beauty in broken

 The Japanese art of Kintsugi has been significant for me in the past years. 

Are you familiar with it? It comes from a tradition of seeing beauty in brokenness. Pottery that has been broken is repaired and put back together with an adhesive mixed with gold or silver powder, thus highlighting the cracks and making the end result more valuable than it was previously. 

Wow. To think that God may restore my brokenness into something more beautiful and more valuable. That's huge.

Then last week I attended a debrief retreat, reviewing and reflecting on the past few years, and toward the end of the week we entered the session room to find a small ceramic pot in front of each of us.  ➜

The task:
break the pot and put it back together in whatever shape or form we are led to, and then paint the cracks with gold or silver. All the while using it as a contemplative exercise, asking God what he might want to say through this process. I'm familiar with this art but have never physically done an exercise like this. So immediately I have in my mind an image of the pot broken in manageable 8-12 pieces, put back together to create a whole piece and beautifully outlined. You know, images like this: 

That's not what happened. I threw my pot (it was in a bag to keep pieces contained) against a cement porch, and it shattered. SHATTERED. Into umpteen pieces and shards everywhere. You can see my reaction here:

Very telling, my reaction. Dismay. Overwhelm-ment. Those visions of beautifully put-back-together pots immediately destroyed.  An expression of some of the things I have been feeling about life. And as I went through the process of piecing back together, God spoke in even more significant ways than I had experienced with this imagery previously. Because I had already been reflecting on feeling broken throughout the week. Already asking what glory God wanted to reveal out of the feeling of being pulled apart. So this was another piece of him speaking into what I was experiencing.

This is what I journaled:

Broken. Smashed. 
    Into many more pieces than hoped for.
    Shards, some impossible to piece back together.

Shock. Dismay.
NO!!!

Images of beautiful golden-lined pieces pieced back together destroyed.

Gather the pieces. As many as look realistic to jigsaw back together.

Overwhelm-ment. Is this even possible?

Hands gather two pieces. Try this angle. Try that.
    In my humanness, struggle with the puzzle.
    But the Maker knows exactly how they fit.

Regardless, patience.
    Glue, press together, lay it down, wait.
    This piece? No? This piece? No.
    Here's one. Yes! Progress.
        Ok, now this other piece fits.

Gently, patiently. Excitement in the progress.
Joy in the coming together.

Pieced back.
    Sometimes almost seamlessly, the crack imperceptible.
    Sometimes with gaps; missing pieces and missing shards.
        But that gap, that hole - that's where the light will shine through.

This is a process, this reshaping. Repair.

"Do you trust me? Trust that out of shattered, what is coming WILL be beautiful?" 

It doesn't look like it in the process.
It's rough. Raw. Slightly misshapen. The pieces don't line up.
    Obviously shattered and repaired.

But wait for it.

GOLD

Illuminating the cracks. Transforming them into beauty.
Highlighting imperfection. Giving it value.

This vessel treasured in the brokenness and reshaping.

This vessel a Masterpiece.

But this beautiful treasure is contained in us—cracked pots made of earth and clay—so that the transcendent character of this power will be clearly seen as coming from God and not from us.

2 Corinthians 4:7, The Voice

Hope for a weary world

 I was reminded yesterday of these lines from the beloved Christmas carol:

“A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn”

We are a very weary world right now. A world desperately in need of hope. We need a reason to rejoice. Not just hope in a vaccine or an end to a pandemic, though those would be great. What is hope beyond that, and before that? A hope when it doesn't look like anything will change in the near future. A hope for today. A hope for tomorrow. A hope for health and wholeness. A hope for equality and justice for all. A hope for respect and grace in differences. A hope in the midst of a year of loss, of many griefs, of ongoing stress. The world is weary. So, so tired. There are likely few who have not been impacted in one way or another. We long for a new and glorious morn. Everywhere we read messages of readiness to leave 2020 behind; a longing to step into something new, to be able to take a deep breath of something fresh, to emerge into a new perspective and new physical circumstances. We are more than ready for it.

But what if it doesn't come, or doesn't come soon enough or doesn't happen in the way we want it to? In reality, we have not suffered like many from generations and centuries before us. Despite what Covid has cost us, it's not nearly the cost that others in centuries past and even currently throughout the world have suffered in disease, war, persecution and poverty. In reality, we don't have it that bad. 

