This has been one heck of a week.
Most days I've felt as though I were treading water. Not making any progress. Just wearing myself out in one spot. This groove I've hollowed out for myself is no longer comfortable... too deep, too wide, and I need to get out. To scream and hear my own voice echo, to run and see the world fly by, to grow wings and rise higher and higher - gain perspective and vision.
Tonight was no different.
Until I went out with my family. With my little sister who is learning how to smile and my third sister who is dealing with her fifteenth year with much more grace than I did.
Over chips and salsa and music, things changed. As they do every time we get together. A new layer of our family is pulled back, a new dimension to our relationships is built. Between life lessons and compliments in Spanish... I left the dinner table better than I had come to it.
But unlike normal, the night was not over.
The Festival Latina is in town this weekend.
Streets have been blocked off.
Music is blaring.
The courthouse property smells like beer and cigars.
I can only understand a few of the words spoken around me.
And unlike normal, I slipped into a comfortable state of being.
As if I was lulled by the quick words of the people around me, the words I didn't understand. Mesmerized by what I learned from facial expressions and hand gestures. Entranced by the fireworks display that almost trumped the Fourth of July.
At one point during the fireworks display, we looked over to one of Lexington's tall buildings.
The windows were dark.
What was inside did not matter.
The dark panes of glass suddenly came to life, reflecting the fireworks exploding in the sky.
Over and over again the windows would fall dark and then illuminate again with purples and reds and then shudder when the fireworks popped and boomed.
And I thought to myself how the church should be like those windows.
How it is not what we are that is awesome. Or great.
We are only dark windows.
Made to reflect His light.
Made to shudder in His presence.
To draw people's attention to the awesome display of glory and light that He is...
That is our purpose.
To be a reflection of what is good and awesome about our Father.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Grappling
There's a story to be told here.
A sequence in a movie where the music is loud and the scenes flash by quickly...
Most of the time I feel like I am grappling for the wind.
I just want to hold it in my hands.
I am so restless today.
Nothing is wrong.
But I get the sense that an idea, my purpose, a great awakening is leading me on a chase...
A sequence in a movie where the music is loud and the scenes flash by quickly...
Most of the time I feel like I am grappling for the wind.
I just want to hold it in my hands.
I am so restless today.
Nothing is wrong.
But I get the sense that an idea, my purpose, a great awakening is leading me on a chase...
Monday, September 8, 2008
Love Letter
I live for the weekends.
Not for some reasons you might think.
Not because I don't have to work.
Or because of bars and clubs and late nights.
No.
Because of my family.
Because of nights like last night.
At the end of twenty-four hours devoted to talking to Jesus...
we gathered.
Breaking bread.
Or... cutting mushrooms and rolling out pizza dough.
And we ate together.
And gathered around a precious brother who will soon leave us for a whole year.
And I sat back and watched as the sun set and eight brothers and sisters danced in the streets until twilight.
I know I will never forget these years.
Or these people who have been my dearest friends, my closest loves, my family for the past twelve months.
So often relationships spin their wheels - splattering mud but never gaining ground.
But we have been blessed.
And our Father is blessing us with more.
As new family members join, I am amazed at their confusion.
"Family? I'm family? But I've only hung out with you all a few times..." And we just shrug.
We fall in love easily around here.
I thank God every day for the brothers I always wanted but never had. The men I see growing into men after God's own heart. The handsome men I'm proud to call my family - the character I see building. The ways they make me laugh, feel safe, and protected...
And I laugh, knowing that it was always God's intention for the women in my life to outnumber the men. I already have three wonderful sisters. But the Father has added almost a dozen more. Women I admire, who I love with all my heart. Women I dance with and joke with and stretch with (spiritually and physically).
I live for the weekends because that is when I see these people.
This is when I feel whole.
When I feel loved.
And when I am in my forties, or in my sixties, I will remember. And hopefully still be experiencing the love of these children of God.
Words will never be adequate.
But this is my love letter to you... my brothers and sisters.
You have stolen my heart.
Not for some reasons you might think.
Not because I don't have to work.
Or because of bars and clubs and late nights.
No.
Because of my family.
Because of nights like last night.
At the end of twenty-four hours devoted to talking to Jesus...
we gathered.
Breaking bread.
Or... cutting mushrooms and rolling out pizza dough.
And we ate together.
And gathered around a precious brother who will soon leave us for a whole year.
And I sat back and watched as the sun set and eight brothers and sisters danced in the streets until twilight.
I know I will never forget these years.
