responsibility of reframing the world for these teenagers. Showing them that some people did follow through with what they said, forgave when teenagers made teenager mistakes, offered consequences that fit the offense with emotions that were tempered and without their fists.
Sitting on the airplane on the way home, I watched out the window as my bags were loaded into the cargo portion below. As I started to pray, asking God to show me if I was meant to come back, I knew I already had the answer. I felt God impressing it on my heart: I would come back. And for more than one purpose: to be at the Dale House and to be with Derek.
There is only a smattering of times I’ve felt God’s clear direction. This was the first of those experiences.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I was overwhelmed at the thought of having direction from the Artist who had formed the Rocky Mountains in the distance. There is a difference between saying God knows me and believing it. And an even greater difference between believing it and having evidence of it.
As the tears flowed, I absorbed God’s provision through the details of the Dale House. Of being sent to a place that seemed to so perfectly fit who I was and what I was looking for. The staff trusted that their actions spoke of God’s love with more clarity than any words. Where extending grace came first, and changed behavior was expected only after kids knew they were in a place where they were safely loved. And the possibility of a man who was pulled in the same direction, to the same place, for more than just service—for me. I’d found the starting place for my grown-up life trajectory.
A month later, looking up at the whiteboard in my college house kitchen, I laughed at my roommates’ nickname for Derek. I could feel my heart rate rise at even knowing he’d thought about me. He’d probably called for some clarification on my application, but I could hope there was something more. A reason it was him who called rather than someone else. That he was as expectant as I was about what the next year held.
ii Impressions
M ortified would be a light term for how I felt. But I was so thankful to be done riding the bike, out of the freezing air, and back in the van. The day before, the Dale House staff piled into the group home vans with bikes and bags of extra clothes for a two-day orientation of sorts, which included a bike ride over Vail Pass. As in riding over the Continental Divide, the mountain range that separates our country’s east from west.
My sea-level Seattle lungs and discount mountain bike did not prepare me for this group bonding activity. I’d arrived in Colorado only two weeks earlier. I was relieved on the first day of the bike excursion when a rare September snowstorm hit and the riding was optional. What totally baffled me were the others in the group who opted to ride in the blowing snow.
I’d already suspected I might not fit in with the rugged culture of the place. Though the Pacific Northwest was similar to Colorado in its affinity for the outdoor lifestyle, my idea of getting outside was hitting the sales at an open-air mall.
Soon after I arrived, I was sitting in the staff meeting room with my Bible, waiting for others to meander in for our group Biblestudy. George, the director, walked by in his wire-frame glasses and his black motorcycle jacket hanging over his marathon-running skeleton frame, a box of cigarettes tucked in his front chest pocket. He looked down at the table and laughed.
“A pink Bible?!” he shouted. “Ha, I’ve never seen a pink Bible before!”
I looked down at the pink leather cover of my Bible with my name embossed in silver letters across the front. I felt my shoulders drop as I tried to slink down in my chair. No one had ever commented on the color of my Bible before. I was suddenly aware I was wearing mascara.
It stopped snowing overnight, and the second day’s ride was not optional. As soon as I started pedaling, I
Sitting on the airplane on the way home, I watched out the window as my bags were loaded into the cargo portion below. As I started to pray, asking God to show me if I was meant to come back, I knew I already had the answer. I felt God impressing it on my heart: I would come back. And for more than one purpose: to be at the Dale House and to be with Derek.
There is only a smattering of times I’ve felt God’s clear direction. This was the first of those experiences.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I was overwhelmed at the thought of having direction from the Artist who had formed the Rocky Mountains in the distance. There is a difference between saying God knows me and believing it. And an even greater difference between believing it and having evidence of it.
As the tears flowed, I absorbed God’s provision through the details of the Dale House. Of being sent to a place that seemed to so perfectly fit who I was and what I was looking for. The staff trusted that their actions spoke of God’s love with more clarity than any words. Where extending grace came first, and changed behavior was expected only after kids knew they were in a place where they were safely loved. And the possibility of a man who was pulled in the same direction, to the same place, for more than just service—for me. I’d found the starting place for my grown-up life trajectory.
A month later, looking up at the whiteboard in my college house kitchen, I laughed at my roommates’ nickname for Derek. I could feel my heart rate rise at even knowing he’d thought about me. He’d probably called for some clarification on my application, but I could hope there was something more. A reason it was him who called rather than someone else. That he was as expectant as I was about what the next year held.
ii Impressions
M ortified would be a light term for how I felt. But I was so thankful to be done riding the bike, out of the freezing air, and back in the van. The day before, the Dale House staff piled into the group home vans with bikes and bags of extra clothes for a two-day orientation of sorts, which included a bike ride over Vail Pass. As in riding over the Continental Divide, the mountain range that separates our country’s east from west.
My sea-level Seattle lungs and discount mountain bike did not prepare me for this group bonding activity. I’d arrived in Colorado only two weeks earlier. I was relieved on the first day of the bike excursion when a rare September snowstorm hit and the riding was optional. What totally baffled me were the others in the group who opted to ride in the blowing snow.
I’d already suspected I might not fit in with the rugged culture of the place. Though the Pacific Northwest was similar to Colorado in its affinity for the outdoor lifestyle, my idea of getting outside was hitting the sales at an open-air mall.
Soon after I arrived, I was sitting in the staff meeting room with my Bible, waiting for others to meander in for our group Biblestudy. George, the director, walked by in his wire-frame glasses and his black motorcycle jacket hanging over his marathon-running skeleton frame, a box of cigarettes tucked in his front chest pocket. He looked down at the table and laughed.
“A pink Bible?!” he shouted. “Ha, I’ve never seen a pink Bible before!”
I looked down at the pink leather cover of my Bible with my name embossed in silver letters across the front. I felt my shoulders drop as I tried to slink down in my chair. No one had ever commented on the color of my Bible before. I was suddenly aware I was wearing mascara.
It stopped snowing overnight, and the second day’s ride was not optional. As soon as I started pedaling, I
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