Mackenzie Standing

In a quest to be intentional this advent, I'm starting a series on Christ's birth. If you missed the first week's post, you can find it  here . If you missed the second week's post, it's posted  here.  Sadly, I completely forgot to post the third week, and for that I give my deepest apologies. "The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel (which means 'God with us')." -Matthew 1:23 Immanuel. It's always been such a special name of God to me. This Christmas, however, it's striking me anew. This Christmas, I find it particularly precious. Immanuel. God with us. There's something so awe-inspiring about that concept. We have a God that wasn't content to merely watch our pain and distance himself from us; no, instead he chose to come down and meet us in the moment. We have a God humble enough to show up in the most unexpected circumstances: a simple manger in a dinky town, born to some average p

If you'd like to read the first part of this blog post, click  here . I'm growing to love the Gallatin Valley. I love walking around campus when it's late at night and all is quiet. I love running down to the first floor of my hall and seeing all the 1D girls hanging out in their lounge. I love attempting to fit eight people around one of the tiny tables in Harrison dining hall. I love debating literature with my Texts and Critics class. I love praising God at InterVarsity. I love swing dancing in the barn on Fridays and heading out to watch movies afterwards. But mostly I just love all of the great people I've met and friends I've made over the past few months. My first semester of my college career is officially behind me. I honestly cannot believe that it went by that fast. It's been a semester of tests, paper, presentations, and lots and lots of reading. It's been a semester of late night movie-watching, sledding, 5Ks, dancing, terrific meals (wit

In a quest to be intentional this advent (and to find a healthy distraction from the pre-finals stress) I'm starting a series on Christ's birth. If you missed the first week's post, you can find it here . I've learned a lot about anticipation over the past year. There have been moments over the past few months where I lie awake longing for the familiar. There were days before Thanksgiving break where I was literally bouncing with the excitement of seeing my family and friends (I'm not that excited now... But I also don't think it's kicked in that I will be home in less than 48 hours!). I now know the heart-pounding, knee-knocking, I-can-hardly-walk-up-these-stairs-I'm-so-excited feeling that comes when I'm mere seconds away from returning to open houses and open arms that have always spelled home in my heart. I like anticipation. It fills me with excitement, and longing, and joy. This advent I've been thinking of what part this sense of antic

In a quest to be intentional this advent (and to find a healthy distraction from the pre-finals stress) I'm starting a series on Christ's birth. First up: His mom.  If you'd like to view the Bible passage I'll be talking about in this post, click here. For years Mary has been one of my role models in Scripture. She's a very young woman (probably around 13 or so, according to many scholars) engaged to be married to a man named Joseph. While I can't pretend to know how she felt about that, the fact remains: This girl had plans for her life, and one conversation changes all of that.  I wonder just what Mary was thinking as the angel Gabriel came to tell her that God had chosen her to bear His son. Is she frightened? Thinking he's crazy? Questioning why she'd been chosen for this role? She lives in a period of history where this task she's been handed is highly dangerous. There were no "Sixteen and Pregnant" shows in her era. Joseph

I love the Wenatchee Valley. I love waking up and seeing Saddlerock out my front window. I love the deep blue Columbia River that rolls through the center of town. I love how apples are everywhere,  from the names of companies to little brothers in apple judging contests to kind strangers who save you from a flat tire, and, yes, give you apples while you wait. I love Coffee Cabin and Blue Spoon and Spring Lotus and McGlinns and Lemolos and all those other quirky, only-in-the-valley places. But mostly I just love the people and faces that make Wenatchee what it truly is: home. It was so, so, so nice to get to go back for Thanksgiving. I can't help praising God for that opportunity- I know too many people who weren't so lucky! And yes, some things were different. Some stores had changed. Some items in houses had moved around. Some babies had started walking, and others had finally arrived while I was away. Those aspects were a little strange, but in so many ways it felt like

I get to go home in two weeks. Two. Weeks. T-w-o w-e-e-k-s. 14 days. Deux semaines. One fortnight. I'm a little excited, if you can't tell. I'm also a wee bit nervous. By the time I get home I'll have been gone for three months, and a lot can change during that time. People will have moved on and places will be different. I'm not exactly the same, either, though (um, no way would I have ever kept my room clean back home. Sorry, Mom.). Much as I might want to slip back into the roles I once held, they're not mine to fill anymore. That will most definitely be weird. Therefore, it's a countdown full of excitement and just a twinge of fear. But mostly excitement. With the realization that I'll be leaving in two weeks, though, came another: I'm a little sad to go. I've grown to really like Bozeman. And so, without further ado, here is a list of the best and worst of my new life. THE BEST: My classes don't start until 9, sometimes 9:30.