Or these people who have been my dearest friends, my closest loves, my family for the past twelve months.
So often relationships spin their wheels - splattering mud but never gaining ground.
But we have been blessed.
And our Father is blessing us with more.
As new family members join, I am amazed at their confusion.
"Family? I'm family? But I've only hung out with you all a few times..." And we just shrug.
We fall in love easily around here.
I thank God every day for the brothers I always wanted but never had. The men I see growing into men after God's own heart. The handsome men I'm proud to call my family - the character I see building. The ways they make me laugh, feel safe, and protected...
And I laugh, knowing that it was always God's intention for the women in my life to outnumber the men. I already have three wonderful sisters. But the Father has added almost a dozen more. Women I admire, who I love with all my heart. Women I dance with and joke with and stretch with (spiritually and physically).
I live for the weekends because that is when I see these people.
This is when I feel whole.
When I feel loved.
And when I am in my forties, or in my sixties, I will remember. And hopefully still be experiencing the love of these children of God.
Words will never be adequate.
But this is my love letter to you... my brothers and sisters.
You have stolen my heart.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Dizzy
The word equilibrium has been finding me everywhere I turn.
In uncle's blogs and anatomy books and Sunday morning messages.
This morning at Southland, Jon was talking about community. About how by not living in community, we are denying our purpose. We are denying the purpose we were created for.
Shalom. We all have heard this word - the greeting. We know it as meaning "peace be with you" or "go in peace".
Jon unpacked this Hebrew word this morning. We translate it in english as one of those two phrases. But translated literally, it means "equilibrium". A balance. Nothing missing. Nothing broken.
We, the church, are an "outpost of the kingdom of heaven". The force that restores balance. There is peace in heaven. There is peace found in our Father. If we are called to bring heaven to earth, and are created in His image, this is our calling.
I was sitting in church, thinking about this. Thinking about what happens when our equilibrium is thrown off.
Spinning.
Faster and faster.
And something makes us stop.
And we fall over.
Dizzy.
Nothing makes sense. We lose our direction. We lose our bearings.
As the church, we are called to take the shoulders of the dizzy, hold the faces of the disoriented. Calm their spinning worlds. Bring the pieces back together in acts of restoration.
Until the fluid in our spiritual ears is brought back to balance.
How often do we find ourselves without shalom?
Without peace. In a broken place. Dizzy and wobbling, wishing the world wouldn't spin so fast.
Shalom. Shalom.
Peace be with you.
In uncle's blogs and anatomy books and Sunday morning messages.
This morning at Southland, Jon was talking about community. About how by not living in community, we are denying our purpose. We are denying the purpose we were created for.
Shalom. We all have heard this word - the greeting. We know it as meaning "peace be with you" or "go in peace".
Jon unpacked this Hebrew word this morning. We translate it in english as one of those two phrases. But translated literally, it means "equilibrium". A balance. Nothing missing. Nothing broken.
We, the church, are an "outpost of the kingdom of heaven". The force that restores balance. There is peace in heaven. There is peace found in our Father. If we are called to bring heaven to earth, and are created in His image, this is our calling.
I was sitting in church, thinking about this. Thinking about what happens when our equilibrium is thrown off.
Spinning.
Faster and faster.
And something makes us stop.
And we fall over.
Dizzy.
Nothing makes sense. We lose our direction. We lose our bearings.
As the church, we are called to take the shoulders of the dizzy, hold the faces of the disoriented. Calm their spinning worlds. Bring the pieces back together in acts of restoration.
Until the fluid in our spiritual ears is brought back to balance.
How often do we find ourselves without shalom?
Without peace. In a broken place. Dizzy and wobbling, wishing the world wouldn't spin so fast.
Shalom. Shalom.
Peace be with you.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Kleenex
I do believe I gave myself until Saturday to shed these tears.
But they did not come until this morning.
I got to service at Southland and sat down to listen to a sermon about Worship.
Everything was fine. I sat in the chair watching all the people around me. The babies and the couples and the groups of friends. This morning I could pick the freshmen out of the crowd... and my eyes kept searching for someone familiar.
No one in particular. Maybe someone I didn't even know. Just someone familiar. Am I the only one who does that? The one that feels lonely in a crowd. Even a crowd whose arms are as widely outstretched as the family of Southland? I have a sneaking suspicion all I'd have to do is reach out once ... that would be all it would take.
But most days I don't have that courage.
The couple who sat in front of me caught my eye. She was cute and curvy with beautiful curly hair and a sweet face. He adored her. BIg tall strong man, reaching out to touch her shoulder whenever he could.