And yet hope is crucial. Without it, we don't survive. I included a part of this verse on my Christmas card, because it seems so fitting for this season. We are all in need of joy, peace and HOPE. 

 May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.   Romans 15:13

This Christmas what does it look like to overflow with hope? To be filled with joy and peace? I've become very aware recently that joy and peace, and even hope, can coexist with grief and loss and unmet expectation. I do experience joy in my days; in the giggles and excitement of a 2 year old nephew over trains and chocolate. In Maggie's exuberant dashes around the snow-covered lawn. In long days of cookie-making with family, Christmas music playing in the background, tables laden with a plethora of delicacies, which I haven't experienced in 5 years. In the slowness of mornings and the way snow showers calm over my soul. In knowing freedom from condemnation. In grace in restoration.

At the same time I hold some significant aches:  Family that won't be together for Christmas. Not being able to meet my newly-born niece. Loss upon loss and unknown upon unknown due to Covid. Unmet desires for intimacy and connection. Questioning where I belong. Close friends who are on the other side of the world. 

    There is joy. 

    There is grief. 

    There is peace. 

    There is unsettledness. 

    There is desire. 

    There is hope.

Yes, there is hope that some of these desires will be met physically, in this world, now. And yet for true peace, I have to hold them all with very open hands. Not grasping, not demanding. But TRUSTING the God of hope to bring about his good. Trust in the future he has for me, not my version of it, whether that's tomorrow or next month, during this present season of Covid and sabbatical that looks different than expected, or 5 years from now. Trust in his love and his goodness, his faithfulness to his promises and to me. My part out of that verse is to trust. That's it. The rest is God's part – to fill with joy and peace which overflows into hope.

I long for the thrill of hope in which this weary soul and weary world can rejoice. Maybe right now, circumstantially, it doesn't seem possible. But internally it is possible because of Love. Love which was born to dwell among us. Love that experienced what we experience and felt what we felt. Love that was born to bring light to darkness and hope to despair. A hope in Love to conquer, that Love's desire is for joy and peace: between nations and families, between political and racial divides, between any relationship. On a world-wide scale and in every individual, in the interior and hidden places every heart.

Into what corner of your heart does Love want to spark hope?

Join what God is doing in Prague

For the next 2 years, I need an additional $300/month to cover in-country taxes, plus $400 (formerly $1,200!) of normal monthly support which has not yet been pledged. Will you help meet this need?

To participate in Jan's ministry in the Czech Republic, please 

1. complete the interest form here
2. visit www.emm.org/jheindel to make your pledge or contribution

Following is a glimpse into what is happening and what God is doing, as well as what is coming. Any gift is helpful and valued. Thank you for being a part of what God is going!

Dear friends,

I don't have words to describe the incredible richness of the past couple of years in relational ministry. Not because I've introduced many people to Jesus, because I haven't. Not because there are hoards of unbelieving Czechs asking deep spiritual questions, because there aren't (at least in my circles – though within my church's ministries there are great testimonies). But because God has blessed me with many relationships in which we are drawing closer to God's heart together to become who God created us to be in his story.

I started to lead a high school girl's Bible study on my own in Czech this past year. It was scary. It was stretching. I didn't know if the girls would get anything from it. But I also realized that the places I feel most inadequate are where God can most easily display his glory. And by the end of the year, the girls expressed how much of a blessing this space was. Maybe a little bit because of what they learned, but also simply to have a safe space to talk, share, worship and pray. The newest member reflected that she never could have imagined being part of such a welcoming, safe group. And as we gathered for the last time before I flew to the States, we shared our highlights and challenges for the coming months and had such sweet conversation and pray together. They are being built up and then moving out with faith and courage. This is discipleship.

As I've pursued more of my own spiritual formation in the past few years and God has increased my desire to walk alongside others in a pastoral care role, the relationships I had in the past have deepened and become something that I'm truly amazed at. Because as I've sat, listened, been curious and offered myself to the women and girls I relate to, I'm learning to enter these relationships more selflessly, with God's heart, and they are responding and being encouraged and challenged and built up. In Anatomy of the Soul, one of the books required for my spiritual direction course, Curt Thompson writes:

When a person tells his story and is truly heard and understood, he undergoes actual changes in his brain circuitry that corresponds to a greater sense of emotional and relational connection, decreased anxiety, and greater awareness of and compassion for others’ suffering.