I've taken up swing dancing since coming to Montana. Dancing does not come easily to me. I'm not, as my brother Jarred would put it, "loosey goosey." I really like it, but my lack of skill tends to make me self-conscious. The first night I showed up and nervously explained to each of my partners that I'd never done it before. Luckily for me, most of them took pity on me and kept things relatively simple. Well, most of them. As one guy (who was quite a good dancer) pulled me out onto the floor, I tried to explain my lack of skill. "That's okay," he said. "Just hold onto my hands and go where I move you." So I did. I stopped trying to figure out what I was doing. I stopped worrying about whether I was doing anything right. I just held onto his hands and let him lead. And as we spun around the room, I must admit: I couldn't stop smiling. I've often heard that faith is like a dance with God-we may mess up, step on His feet, or try

There are holes in my heart that I just can't fill. So often lately I find my soul aching because of things I don't understand. So often I find myself struggling with things I really wish I could ignore. I'm sad a lot lately. I grieve a lot lately. It's hard to do that here; it's hard to try and explain where my heart's at, where my faith's at, where my life's at in a five minute conversation with people I've known for two months. It's not for lack of trying on either part, more that I just don't know the answers to all those questions myself. Some days I understand more than others. Today is easy. Today I'm sad. Today is Troy's birthday and he's not here to celebrate it. Today I find myself thinking of the most insignificant details. How he always wore this really ugly, mustard brown knit beanie. How he once took me out to ice cream three separate times because he promised to take me as a reward and kept "forgetting&qu

For the sake of being completely honest, I must admit: I want to go home. There's so much that I miss here. I miss Jarred coming into my room shouting "MY SISTA!" at the top of his lungs. I miss Travis making some sarcastic remark about whatever Jarred said. I miss movie nights at the Thompson's house and watching Phineas and Ferb with Lauren and Elizabeth. I miss my Froyo-Fridays with Hannah and volunteering at Columbia Heights. I miss Wednesday night coffee with Meghan and watching as Kaleb comes up with creative ways to ask if we can leave. I miss being part of a team. I miss making the Sunday graphics and teaching my kids and helping lead worship on Sundays. But mostly I just miss being so close to all these people that make up my definition of "family." I miss being near the people who know and love me, who try to challenge me. I miss getting to have those nitty-gritty, brutally honest, this-is-where-I-am conversations. I miss really  talking to my

Today I'm thankful. I'm thankful that I really like my roommate and that I love  my dorm. I'm thankful for some new acquaintances that could become good friends. I'm thankful for phone calls from dear friends back home-the ones who will listen to me cry and talk me through my struggles. I'm thankful that the bus system in Bozeman is free. I'm thankful for postcards and letters and drawings that come in the mail. I'm thankful for the third floor of the library, which is quickly becoming my favorite place to study. I'm thankful for Skype. I'm thankful for email. I'm thankful for the Study Guides on my Statistics website, because I'm pretty sure that's going to be the only way I pass the class. I'm thankful for the rain for clearing out some of the wildfire smoke. I'm thankful the dining hall food isn't that bad. I'm thankful that I survived the first week- and I'm thankful that Jesus is in all of it. My very first we

I'm home. It feels different to associate that word with this place. This place holds no memories. This place holds few friends. This is not the house I grew up in. This is not the bedroom my mother and I (well, mostly mom) spent hours painting. I've never skinned my knees here; I've never spent hours playing Monopoly with my brothers here. This is not the room in which I've grieved, praised, grown and prayed. Yet it could be. It's going to be. I think the hardest part is that "home" isn't so much a place as people. That's what hurts so much; it's not that I'm 567 miles from a place, it's that I'm 567 miles away from these hearts that I cherish so much. I'm thankful, though, for the small ways I can bring these people with me. I'm thankful for the pictures that line my new bulletin board, filling my eyesight with images of those I love. I'm thankful for postcards in the mail. I'm thankful for the comforter on m

I don't understand the word "goodbye." Saying goodbye isn't a happy affair, at least in my world. Saying goodbye means watery eyes and blotchy cheeks, a wet pillow and a headache, hugs that you never want to let go from. Saying goodbye means you won't be getting any sleep tonight. Saying goodbye means that a chapter of life is over; no matter how well you keep in touch, the truth is that the relationship will never be the same. There's nothing good about goodbyes. I've never been one to like change. My mom likes to laugh about the time that she had to take me to the doctor to be tested for OCD when I was young, all because I found a freckle on my thumb. It was change, and it scared me. I ate the same sandwich for lunch every day all through elementary and middle school. It really rattles me when our family gets new furniture. I like consistency. I like dependability. I'm comfortable here and I don't see the need to change it. So these goodbyes