And I felt a twinge of jealousy. I pushed it away. It was unwarranted, unnecessary. I replaced it with a certain joy for the couple... a silent prayer that he would continue to touch her that way. That she would continue to smile.
The sermon, to a certain extent, wasn't anything extraordinary. Worship, in the greek, comes from a word that means "to kiss towards" or "to bow down before". It is not about singing. Or whether there are drums on the stage or hymnals in the pews.
Jon started talking, then, about what we do with our hands when we worship.
He made jokes and drew comparisons and explanations.
Then he got to how we raise our hands high, palms outstretched.
And he said...
"This is my little girl when she's tired and needs to know that it is safe to go to sleep."
"Or my son when we falls off the bike and scrapes his knee. It's real pain. But he needs to know that there is someone bigger than himself to make it better."
And the tears came.
Unbidden.
Out of nowhere.
I thought about my sister as a baby who used to stand with her arms outstretched, scrunching her fingers. "Uppy", she would said. She wanted to be picked up. To be held.
Usually I am able to control my tears. They stay fairly under my control, just sliding down my cheeks, making my eyes glisten. Most of the time I stay fairly composed.
But they got to my lungs this time.
And rolled down my neck.
And fell on my lips.
I sniffled, but otherwise remained silent. Face soaked and shoulders shaking.
I don't really know why. And even as I write this I feel them coming back... pushing at my eyelids and my throat. They are not spent yet. They'll come again.
I prayed. Or... groaned, hoping the holy spirit would pray for me. So often my words fall short of anything coherent. Sentences refuse to form and my mind hits a wall, and I know the words I know are not enough. So I say I'm sorry and rest in the fact that the Lord knows my heart... and knows what I'm trying to say. Even when I can't.
When we were done praying I raised up to find the sweet girl in front of me reaching over the chair to hand me two tissues.
Part of me was mortified.
I had forgotten I was surrounded by hundreds of people.
Forgotten they could see me.
But she didn't say a word.
She didn't look at me like I was crazy. Or ask to lay hands on me or even ask if I was okay.
No.
She did exactly what she needed to do.
She gave me something I needed.
In the midst of feeling lonely and overwhelmed and far too small...
God reminded me that I could be seen.
So I used one tissue and tucked the other one in my Bible.
And I plan to keep it there.
But they did not come until this morning.
I got to service at Southland and sat down to listen to a sermon about Worship.
Everything was fine. I sat in the chair watching all the people around me. The babies and the couples and the groups of friends. This morning I could pick the freshmen out of the crowd... and my eyes kept searching for someone familiar.
No one in particular. Maybe someone I didn't even know. Just someone familiar. Am I the only one who does that? The one that feels lonely in a crowd. Even a crowd whose arms are as widely outstretched as the family of Southland? I have a sneaking suspicion all I'd have to do is reach out once ... that would be all it would take.
But most days I don't have that courage.
The couple who sat in front of me caught my eye. She was cute and curvy with beautiful curly hair and a sweet face. He adored her. BIg tall strong man, reaching out to touch her shoulder whenever he could.
And I felt a twinge of jealousy. I pushed it away. It was unwarranted, unnecessary. I replaced it with a certain joy for the couple... a silent prayer that he would continue to touch her that way. That she would continue to smile.
The sermon, to a certain extent, wasn't anything extraordinary. Worship, in the greek, comes from a word that means "to kiss towards" or "to bow down before". It is not about singing. Or whether there are drums on the stage or hymnals in the pews.
Jon started talking, then, about what we do with our hands when we worship.
He made jokes and drew comparisons and explanations.
Then he got to how we raise our hands high, palms outstretched.
And he said...
"This is my little girl when she's tired and needs to know that it is safe to go to sleep."
"Or my son when we falls off the bike and scrapes his knee. It's real pain. But he needs to know that there is someone bigger than himself to make it better."
And the tears came.
Unbidden.
Out of nowhere.
I thought about my sister as a baby who used to stand with her arms outstretched, scrunching her fingers. "Uppy", she would said. She wanted to be picked up. To be held.
Usually I am able to control my tears. They stay fairly under my control, just sliding down my cheeks, making my eyes glisten. Most of the time I stay fairly composed.
But they got to my lungs this time.
And rolled down my neck.
And fell on my lips.
I sniffled, but otherwise remained silent. Face soaked and shoulders shaking.
I don't really know why. And even as I write this I feel them coming back... pushing at my eyelids and my throat. They are not spent yet. They'll come again.