My desire is to listen with an ear bent toward understanding and let God accomplish the repair and renewal – all by simply being present and showing up with my whole heart. I haven't looked for praise or affirmation, but in the past months numerous girls have expressed the impact I've had in their lives. I'm completely in awe, because I know it's not about me, but about God's expression of himself through me. I don't know exactly where this journey of pastoral care will take me, but I know that I see others experiencing God more fully and being able to name and choose a path of integrity, devotion and service to him. I'm excited to see what possibilities are yet to come.

From another perspective, my pastor has shared:

 I have been very thankful for Jan´s ministry in Prague and in Czech Republic. She has been very people oriented especially her ministry with girls was great. She also has been a big help with english evangelistic club. There are many missionaries in Prague but our major problem is that even though they claim that they want to help the Church, many of them have their own agenda and in reality they are not very useful for local Churches. This was not true with Jan. She was very open to do what we as a Church really needed. As a pastor I have been very excited from what she did and how she served. 

David Novak (pastor of the Church and president of the denomination where Jan serves) 

For me, this is affirmation that I'm currently where God wants me. For the time being I'm incredibly honored to be serving in Prague and among these dear people. God is doing good things, all glory to him. Thank you for your participation in the depth of ministry that is happening. It wouldn't be possible without you.

In His service,

Jan 

A few of the lovely girls I mentor

the things I notice: 2020 version

 It seems fitting every time I return to the States and as I notice what is different, what I've missed, etc., to share them with the world. Maybe you don't care. Maybe it's just for my own remembrance. But then again, many do ask, "What have you missed? What food do you want to eat when you're here?..."

But also, in general I haven't been looking forward to being back in the States. To family, yes. To the peace of my parents' home, yes. But not to the general atmosphere in the States and the limitations due to COVID. So it's also a good practice to name some of the things that have especially given me joy.

So, if it's interesting, these are a few of the noticings this time around, both specific joys and random strangeness (according to this European dweller):

• the goodness of meals from the garden
• sweet corn and fresh, juicy peaches
• the number of people in stores NOT wearing masks. In the Czech, if people are told they should wear masks, they wear masks.
• so many trucks (pick-up trucks) and large vehicles on the road
• American flags everywhere (Czechs aren't so patriotic to need to display their flag)
• so many random text messages: reminding you of doctor appointments, from the phone company wanting you to purchase an add-on, 
• boatloads of cereal options in the grocery aisle
• peanut butter M&M's. Yum.
• the number of empty shelves in store aisles during this season - not finding what I want
• lovely sunny fall days as opposed to rainy fall days
• people in public who strike up random conversations with you
• umpteen recorded options when I call to make an appointment somewhere
• the relief of being able to explain what I need or want (in stores, at appointments, etc) in English rather than trying to figure out how I might say it in Czech
• it's generally "Jan and Maggie" together, according to my youngest nephew. "Hi, Jan and Maggie!", "Jan and Maggie, what are you doing?" 😄
• the delight of fall camping, s'mores and mountain pies - along with the overcrowding of campgrounds on the weekends! 
• wide open space and yard to be outside and explore - especially for Maggie!
• how few steps I can actually take in one day: a record low of 214 (granted, it counts on my phone and I don't carry it with me around the house. But in Prague outside of COVID season, it was rare to have a day less than 5,000 or 10,000 of just normal activity.)
• package delivery at your doorstep by Amazon within a day or two of ordering

Joy set before me

I started off quarantine throwing a tantrum. Not quite literally, but internally kicking and screaming that the vacation I was so looking forward to was no longer possible, that concentrated time with friends was lost, very possibly never to happen in that way again, and the time of rest and refreshment gone. Feeling like I've experienced loss after loss, and this was just another. So much, “Why, God?? This isn't fair! When do I get a break?!” Knowing that I should surrender, trust that God knows and sees me, but feeling utterly powerless to get to that point myself.

