking a little closer Yassir knew. It was Zachariah. Zachariah continued, “I have been praying for you everyday, Yassir. I have been praying that you would one day open your heart to God.” After almost having killed Zachariah 15 years ago, by the grace of God, Yassir was able to ask for forgiveness. And with a brotherly embrace, the slate was wiped clean. Only God could arrange a meeting like that, and answer prayers like that.

After the lecture I sat there, completely awestruck. I was fascinated. If Yassir’s uncle wouldn’t have been given orders to kill that pastor, converted to Christianity, and if Yassir wouldn’t have been kicked out of his father’s household and wouldn’t have moved to Germany, then I never would have heard this amazing story. If none of this would have happened, I would still be left here oblivious, in the dark, drowning in a sea of my own useless problems. Yassir’s story changed my life. I couldn’t believe that a man with such an intense, crazy life was standing in the same room as me. Listening to his story was like watching a thrilling, action-packed movie. It’s absolutely incredible how God can use lives to connect and share stories.

Now all I can think is that there is a whole part of the world I have absolutely no clue about. There are young children growing up with the mindset that killing thousands of innocent people is what is lovely to their Allah’s eyes. Fortunately, Yassir didn’t just leave us with a story; He left us with as much insight into Islam culture as he could fit into three hours. I learned that 1/5 of the world’s population is Muslim. Therefore to Christians, they are our generations’ challenge. I learned the five pillars of Islam (confession of faith, prayer, giving money/possessions, fasting, and pilgrimage to Mecca). I learned that their relationship with Allah is nothing close to personal. They are slaves to their God, while Christians are children of their God. There is a huge difference between these two. Yassir also provided us with examples of how to practically approach this culture.

Yassir ended the session with one final request: please pray for the Muslims. As I learned in Yassir’s story, prayer is so incredibly powerful. Zachariah’s daily prayer for Yassir changed Yassir’s life, and in turn, it changed my life. I’ll bet Zachariah anything that he had no idea Yassir would one day be telling his story to a bunch of silly college students in Germany. Amazing, isn’t it? What I learned today is so heavy on my heart right now, and I just want to encourage to whoever’s reading this that there are so many lost people in the world, and it’s not at all a hopeless case. God answers prayers; he is capable of anything. And we also need to be thankful that we grew up in families, homes, cities, and countries where we aren’t persecuted for our faith. Can you imagine being disowned by your own family for being a follower of Christ? Can you imagine being beaten by your classmates because of your love of God? No…I can’t imagine it, and for that I’m so incredibly thankful.

Pray.

Makeup.

"I don't wear makeup, because I've never wanted for it to become my crutch. I don't want it to be the source of my beauty."

Wow. I honestly feel an incredible amount of pity for the girls who need to wear makeup in order to feel beautiful. No girl needs makeup to be beautiful, she already is.

Insides.

Oh dear. So much has happened during these past few days, and it all begins last Tuesday. Therefore, I shall start there…at the beginning. On Tuesday after the morning lectures, we were given the details about the Day of Silence that was to come the following day. The Day of Silence is where we were to be given a total of six hours to be completely silent before the Lord. We could go wherever we wanted, and do whatever we wanted in order to find a way to reflect and pray the best we could. I was looking forward to this day like it was Christmas or something! The thought of everyone being silent is simply just a dream come true; I love quiet. Then we were told that after the six hours of silence, there would be an evening service, a time for sharing thoughts, experiences, testimonies, and also communion. Immediately my heart started pounding, and I knew exactly what that meant.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about myself these past few months, it’s that if God wants me to do something, if God wants to get my attention, he will make my heart beat faster and faster. It’s physically unexplainable; I mean, hearts don’t just start pounding on command like that. So when He got a hold of my heart that Tuesday, I knew that at the Wednesday evening service, I was going to share my testimony. I just knew it; it was as if I could see into the future, and that’s a pretty cool feeling.