I prayed. Or... groaned, hoping the holy spirit would pray for me. So often my words fall short of anything coherent. Sentences refuse to form and my mind hits a wall, and I know the words I know are not enough. So I say I'm sorry and rest in the fact that the Lord knows my heart... and knows what I'm trying to say. Even when I can't.
When we were done praying I raised up to find the sweet girl in front of me reaching over the chair to hand me two tissues.
Part of me was mortified.
I had forgotten I was surrounded by hundreds of people.
Forgotten they could see me.
But she didn't say a word.
She didn't look at me like I was crazy. Or ask to lay hands on me or even ask if I was okay.
No.
She did exactly what she needed to do.
She gave me something I needed.
In the midst of feeling lonely and overwhelmed and far too small...
God reminded me that I could be seen.
So I used one tissue and tucked the other one in my Bible.
And I plan to keep it there.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Biggest
I am sitting here in the library.
A library that is unfamiliar to me. There are no librarians I know. I can't find any of the books I need... there are no familiar faces.
This has been one of those weeks.
I give it until Saturday morning before I start crying. But I feel it building up. I'll try and warn you before the tears start. But I'm not making any promises.
This is one of the prices you pay for being the oldest. It's no one's fault. Nothing was necessarily done wrong. This is just what happens. You don't know the best way. The most efficient way. Things have changed and every day that passes, people who do their jobs well are harder and harder to find.
I am twenty years old. Living on my own for twenty-five months. Three addresses in... I have a pet and a car and a full-time job, which I've had for three years. I've been in school since January of 2006. I have an Associates Degree and a few extra credit hours.
And I am spending my days getting paper cuts and opening the mail.
I have no plans.
I have no earthly idea what is going on.
Or even what to do next.
And between Tuesday and Wednesday of this week... the deal seemed to be sealed.
A letter came in the mail.
Letters in the mail are either a) really good, sweet things; or b) horrible things.
This time, it was in between. (Even now I understand that things could be SO much worse. This situation is really erring on the safe side, on the manageable side.)
I graduated in May and decided to cut back on some of my school hours. For five semesters now, I've been taking 5 classes and working full time. It was time to take a break. So I'm enrolled in one class and one lab.
4 credit hours. Anatomy. That class in and of itself is going to kick my butt.
Then I get this letter.
"Because you have dropped below official part-time student status (which is 6 hours), you will be required to being repayment of your Stafford Student Loans in 90 days."
I am two credit hours shy of being in the clear.
Two.
Rose, in the financial aid office, laughed at me.
The phone number the loan people gave me only sends me to a machine.
There are no real people anywhere to be found to understand my predicament.
So on November 2nd I will begin a ten year process of paying for two student loans that somehow accrued a stupid amount of money.
Money I had to use to pay for classes, for $200 parking tags, for $400 books.
And this time next year, unless a miracle happens, I'll be taking out more loans to finish a BS and MS degree at a real university... with hopes of becoming a nurse or an occupational therapist.
To make matters worse... I went and had a photo shoot with four of the most beautiful kids I've seen in a very long time. After the first roll of film, my camera decides to break.
The diagnosis? Another couple of hundred and three months to fix it.... because "they" (once again, the invisible them who rule the world) don't make film cameras anymore.
On top of all the other evil in this world... we are losing an art form to boot.
I'm being dramatic now. I realize this. I also realize that nothing is ever as bad as it seems, and that someone always has it worse. And I'm worrying a few verses in my head like loose teeth.
"Do not be anxious about anything...."
"Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, tomorrow will take care of itself...."
Or my favorite. "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to their life?"
How is it that I know this...
But I just don't remember.
I just don't really know.
One of my favorite men in the world wrote some similar words the other day. His advice echoes in my ears (take a deep breath and swim towards the light) and I'd give anything to be with him and my father (two of the most intelligent, endearing men I've ever known) in the Colorado Mountains. Not that in the valley all problems disappear.
But the sky is bigger.
And I need to be reminded that I am not the biggest.
A library that is unfamiliar to me. There are no librarians I know. I can't find any of the books I need... there are no familiar faces.
This has been one of those weeks.
I give it until Saturday morning before I start crying. But I feel it building up. I'll try and warn you before the tears start. But I'm not making any promises.
This is one of the prices you pay for being the oldest. It's no one's fault. Nothing was necessarily done wrong. This is just what happens. You don't know the best way. The most efficient way. Things have changed and every day that passes, people who do their jobs well are harder and harder to find.