This is a season of being out of control. And in the face of that, some pretty ugly things surface. Resentment. Self-pity. Lashing out at others (in my subtle, manipulative way, Enneatype 1 way, because outright anger is not appropriate, of course...). Maybe you're all perfectly accepting of what currently is. Could be, but somehow I doubt it. :) Loss of certain identities – in work, in relationships, in purpose. Loss of surface desires – the things you were really looking forward to. And the challenges that this season creates: loss of structure and routine to days, zoom after zoom meeting and trying to have connection online, maybe for you having kids home all day or suddenly finding yourself without work.

In this season it's helped me to recognize that this is a grief process: to see how I've gone through stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The denial disappeared fairly quickly, to be left with days upon days of anger and then some depression. In pieces I've come to the acceptance and surrender; a couple others still in some former stage. I'm still feeling some resistance, although the screaming 2 year old isn't quite as loud. She's settled down, maybe pouting a bit. But I'm recognizing some pretty significant gifts: yard to sit in and play with Maggie (or watch her joy) where I don't have to wear a mask. A family upstairs that welcomes me in. As much as I resisted moving from my former flat, God knew what he was doing for this season. Even morning walks with Maggie up the hill and across the field – a space of quietness and stillness and peace in a world that hasn't yet arisen and emerged.

But in the remaining resistance – the continued pain, the long-term unmet desires - I recognize the temptation to feel shame, that “I just need to let go and trust God.” But how does one do that? I sit with it, longing for God to meet me in it. Asking him to do the transformation while I wait, because there really is nothing I can do on my own. I can't force it. I need his hope, his joy.

Jesus, as Hebrews describes, for the joy set before him endured the cross. This Holy Week, as I reflect on that, I've been challenged. For the joy set before him. The joy was partly me. Partly you. And yet for myself, I don't see the joy set before me. Is it only for heaven, for the joy there? I want to believe it's even here, even on earth. Maybe it's not a fulfillment of my physical desires. But can it at least be him meeting those deeper, eternal desires: for connection, to be seen and known, to have a place to belong? I travel the path of Jesus with him this week, feeling the losses, the pain. Longing for God to be there with me, to even remove the cup. I don't want to experience the forsaken-ness. Mostly, this week I long to know the joy set before me on this earth. At the least, to know what God wants to speak into me in it. To know pieces of the resurrection life on the other side of the walk toward death.

As I was out walking this week, I noticed spring emerging. White flowering trees bring some color to the landscape. Buds starting to emerge on trees. The earth is being resurrected, though in general the world can't be out to experience it. But it happens regardless of our ability to experience it, take it in visually. It will continue to bring forth new life.

That's my hope and prayer for myself and for all of us in this season: that whether or not I am experiencing the new life, to be able to hold on to the undeniable fact that it still happens. Maybe it takes more to notice right now. Maybe not – maybe you suddenly HAVE the space to notice. Regardless, it's there and I don't want it to pass me by. Though this Easter weekend looks vastly different than any any other I've celebrated, maybe there's something simple and sacred in it, something precious waiting to be noticed in this stripped away version of the resurrection celebration. A piece of joy set before me.  

God is bringing about resurrection life. How am I and how are you posturing yourself to see it and receive it?

Hygge peace

*written last Sunday but just now able to edit and post. Still applicable. Every day.

I reflect on the last Sunday of Advent on these symbols... the flickering flames of each candle casting a warm glow on my dimly lit room. Hope. Joy. Love. Peace. In this space and moment – quiet, restful – I am safe. I am cocooned in the peace of the atmosphere. You know hygge? (Danish and Norwegian word for a mood of coziness and comfortable conviviality with feelings of wellness and contentment.Thanks, Wikipedia). That's me. So with my blanket and candles and tea and a puppy curling up next to me, I'm content. I'm at peace. Peace enjoying the four candles, the final just lit before the celebration of the Arrival. 

But my heart is not always so peaceful. There has been heartache this year. There have been changes and transitions out of my control. I'm more alone, not physically, but lacking in others who relate to my situation and position in life. There are unmet longings and anticipation of even more transition. FYI: I don't do great with transition.