I went to bed with that nervous feeling lingering at the pit of my stomach. The next day at lunch I could barely eat, and ended up leaving the table early because I just…had to. I spent my six hours of silence in my bed. I hung up my big pink towel above me, creating a cozy little dark safe space. I pulled out my laptop and began writing out my testimony. Although I had written it out many times before, I wanted to use this as an opportunity to sort out my thoughts. At that point I didn’t care how grammatically incorrect it was, for once perfection wasn’t screaming in my ears, I just wrote. Then I fell asleep, and napped for probably the…second time in my life. Surprisingly at supper, I was able to eat large sufficient amounts and even encouraged one of my friends to apply to “The Shelter” ministry in Israel. I really hope she takes it.

Anyway, at the Wednesday evening service I sat myself down in the centre of the second row—one of the most opportune places to sit when you’re preparing to share. One person went up. Then another. Then another, and another, and again, and again. I couldn’t bear the thought of missing this opportunity, so when another moment of silence passed by, God put strength to my legs and I stood up. I walked past the few in my row and walked to the very front of the room. As I picked up the microphone, I could feel all eyes on me. These moments are absolutely insane for me, since having all attention on me is a very rare occasion, which I am absolutely OK with. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, I talked. I shared. I spoke slow. I breathed slow. For the first time in my life, I didn’t care how awkward my sentences sounded, or how awkward I arranged my words. At one part of my story my voice started shaking and I could have cried, but being the tough cookie I am, I didn’t. My favorite part of being up there was seeing all of the faces staring up at me. I remember their encouraging stares like I had taken still photographs of them.

When I sat back down my face turned beat red and my friends beside me were wonderful. My perfectionist personality kicked in and I started thinking of all the things I forgot to say, and what I could’ve said differently. But it’s good to remember that whatever I said, was meant to be said. God had it all planned out from the beginning, didn’t he?

It feels good to have shared. I feel like people know a little more about me and my family and that I’m not just a total mystery anymore. To this very day, I still have people coming up to me and thanking me for sharing. I appreciate it more than they know.

So, I went to Paris last weekend. I’d really love to tell ya’ll all about it, but I’m sorry…I’m just not in the mood. Worst excuse ever, right? I feel like I can only write about one thing right now, and it’s that I’m just not feeling the greatest. Don’t get me wrong, I had the best weekend ever, and believe it or not, it was a huge spiritually growing experience. But right now, I just don’t know how much I can say on here without putting too much attention on myself or making people worried about me. I’m not sure how to explain it without putting it too lightly, or putting it too heavily. I don’t know what else I can say other than the fact that my insides hurt. I don’t know how to be content. I don’t know how to love others. I don’t know how to trust. I don’t know how to take the walls down. I don’t know how to possibly even love myself and to be myself. I don’t know how to write out my true feelings without the fear of being called a hypocrite Christian—-"has Bible school not taught you anything about God’s love?"

Again, my insides hurt.

Box.

It is extremely difficult to even attempt blogging when I have Taylor Swift ringin' in my ears. You should have seen me last week when I was trying to write my Pentateuch paper, all I wanted to write down were her lyrics. (I am not obsessed, I swear...)

I realized that I always come up with realizations, and enjoying sharing them with you. My new realization is that if you need to cry, then just do it. Why hold back? After church just slip under the covers and let the silent tears roll. It feels nice. I stumbled upon the realization only because this past week has been a battle ground within my mind, and many things have hit me all at once. The memories that I thought I had left wrapped-up tight inside a box back home has somehow mailed itself here. My fingers tore the tape and opened the box without my consent. But sometimes I have convinced myself that even if my fingers had been polite enough to hear me out, I never would have stopped them from moving. So I cried, big deal. It's not as if this is the first time I've admitted something like that before. It was quite funny actually. I did the deed, and then I felt 20 millions times better and ended up having the best day ever after!