I am twenty years old. Living on my own for twenty-five months. Three addresses in... I have a pet and a car and a full-time job, which I've had for three years. I've been in school since January of 2006. I have an Associates Degree and a few extra credit hours.
And I am spending my days getting paper cuts and opening the mail.
I have no plans.
I have no earthly idea what is going on.
Or even what to do next.
And between Tuesday and Wednesday of this week... the deal seemed to be sealed.
A letter came in the mail.
Letters in the mail are either a) really good, sweet things; or b) horrible things.
This time, it was in between. (Even now I understand that things could be SO much worse. This situation is really erring on the safe side, on the manageable side.)
I graduated in May and decided to cut back on some of my school hours. For five semesters now, I've been taking 5 classes and working full time. It was time to take a break. So I'm enrolled in one class and one lab.
4 credit hours. Anatomy. That class in and of itself is going to kick my butt.
Then I get this letter.
"Because you have dropped below official part-time student status (which is 6 hours), you will be required to being repayment of your Stafford Student Loans in 90 days."
I am two credit hours shy of being in the clear.
Two.
Rose, in the financial aid office, laughed at me.
The phone number the loan people gave me only sends me to a machine.
There are no real people anywhere to be found to understand my predicament.
So on November 2nd I will begin a ten year process of paying for two student loans that somehow accrued a stupid amount of money.
Money I had to use to pay for classes, for $200 parking tags, for $400 books.
And this time next year, unless a miracle happens, I'll be taking out more loans to finish a BS and MS degree at a real university... with hopes of becoming a nurse or an occupational therapist.
To make matters worse... I went and had a photo shoot with four of the most beautiful kids I've seen in a very long time. After the first roll of film, my camera decides to break.
The diagnosis? Another couple of hundred and three months to fix it.... because "they" (once again, the invisible them who rule the world) don't make film cameras anymore.
On top of all the other evil in this world... we are losing an art form to boot.
I'm being dramatic now. I realize this. I also realize that nothing is ever as bad as it seems, and that someone always has it worse. And I'm worrying a few verses in my head like loose teeth.
"Do not be anxious about anything...."
"Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, tomorrow will take care of itself...."
Or my favorite. "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to their life?"
How is it that I know this...
But I just don't remember.
I just don't really know.
One of my favorite men in the world wrote some similar words the other day. His advice echoes in my ears (take a deep breath and swim towards the light) and I'd give anything to be with him and my father (two of the most intelligent, endearing men I've ever known) in the Colorado Mountains. Not that in the valley all problems disappear.
But the sky is bigger.
And I need to be reminded that I am not the biggest.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Sixth Semester
The summer is wrapping itself up.
I know this, because I can't walk through the store without being bombarded by school supplies and matching sheet sets and colorful laundry baskets.
Used to be, school would start back and schedules would change. For a few weeks, it would be hot and muggy outside and kids would come home in their polos and khakis and traffic would be jammed with big, yellow school buses.
I was never a part of that. We always waited until Labor Day weekend to start school back. And we did school in our pajamas. And we had plenty of fitted sheets and laundry baskets, thank you very much.
But now... the people I know who are going back to school are leaving town. They are getting their oil changed and are taking out loans and buying season football tickets. They are hanging parking passes from their rearview mirrors and buying thumbtacks and new toasters (which they really aren't allowed to have).
Now, the people I know are getting married.
Some are done with school, and all the end of summer means, is the workplace just doesn't make you sweat so badly.
I sat at church this morning waiting for the service to start. I am the queen of eavesdropping and people watching. I pinpointed which young adults were spending their last Sunday at home with their parents, and which would sport UK blue come fall. There was one guy who stood beside me, updating a few elderly people about his life on campus (out of state, I presumed). And even as I sat there, he announced he was engaged. Getting married next summer after his junior year was done. Everyone was bubbly and excited.
And as he walked away, the oldest of the group leaned forward and whispered, "he's just a boy!". Everyone nodded their heads in agreement. He was just a boy. But I saw the look of resignation on their faces. He was just a boy to them... but to the world, he was all grown up. And he had a life, another life, far away that he was excited to return to.
This morning we talked about prayer in service. At the end, Mike asked us all to start praying for each other. He got specific. Pray for marital troubles, for family dysfunction, for financial stress. And then he had anyone and everyone who was involved in the academic process (principals, teachers, admins, school bus drivers) to stand up. Then he smiled and asked students of all age and types to stand up. And he prayed over us.
And I started crying.
The kind of crying I do when I didn't know I needed to cry.
When I've successfully tricked myself to the point I am unaware of my fear... or my anxiety... or my dread.
