I lean not on my own understanding.

One year ago, I was in the early stages of preparing to leave everything familiar behind and temporarily move to a foreign country that hadn’t even been on my travel radar a few months prior. I had no job, no place to live, and no connections, but I was confident that I was making the right choice. 

My time in London was not what I expected, but in so many ways it was better and more surprising than what I could have come up with for myself. I wasn’t always sure what I was doing there, but I always proceeded in faith and was often caught off guard by the large and small blessings that filled my days. The process humbled me. There were days I spent quietly wandering my neighborhood streets, mediocre pastry in hand, and others I spent traversing the city with friends before a good meal. I passed some afternoons cozy in bed watching reality TV and others waving to the King and Queen (Team Diana, but still) or circling the Crown Jewels with Glen Powell (I could not make this up if I tried). Overall, it was quieter, simpler, and more challenging than I thought, but dotted with once-in-a-lifetime glittery moments and rooted in deep friendship and love. It was not what I expected and not what I would’ve chosen for myself, but in so many ways it was better. 

Today, I find myself in a similar situation that requires some context.

I prayed one evening in my room in London, which I lovingly referred to as my shoebox, and asked God where he was calling me. I think I knew from the jump that London would not turn into my permanent home, at least not now, but I also knew that the place I have called home for most of my life wouldn’t either. So, I sat in my shoebox on a quiet Southeast London evening and listened for the voice of Jesus. I was hoping he would make it clear that I was supposed to move back to Southern California, where the waves and vibes still hold my heart, or that he would ship me across the country to North Carolina, where I could swap beach sunsets for sunrises. Instead, the word “Seattle” quietly settled over me. 

Nope, must’ve been a mistake. Clearly, that was just me making something up because I don’t belong in the Pacific Northwest. I cannot surf or eat fish tacos or wear board shorts year-round on a Puget. I don’t even like fish tacos (sue me), but I like having the option of consuming them underneath a palm tree whenever I want. I’m also tired of being pale, okay? 

So, I put Seattle in my back pocket and continued to pray for pretty much anything else. I’ve looked into entertainment jobs in LA, nonprofit positions in Wilmington, even health communications roles in New York. And, occasionally, when I’ve felt daring, I’ve typed “Seattle jobs” into the ol’ Google search bar just to see what pops up. I’m usually disappointed. 

There are a few reasons why I would like to move to Seattle – my best friend is there, it’s close to family, and it’s a short driving distance to a city I love madly: Vancouver, BC. There are many more reasons why I would not like to move to Seattle, including that it feels like a permanent separation from the beach girl dreams I had for myself. More seriously, I feel a little weary from having lived as a Christian so long in a region of our country that often views my faith as antiquated or oppositional. The momentary idea of living in a place where I could freely talk about Jesus, and perhaps reflect some of my perspectives back to Christians who might subscribe more often to Christian culture than to Jesus himself, felt nice.

But convenience and ease aren’t what I signed up for. Kind of the opposite, actually. That’s why, when given the choice between staying in the UK and coming back to the US, I knew that I had to come back. We are living in a cultural moment where people need to see the goodness of God at work, and I don’t want to run away from that. In fact, I think I’m uniquely positioned to step into it. 

I was in Seattle a couple of months ago visiting my friend, and we checked out a new church while we were there. I was slightly put off at first because it shared some of the Western evangelical customs that I grew up with, but now feel hollow and unnecessarily flashy. I’m not looking for the “cool church” anymore. I’m looking for the humble church, the generous church, and the broken church that doesn’t pretend to be anything but. These days, I bristle when I hear people do a few too many runs during worship or see beanie-clad men use catch phrases for Jesus to appeal to the masses. It’s just not my thing. 

So, on this particular day, in this particular room lit dimly with Edison bulbs and filled with fashionably-dressed individuals carrying coffee cups in one hand and Bibles in the other, I felt on guard. But as the service went on, my discomfort turned to frustration as I realized the pastor was not only making direct eye contact with me, but also speaking to my exact circumstances. It felt confronting in a way that I was not yet ready to receive. I grumbled about it to my friend on our car ride to lunch and then promptly put the sermon out of my mind with my first bites of pelmeni soup. 

The other weekend, I found myself back in the same church. We decided to give it another whirl since it was in close proximity to our afternoon plans. This time, we sat in a completely different part of the building, but once again, the pastor held my gaze while he spoke exactly to what I am experiencing in my own life. At first, I thought I could dismiss the similarities in his call to set aside what we idolize (careers, security, relationships, geography, etc.) to put our full trust in where God is leading us. But then it became undeniable as he related to those in the audience who find their greatest peace among the ocean waves, and made a very specific reference to Type 1 Diabetes after he saw me clear an alarm on my insulin pump. At that point, there was no denying that he was speaking to me. Or rather, that God was speaking through him to me. I knew in that moment what I had to do.

It's always easier to go backward in life because the road is already paved. I think I’ve fallen into the temptation of wanting to cling to what I already know and love instead of allowing myself to be changed, transformed, and brought into something new. This path is not what I expected and will certainly be more challenging but maybe, like London, it will lead to something even better and more fruitful than I could’ve chosen for myself.

… So, with that being said, I guess I’m completing my West Coast trifecta and moving to Seattle?! It feels all too familiar to say that once again I have no job, no place to live, few connections, and, this time, no specific timeline. But I’ve said it out loud now, which means the ride’s about to get bumpy in all the best ways. 

And hey, if you know anybody in Seattle doing purposeful, creative, human-centered work who wants a teammate, you know where to find your girl. xx 

Titular Reference: Well, it’s a Bible verse. But specifically, I am referencing the song that it got folded into called Nothing I Hold on to by Will Reagan and United Pursuit.