That wonderful Sunday evening, my K-group (small group) and I indulged in "stick bread". It's bread dough that you wrap around a stick and then bake it over the fire outside. THEN while the breads' still hot you fill it with chunks of white Milka chocolate, Milka milk chocolate, Kinder Duo bars, Nutella, (and sometimes even jam for you fruit lovers), and then while you eat it, the chocolate oozes out all over your hands and it's just an all-together wonderful experience. I will admit though that it was freakishly rainy and windy yesterday evening, so we had to bake the bread in the oven, and eat the bread sitting around a coffee-table full of candles! You'd think that this would have been the best part of the evening, but the best part was our "Ask Anything" time. We went around in a circle and just asked anyone anything. I realized that I remind some others of Luna Lovegood from Harry Potter, and that I had my whole school convinced that I had a boyfriend back home all because of the photo I put on my door. I realized that love does exist even after nine years of marriage. I realized that even the most confident-seeming of people are really just as lost as I am. I realized that hearing about somebody being lead to Christ is one of those most spectacular stories that could ever be told.

Then all the girls in my 10-room laid out our mattresses on the floor and had one big sleepover. I ended up falling asleep at nearly half past 12. (That is super late for me these days!) It was a great finish to the weekend. Oh, I forgot to mention that a huge group of us spent our Saturday at the thermal bath. Mmmm! On impulse I decided to take on the waterslide backwards and ended up hitting my head on the side of the slide, leaving me with a souvenir bruise. Good times.

Gold.

This is just a part of something I wrote in the summer, and I just thought I'd share it:

So forgive me, for letting you believe that you made me cry.

Forgive me, for convincing you that you’re the reason why I’m this way.

Forgive me, for ever making you think that I would have given everything up.

For inside of me is a heart weaved of lace; this is my heart, the heart of a dreamer.

You can forgive me or you can pity me,

but most of all, you can remember that this heart is mine,

and it’s as heavy as gold.

One day you’ll understand; one day you’ll see,

that it takes more than enough strength to hold.

I love this girl.

Oceans Away.

Yesterday was a beautiful day. It wasn’t too sunny, and it wasn’t too cloudy. There was a slight cooling breeze and the autumn air was filling my every inhale. “This plus 15 degrees Celsius makes for perfect running weather.” I thought to myself. I put on my Adidas, grabbed my iPod and ran for 1 hour and 10 minutes. Yes, no need to check your vision, and no need to dust off the screen. I ran for 1 hour and 10 minutes. Can we all just let that soak in? The longest I’ve ever ran is 1 hour and 5 minutes, so 5 minutes longer than that is a big deal!

Have you ever heard something said about you, or to you, so many times that you eventually just start to believe it? This can be a good thing; or it can be a negative thing.
If somebody compliments me, I beam for hours and my day is instantly brightened. If somebody insults me, it dwells in my mind for months, even years. Why is that? It’s so stupid. It can even get to the point where I can’t even hold a conversation because I’m so convinced that I know exactly what they’re thinking about me. Negative, confidence-killing thoughts pulse through me. Everything is psychological; and everything is an assumption. It makes me hate the person who said those words, and it even makes me hate myself. I hate it. I hate hating things. And I hate that I know that I hate hating things. Hate is a strong word, and I’ve never been one for strength.