You see, I go back to school again this year too.
But my school is five miles down the road.
And it is the same school I've been going to since I was seventeen years old. This is my third year... the second half of my third year. I got a degree back in May. And for reasons that I pray will add up in the end, I am going back in eight days.
There are people, I understand, who take much longer than this to get through school.
But I am afraid I have yet to make a difference in anyone's life in that place. That all I've managed to do is make a poor example of my Christ... stress myself to the point of tears... and try desperately hard, one more time, to fit in.
Fitting in is something I've never been able to do.
I can't wait to get out.
And I hate the fact that I have to go back for a few more credit hours. Stand in those lines again. Park in that parking lot. Use those bathrooms. Sit in those couches in that lobby where so many things have happened to me...
Even as I throw this pity party, there are faces that are pulled to mind. Faces I wouldn't trade for the world. People I've met because of that community college. Lessons I've learned inside those walls.
I guess that is one of the things about this life. Learning to see an experience for what it is... and learning when to move on.
It will be time for me to move on soon. To go to a university and finish a degree and support a football team. Buy sweatshirts in team colors that I will wear for years until they tatter... buy a decal for my back window. And one day, wear a cap and gown and graduate.
But for now, just like with my job, there is something else I have to do. And that is, as I start my sixth semester on the community college campus, to represent myself well. To be a light, no matter how dim my surroundings may be. To study hard, to laugh harder. To befriend and learn and cherish these last few months when I actually know what I'm doing, where I'm going, and who is sitting in the next desk.
And on the day I walk away, I will walk away with the memories. Of Walt and Irene and Kip. Of Kat and Dwaine and Brittany. Of a thousand different languages floating through the cafeteria and the smell of Kati Dale's cigarette smoke on the patio.
I know this, because I can't walk through the store without being bombarded by school supplies and matching sheet sets and colorful laundry baskets.
Used to be, school would start back and schedules would change. For a few weeks, it would be hot and muggy outside and kids would come home in their polos and khakis and traffic would be jammed with big, yellow school buses.
I was never a part of that. We always waited until Labor Day weekend to start school back. And we did school in our pajamas. And we had plenty of fitted sheets and laundry baskets, thank you very much.
But now... the people I know who are going back to school are leaving town. They are getting their oil changed and are taking out loans and buying season football tickets. They are hanging parking passes from their rearview mirrors and buying thumbtacks and new toasters (which they really aren't allowed to have).
Now, the people I know are getting married.
Some are done with school, and all the end of summer means, is the workplace just doesn't make you sweat so badly.
I sat at church this morning waiting for the service to start. I am the queen of eavesdropping and people watching. I pinpointed which young adults were spending their last Sunday at home with their parents, and which would sport UK blue come fall. There was one guy who stood beside me, updating a few elderly people about his life on campus (out of state, I presumed). And even as I sat there, he announced he was engaged. Getting married next summer after his junior year was done. Everyone was bubbly and excited.
And as he walked away, the oldest of the group leaned forward and whispered, "he's just a boy!". Everyone nodded their heads in agreement. He was just a boy. But I saw the look of resignation on their faces. He was just a boy to them... but to the world, he was all grown up. And he had a life, another life, far away that he was excited to return to.
This morning we talked about prayer in service. At the end, Mike asked us all to start praying for each other. He got specific. Pray for marital troubles, for family dysfunction, for financial stress. And then he had anyone and everyone who was involved in the academic process (principals, teachers, admins, school bus drivers) to stand up. Then he smiled and asked students of all age and types to stand up. And he prayed over us.
And I started crying.
The kind of crying I do when I didn't know I needed to cry.
When I've successfully tricked myself to the point I am unaware of my fear... or my anxiety... or my dread.
You see, I go back to school again this year too.
But my school is five miles down the road.
And it is the same school I've been going to since I was seventeen years old. This is my third year... the second half of my third year. I got a degree back in May. And for reasons that I pray will add up in the end, I am going back in eight days.
There are people, I understand, who take much longer than this to get through school.
But I am afraid I have yet to make a difference in anyone's life in that place. That all I've managed to do is make a poor example of my Christ... stress myself to the point of tears... and try desperately hard, one more time, to fit in.
Fitting in is something I've never been able to do.
I can't wait to get out.
And I hate the fact that I have to go back for a few more credit hours. Stand in those lines again. Park in that parking lot. Use those bathrooms. Sit in those couches in that lobby where so many things have happened to me...
