I can remember the first time I ever visited West Texas. It wasn't San Angelo. (Which I don't, for the record, consider West Texas anymore. It gets so much "wester" than this. Like way. Texas is vast, y'all.) It could very well have been because I was meeting my then-boyfriend/now-husband's family for the first time, but the place struck me as totally romantic.
If you've ever been to Odessa, you know that's completely ludicrous. A lack of vegetation higher than knee level and wind and dust and BROWN and the stink of oil (or money, if you're a West Texan). Hardly the stuff of Thoreau's Walden.
But it was true for me nonetheless. It seemed like a scene from a movie, and this was before Friday Night Lights. Mysterious. Rough. It intrigued me.
I tell about that because it's remained the same for me in San Angelo. See, I'm a city girl, and when I moved here, I figured it was a temporary thing. I had no doubt that after a couple years of youth ministry at Landon's dad's church, we'd be back to the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex -- on to bigger and better things.
Youth ministry turned into college ministry turned into the lead pastor position, and I still live on the same block I moved to in 2007 with my new husband and one young baby. (There are four babies now.)
Going on eight years later, and I can feel my roots pull my heart with them deeper and deeper into this unforgiving, drought-ridden ground as we continue to pastor here. I'm still captivated by it, as insane as that sounds.
There's no argument that we are not amid the east Texas pines or the south Texas beaches or the rolling land of the Hill Country. And no, cultural opportunities here do not rival our big city counterparts. (Though we do have a pretty cool art scene if you know where to look.)
But you know who's here? The Father. His love is deep and profound for these people who work hard to provide for their families and overcome difficult circumstances, people who've only ever known harsh West Texas.
I grew up never having seen men in coveralls buy burritos from the gas station on their short lunch breaks. I never saw buses of people stopped at the grocery store after a long shift on the rig. I only point this out because I want so badly to go up and hug them, to tell them they are seen and loved and known. THEY HAVE BECOME MY PEOPLE. I am, without a doubt, called to the people of San Angelo who don't know the love and comfort of the One who created them.
I was driving in my car the other day, and I heard Florida Georgia Line's "Dirt." I will not vouch for all the lyrics, but the end of the chorus says, "Makes you wanna build a 10-percent-down, white-picket-fence-house on this dirt." I started to cry. I looked at the cold, brown land on all sides of me, and God spoke to me as clear as the desert horizon:
"This is your dirt. Keep building My house."
Look at your feet, at the street numbers on your church and its surrounding neighborhoods. That is your dirt. God wasn't confused or mistaken when He brought you there. It makes no difference what it looks like or whether its schools have a place on the Top 10 list. If there are living, breathing souls at the longitudinal address which you find yourself, you have found your dirt.
Dig your fingers in deep.
If you've ever been to Odessa, you know that's completely ludicrous. A lack of vegetation higher than knee level and wind and dust and BROWN and the stink of oil (or money, if you're a West Texan). Hardly the stuff of Thoreau's Walden.
But it was true for me nonetheless. It seemed like a scene from a movie, and this was before Friday Night Lights. Mysterious. Rough. It intrigued me.
I tell about that because it's remained the same for me in San Angelo. See, I'm a city girl, and when I moved here, I figured it was a temporary thing. I had no doubt that after a couple years of youth ministry at Landon's dad's church, we'd be back to the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex -- on to bigger and better things.
Youth ministry turned into college ministry turned into the lead pastor position, and I still live on the same block I moved to in 2007 with my new husband and one young baby. (There are four babies now.)
Going on eight years later, and I can feel my roots pull my heart with them deeper and deeper into this unforgiving, drought-ridden ground as we continue to pastor here. I'm still captivated by it, as insane as that sounds.
There's no argument that we are not amid the east Texas pines or the south Texas beaches or the rolling land of the Hill Country. And no, cultural opportunities here do not rival our big city counterparts. (Though we do have a pretty cool art scene if you know where to look.)
But you know who's here? The Father. His love is deep and profound for these people who work hard to provide for their families and overcome difficult circumstances, people who've only ever known harsh West Texas.
I grew up never having seen men in coveralls buy burritos from the gas station on their short lunch breaks. I never saw buses of people stopped at the grocery store after a long shift on the rig. I only point this out because I want so badly to go up and hug them, to tell them they are seen and loved and known. THEY HAVE BECOME MY PEOPLE. I am, without a doubt, called to the people of San Angelo who don't know the love and comfort of the One who created them.
I was driving in my car the other day, and I heard Florida Georgia Line's "Dirt." I will not vouch for all the lyrics, but the end of the chorus says, "Makes you wanna build a 10-percent-down, white-picket-fence-house on this dirt." I started to cry. I looked at the cold, brown land on all sides of me, and God spoke to me as clear as the desert horizon:
"This is your dirt. Keep building My house."
Look at your feet, at the street numbers on your church and its surrounding neighborhoods. That is your dirt. God wasn't confused or mistaken when He brought you there. It makes no difference what it looks like or whether its schools have a place on the Top 10 list. If there are living, breathing souls at the longitudinal address which you find yourself, you have found your dirt.
Dig your fingers in deep.
*This post originally appeared in an NTD weekly newsletter. <3*