Last night wasn’t so nice. Since I’m working on vulnerability with my blog I’m going to share with you as to why it wasn’t so swell As most of you know, last year I attended university and lived in a dorm with some of the most wonderful girls in the world. It was my first dorm experience, my first moving away experience, and my first university experience. And like a first love, I’ll never forget it. And last night, everything about my 8 short months at university came flooding back to me. I lay in bed with wet eyes and a wanting heart. I wanted it back. I wanted those best friends back. They knew everything about me, everything, my past, my present, and my future. They understood my insecurities, they encouraged my dreams, and they were just so real. I never had to pretend I was something I wasn’t with them and I never felt anything from them but God’s love. What I miss most are all the times we’d just lie in my bed and talk for hours. They’re oceans and miles away and last night, they felt too far away. Last night it felt like world split in two and we were on separate halves. To be honest, I was wondering when it was going to hit me, and after an insane game of Pictionary, it was the last thing I was expecting.
Here, things are much different. I haven’t experienced culture shock. In fact, I think I’m living through relationship/people shock. I feel like nothing’s clicking just quite yet, and I feel like I’m physically here, but my past and my stories are unseen to others. I feel like I’m just a walking mystery. And sometimes, I don't want to let people in; sometimes being a complete mystery is totally OK with me. Sometimes these walls are as comfortable as a blanket around me. I don’t know what to do. On the bright side, things are developing slowly, but almost too slowly. I know I should be patient, but it’s hard. I’m tired—maybe I should quit going for 1 hour jogs. And this gloomy, gray weather is just…sigh. What is this I’m feeling?

I never ever want to take people for granted ever again. Is that too much to ask?

Hold The Pen.

Today was Sunday.

Everyone got an extra hour of sleep because of the whole “push your clocks back one hour” deal, so this morning at church we were all in pretty good and rowdy moods. Today was the first day where I actually felt completely rested too. After church and lunch, I ran up to the tea room and poured boiling water into my hot water bottle and hung out in the Honeycomb (lounge) for like…four hours. It was nothing short of awesome. I talked with so many different people today, it was great. I even memorized two of my memory verses and said them to staff members! Usually at this time in the evening we have a lecture, a social event, or a show, or something. But this evening is totally free and open-ended; I decided to take this time to blog while listening to Taylor Swift’s new album online. :)

What I loved most about today is admitting to a whole table of people that my dream is to write a book one day. To be honest, I always feel silly when I spill this because it’s almost like saying “I’m gonna land a record deal and begin touring in the fall”. It almost sounds unreachable. It’s like one of those dreams where people react with snorting and eye-rolling gestures. But here at this table, nobody did that. Everyone replied with their own cool’s! and awesome’s! and offered so much encouragement and advice.

It felt nice to be real and to be listened to. To declare and verbalize what your ambitions are is like opening a window to your soul, because your dreams define who you are as a person.

I can’t imagine landing myself in a career where I have to work for myself, or for the money. I want to help people; I want for it to count, and I want to love every minute of it. I hope you understand what I mean, because if I can’t communicate in writing, I don’t know how else I could communicate.

If you still can’t make sense of what I’m saying about my dream, then I’m going to be completely blunt and completely straightforward about this: I want to write for the rest of my life; I want to write books for teenage girls and to reach out to them the same way these books reached out to me. But, I want God to hold the pen. I think he can work through me. Nah, I don’t think, I know he can work through me. And I can’t see myself doing anything else but writing.

And as for my ultimate most impractical dream…I’d want to travel the world, and write about it every train ride, boat ride, and step of the way. Ahh! It just makes me so happy to even imagine it. If somebody asked me, “hey jenni, would you rather fall in love with the man of your dreams, or travel the world for the rest of your life?” I wouldn’t know what to say. Is that crazy? And I call this dream impractical only because it costs to travel, especially if you travel my style with your only investments being in food, chocolate, postcards, ice cream, and train tickets.

So right now I’m just trying not to freak myself out about what I’m going to do for the rest of my life, or even next year! The last thing I want to do is waste my time stressing about my future when I’m living in freaking Europe. Europe! Has it hit me yet, that I’m currently residing in such a lovely geographical location? Nope, not at all.

I actually spend a lot of time asking God what he has willed for my life, but he hasn’t really been replying to my emails…But I do know that he hears me, since I’ve never gotten one of those “return to sender” messages…

OK...Jenni is getting delirious and needs to leave before she embarrasses herself any more. If any of you have some advice for me and my dreams, I’d love to hear from you.