Even as I throw this pity party, there are faces that are pulled to mind. Faces I wouldn't trade for the world. People I've met because of that community college. Lessons I've learned inside those walls.
I guess that is one of the things about this life. Learning to see an experience for what it is... and learning when to move on.
It will be time for me to move on soon. To go to a university and finish a degree and support a football team. Buy sweatshirts in team colors that I will wear for years until they tatter... buy a decal for my back window. And one day, wear a cap and gown and graduate.
But for now, just like with my job, there is something else I have to do. And that is, as I start my sixth semester on the community college campus, to represent myself well. To be a light, no matter how dim my surroundings may be. To study hard, to laugh harder. To befriend and learn and cherish these last few months when I actually know what I'm doing, where I'm going, and who is sitting in the next desk.
And on the day I walk away, I will walk away with the memories. Of Walt and Irene and Kip. Of Kat and Dwaine and Brittany. Of a thousand different languages floating through the cafeteria and the smell of Kati Dale's cigarette smoke on the patio.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Itch
Sehnsucht. “Akin to joy, sehnsucht was a wistful longing. A yearning like the itch of the soul." (Adelaide Piper, Beth Webb Hart)
This is why I read.
A dear friend (who is fairly new to the tumultuous world of creative writing) was experiencing what most call “writer’s block”. Nothing was being produced. The blank page stares at you, glowing, taunting, devouring whatever it is you write there… leaving you back at square one. I felt sorry for him and told him to go read.
It just so happens that writing is a lot like the rest of this life. Sometimes your resources get depleted. Your reservoir is emptied. And the only way to fix this problem – to tear down this inhibiting wall or refill the creative cistern – is to consume and absorb words that are not your own.
So he did.
And so did I.
By doing so (for once, taking my own advice) I stumbled upon a book based in the low country. A well-written book that, in the very last paragraph, managed to fill my reservoir to the brim.
Because I have an itch of the soul. I said this out loud while eating dinner at a local pub the other night and another close friend smiled playfully and asked if it was “the kind of itch you can’t reach?”
I laughed ruefully and said, as a matter of fact it was.
This, perhaps, is not such a bad thing.
It is this itch that drives us to action. It is an itch that keeps us up at night, staring at the clock.
It is an itch that requires you to change. To be courageous and bold. It is an itch that will humble you, reminding you that you have not done it all, nor will you ever. An itch that ignites a desire to be greater than you are. And as the Germans believe, it is a wistful longing “more desirable than any other satisfaction”.
The kind of itch a snake must feel before shedding its too-tight skin.
Or the itch that drives the butterfly from its cocoon.
An itch that pushes a chick out of its shell.
This is why I read.
A dear friend (who is fairly new to the tumultuous world of creative writing) was experiencing what most call “writer’s block”. Nothing was being produced. The blank page stares at you, glowing, taunting, devouring whatever it is you write there… leaving you back at square one. I felt sorry for him and told him to go read.
It just so happens that writing is a lot like the rest of this life. Sometimes your resources get depleted. Your reservoir is emptied. And the only way to fix this problem – to tear down this inhibiting wall or refill the creative cistern – is to consume and absorb words that are not your own.
So he did.
And so did I.
By doing so (for once, taking my own advice) I stumbled upon a book based in the low country. A well-written book that, in the very last paragraph, managed to fill my reservoir to the brim.
Because I have an itch of the soul. I said this out loud while eating dinner at a local pub the other night and another close friend smiled playfully and asked if it was “the kind of itch you can’t reach?”
I laughed ruefully and said, as a matter of fact it was.
This, perhaps, is not such a bad thing.
It is this itch that drives us to action. It is an itch that keeps us up at night, staring at the clock.
It is an itch that requires you to change. To be courageous and bold. It is an itch that will humble you, reminding you that you have not done it all, nor will you ever. An itch that ignites a desire to be greater than you are. And as the Germans believe, it is a wistful longing “more desirable than any other satisfaction”.
The kind of itch a snake must feel before shedding its too-tight skin.
Or the itch that drives the butterfly from its cocoon.
An itch that pushes a chick out of its shell.
Friday, August 8, 2008
My Real Job
Today is Friday.
And I am tired.
Physically tired from yoga and tennis and spinning. My hips are speaking to me even as I sit here.
But the fatigue is mostly in my mind.
I had a very frustrating day. Or should I say, month or two. The office is wearing me thin. Mostly because it's an office. And I get bored. And lonely.
This week was kind of the last straw. Not enough of a last straw to make me quit... or even seriously contemplate quitting. But enough to get me pissed. And wear me out.