And what feels most unsettling at the moment is what is coming. A winter/spring semester that has to potential to be rather demanding with balancing a lot of travel and trainings, alongside teaching and all my other normal work. And then this space - this flat which I've loved and decorated and has become my own and a safe space – this place I have to leave. Not of my choice. And so my heart also breaks. It's a loss. It means transition. New schedules, new routine, further commute, a new space to get used to and make my own. And as this new space will only be temporary, probably at the most 8 months, it will never truly be my own. And that affects my mindset in being there. I mourn the unsettledness that is coming. Routines that actually won't become permanent. Packing up half my life to go to storage while the other half of my life accompanies me.

And yet, peace. What is a heart at peace in the turmoil? The heartaches don't necessarily disappear. Peace is not a lack of problems. But where is my heart in the midst of the waves around me, seen and unseen? It's not in my possessions. It's not necessarily even in the relationships around me – though they do help. Some constant is a good thing. Maggie will be one of those, though she'll struggle with the transition as well. But can I trust that God holds the aches with me, and then walk out of my door each morning knowing that He is the true constant that keeps me safe and secure? That in the midst of much unsettledness - and usettledness probably for the upcoming 18+ months (I won't get into that here...) - I will find rest from what the Prince of Peace places within? I long to stay in that place, my hygge place with the Father, no matter where I rest my head each night.

 I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.

John 14:27 NLT 

The foreigner visits the doctor

Going to the doctor is an exercise in trust, flexibility and surrender.
(And just to clarify, this is not a judgement on Czech systems... they are just different from American systems).

I know, none of us really like to go to the doctor. You're never quite sure what to expect and what new treatment you'll have to undergo or pills you'll have to take. You'll most likely be told to lose weight, or lower your cholesterol or something else unpleasant that you really don't want to do. That's normal.

But as a foreigner the complications increase when you have to figure out WHAT to do. Check-in is not the same. Insurance is not the same. Language is not the same, and words that you use when visiting the doctor are definitely not the same vocabulary as everyday life.

So every time I need to go to the doctor (and for me, it's every 3 months) there's a little bit - or a lot - of nervousness. By this time, one would think it would be simple. Every 3 months I go for blood-work and to pick up the medication I take. It should be the same process. And, in fact, the nurses have started to recognize me, know that I'm not a native Czech speaker, and have been a bit kinder in trying to help me. But inevitably, something is different and also inevitably, I won't understand what is needed or where I should go or what I should ask for.

Sometimes it's the girls at reception. It seems there is a high turnover in this position, so the girls who previously recognized you are no longer sitting there and you have to explain again that you came for medication and to have blood-work done. No, I don't have insurance (at least, not Czech insurance that you will understand). Yes, I will pay for it. Yes, I know it's expensive. No, my credit card is not contact-less (when will the US catch up on this??).

Then you proceed to the door at the end of the hall with the receipt indicating you've paid. (I've learned that I have to knock on the door and wait for a nurse to come to find out what I need.) But as you stand there for what sometimes feels like eternity, you begin to wonder if they've heard, if you should know again, if you're at the wrong door, if you've misunderstood and you're supposed to go elsewhere (as was the case once or twice).

Sometimes it's that the girl at reception sends you to the head nurse's door. For what you don't know. Only that you're supposed to go there and knock and then try to explain confusedly that you were sent there. Oh, only to take your file from the head nurse to the other nurses where the blood-work is done.

Sometimes it's that you knock on the door where you usually go, they have your file, but tell you to go sit at the doctor's door. What door (there are about 5 possibilities)? And why? There is no explanation (every Czech knows the system, so there is no reason to explain), and so you sit, feeling helpless and lost and confused. Until a nurse comes by and shows a different place to sit. And  you wait, hoping that someone, somewhere, knows what needs to happen next and will fetch you. Because you're clueless. Eventually the doctor opens the door and calls your name. And apparently you just needed the doctor's confirmation to continue the same treatment. You guess. But how often this needs to happen, you have no idea.

So my doctor visits are an exercise in leaning on Jesus. In releasing all control, because I have none. It's absolute helplessness and surrender. Because as much as I think I know and am confident in, there's always something new. I've been reduced to tears in the anxiety of helplessness and lost-ness often enough that I need to approach these days full of God's truth and confidence, knowing that even if I'm completely in the dark, in the end it really will be ok. And in that, I can sit and wait and trust, and much less often find myself in tears.