Thanks for reading, and good night!

Content.

Have you ever felt content? Like just satisfyingly content? I’m laying beneath my peach-toned duvet, with my “Germany” playlist (strictly Jon Foreman, Taylor Swift, Vanessa Carlton, Miranda Lambert, David Nail, and Chuck Wicks) resounding in my ears, a fleecy hot water bottle caressing my bare feet, and European mineral water engraved in my lips. Yes, I am content. You may ask, how can this be, with your unwashed hair, your excess fat lining the waist of your jeans, your tired eyes, and your cold, dry skin? You’re not in love, you haven’t won an award or trophy for your talents, you haven’t folded your clothes in awhile, and you find yourself trekking through Italy, India, and Indonesia during lecture classes. How could you possibly be content?

Well, I answer. It’s simply this: I don’t need all of those things to feel joy splashing about in my veins. I don’t need attention from masculine souls to be happy, and sometimes getting enough sleep and exercise just doesn’t cut it. What I’ve found is that like the Beatles once exclaimed…all you need is love. Yep. That’s it. All you really do need is love! Love the people you love, do what you love to do, and be who you love to be.

Love the people you love: Everyday I’m gradually beginning to grasp my wish-list of the kinds of people I want in my life, and the reasons why I love them. And everyday it’s safe to say that I’m checking off this wish-list with the encounters of acquaintances and all the while developing deeper friendships. I’ve also kept in a corner of my mind the ones who live an ocean apart from me, who are the ones I’ve loved my whole life, and are the ones who have in return loved me. I miss them. I love them. And I’m counting down the days until Christmas when I get to be with them again. (50 days!)

Do what you love to do: These days I’m living in a land of euphoria, because I’m doing what I love to do. I’m drawing. I’m painting. I’m writing. I’m reading (The Bible, a missionary biography, a fine piece by Robin Jones Gunn, and Eat Pray Love). I’m blogging. My work duty has been promoted from dining-hall floor-vacuumer, to kitchen vegetable prep girl (I cut oodles of lettuce, dice tomatoes, core apples, and peel onions until I’m standing in a puddle of stinging tears and my hands smell “oniony” for the next seven days.) I’m jumping onto random buses and indulging in salami pizza with wonderful people. I’m finding little soul-mate treasures at German flea markets. I’m singing. I’m walking cobblestone streets. I’m playing basketball (horribly). I’m stargazing. I’m learning how to say hello/good day/good morning/good afternoon/good evening in Korean (An Nyung Ha Se Ho)! I’m buying little pins to add to my pin collection, which is portrayed on my fringe purse. I’m sending out I Wish You Were Here’s with letters and postcards. I’m eating chocolate every single day. I can’t remember the last time I cried out of sadness. But most of all, I’m learning more and more about Jesus.

And be who you want to be: This has always been a struggle for me. Many times, being myself hasn’t been good enough for my standards. So I’ve tried to be someone else; I’ve tried tipping the scale to the extroverted side. Being loud and chatty wasn’t for me, or me. Being overwhelmingly outgoing wasn’t for me, or me. I’ve pretended to like things I didn’t really like, and I’ve done things that I could’ve done without. I’ve feared rejection and failure to the point of living like a cabbage, you know how it is, if you don’t try then you’ll be sure to never fail, so don’t try. –Cue slap in the face, bucket of ice cold water, and hard brick wall- What’s the use living like that? These recent handprints, ice cubes, and structured rock piles have done me good.

Brunch is in t-minus 5 minutes. Happy Saturday!

Silent, or Spoken.

It’s 3:23 in the afternoon and I’m sitting in the school library. I seem to have a certain love for libraries, especially this one. The minute you walk in your nostrils are flooded with the thick scent of old pages and bent spines, and this tiny four-walled room is lit with white sunlight pouring in through the windows. But, the real reason I love this room most, is because it puts thoughts in my head…thoughts of peace, tranquility, and drive. This room inspires me to no end. When I sit in this chair with my forearms upon this desk, all I want to do is write, and all I care about is letters, words, or silly feelings and dreams sprawled across thin paper. When I sit in this chair, time means nothing to me; its ticking notion is but a distant memory in the corner of my mind. When I sit in this chair, I don’t remember where I am, nor do I even care.

So now that I’m in such a place at this very moment in time, with Jon Foreman singing in my ears, I’m going to admit to you that good things are happening. I feel like I’m gradually growing. Slowly, steadily, and at a snails pace, one might say. Especially in my faith, and especially in my confidence.

If there’s one thing I’ve never told anyone other than my own soul, it’s that I’ve always had a problem with praying aloud. Out loud. I remember back in my Sunday school days, when the teacher would ask for volunteers to pray for the class, I’d always hide in my seat and cringe. Just the mere thought of hearing my own voice speaking to thin air, with everybody’s ears tuned in my direction, was pure torture. I don’t know if I could blame it on my own psychological differences, or just on my environment, since every other kid in the class hid their own faces as well; as if we planned to synchronize our fearful bodies to slide beneath the table. I grew up believing that this uniformed act was normal. Even with my own friends, the thought of prayer was non-existent. Sure, we were in constant prayer with God while we were together, but physically praying together just wasn’t something that you did with your friends. In my mind I developed the belief that prayer was the epitome of personal; it’s a conversation between your mind, and Jesus Christ.

Then when my first year at university came around, it hit me like a brick wall. During our dorm meetings, our concerts, our classrooms, I couldn’t believe how eagerly most people were to pray out loud for their fellow colleagues. And as much as I hate to admit it, my initial reaction was, “really? What’s wrong with you? Why would you even want to do such a thing?” When I attended a prayer night at this university, I can’t even recall ever speaking a word within my small group; I just couldn’t bring myself to pray out loud, with my voice and with my lips. Nonetheless, I sat still in silent prayer and wearing listening ears. When my best friend pulled me aside, embraced me, and started praying for me, all I could do was cry. Even though she was my best friend, and so very comfortable with her, I just couldn’t pray any words back to her.

These experiences left me feeling spiritually empty. I always wondered why God never gave me the desire to pray out loud for people, and with people; with my own family and friends. This spiritual desert then drained my every being into a pool of low self-esteem. When I heard beautiful prayers of poetry, like silk coming from their lips, and passion beyond belief, I convinced myself that even if I did try to pray aloud, it would be simply awful. Hearing my sandpaper sentences against their silk speeches was something I’d never want to risk. And that my friends, is what I call lack of confidence.

I then came to Bible school in Germany. I would absolutely love to write that my confidence is now skyrocketing through the roof and that I’m the official prayer leader for Sunday morning worship, but that would be a lie. My confidence is not skyrocketing through the roof, and I’m definitely not the official prayer leader for the Sunday morning worship service. But what I can truthfully exclaim to the world is that I’m no longer finding confidence in myself, but in Jesus who lives inside of me. With his confidence, I am doing things I never could’ve pictured myself doing in a million years. I have voluntarily prayed out loud in front of my peers, knowing that my “sandpaper sentences” are sandpaper sentences from God. I have also joined a sing team, where recently I’ve been forcing myself to sing out loud in front of others, at times by myself. And with this sing team, when we go on outreaches I may have to say my testimony standing at the front of a church. I’m doing all of these things that I can’t believe I’m doing.

I wish I could tread through this topic more, but my sense of academic responsibility is kicking in. What I’d like to end with is that it doesn’t matter what you’re prayer sounds like. I’ve always had a problem with caring too much about what people thought of me, so I just need to remind myself that it doesn’t matter what language you speak, how charismatic you are, or the number of descriptive and gorgeous words you can fit into your speech; what matters is making sure your heart is in it. God knows your heart, and he hears your prayers, silent or spoken.