I've been full time since May. Finally, after three years, I know what I am doing. I know how to do what I do. And most of the time I'm able to do it right and do it well.
I started a new kind of job this week. Opening mail. Not the data entry I've been doing for years. But sorting, opening, scanning insurance and patients' checks and refunds and bills from collection agencies.
It sucks, basically. And I'm slow. And my eyes don't know what to look for quite yet. And I've been working overtime to make sure it gets done.
Overtime that my pay stub told me today I wasn't getting paid for.
So I got to work this morning... thanking God it was finally Friday.
My allergies had my head in a fog.
My muscles hurt.
And the kitchen was sagging in greasy food for a coworkers birthday.
Bad combo.
A few more things happened ... adding frustration and sadness to my plate.
Until everyone started noticing.
And they started telling me how much they appreciated me.
About what good work I did. How they didn't understand why I'd been given one of the most menial tasks on my side of the office. Why my "talent" was being wasted. I was the best they said.
That made me feel better.
But I still had to go back and sort the daggon mail.
And as I sat down... I remembered something.
Something about how we're supposed to do everything we do as if we are doing it for the Lord.
Even if that means sorting mail until we're blue in the face.
I may have convinced myself I want was superiority and authority at work... but it's a fat lie. I like to fly under the radar. To do what I do and do it well and right and then maybe a little more... and then go home and feel good about it. I don't want to be in charge. I just forgot that about myself for a while.
So my job is not so much sorting mail or making notes or cleaning up patient accounts or reminding Rita that military insurance uses socials as ID numbers.
It's about doing what they hand me.
And doing it well. And right the first time around. And then maybe doing a little more.
Because I'm doing it for the Lord.
And that's all there is to it.
This gives a whole new meaning to "doing God's work".
But I'm still unbelievably relieved that today is Friday and it is four in the afternoon and I have two and a half days to be myself.
It will just make Monday morning that much easier.
And I am tired.
Physically tired from yoga and tennis and spinning. My hips are speaking to me even as I sit here.
But the fatigue is mostly in my mind.
I had a very frustrating day. Or should I say, month or two. The office is wearing me thin. Mostly because it's an office. And I get bored. And lonely.
This week was kind of the last straw. Not enough of a last straw to make me quit... or even seriously contemplate quitting. But enough to get me pissed. And wear me out.
I've been full time since May. Finally, after three years, I know what I am doing. I know how to do what I do. And most of the time I'm able to do it right and do it well.
I started a new kind of job this week. Opening mail. Not the data entry I've been doing for years. But sorting, opening, scanning insurance and patients' checks and refunds and bills from collection agencies.
It sucks, basically. And I'm slow. And my eyes don't know what to look for quite yet. And I've been working overtime to make sure it gets done.
Overtime that my pay stub told me today I wasn't getting paid for.
So I got to work this morning... thanking God it was finally Friday.
My allergies had my head in a fog.
My muscles hurt.
And the kitchen was sagging in greasy food for a coworkers birthday.
Bad combo.
A few more things happened ... adding frustration and sadness to my plate.
Until everyone started noticing.
And they started telling me how much they appreciated me.
About what good work I did. How they didn't understand why I'd been given one of the most menial tasks on my side of the office. Why my "talent" was being wasted. I was the best they said.
That made me feel better.
But I still had to go back and sort the daggon mail.
And as I sat down... I remembered something.
Something about how we're supposed to do everything we do as if we are doing it for the Lord.
Even if that means sorting mail until we're blue in the face.
I may have convinced myself I want was superiority and authority at work... but it's a fat lie. I like to fly under the radar. To do what I do and do it well and right and then maybe a little more... and then go home and feel good about it. I don't want to be in charge. I just forgot that about myself for a while.
So my job is not so much sorting mail or making notes or cleaning up patient accounts or reminding Rita that military insurance uses socials as ID numbers.
It's about doing what they hand me.
And doing it well. And right the first time around. And then maybe doing a little more.
Because I'm doing it for the Lord.
And that's all there is to it.
This gives a whole new meaning to "doing God's work".
But I'm still unbelievably relieved that today is Friday and it is four in the afternoon and I have two and a half days to be myself.
It will just make Monday morning that much easier.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Through the Roof
We had heard he was here.
We had been waiting for him.
We all wanted to see him, to hear his voice, to be close to him.
But, especially, we wanted to bring the boy to him; the boy who could not move his legs.
So the four of us picked up the corners of the boy's mat and we went to where we knew Jesus was.
All we had to do was follow the crowd.
The sun shone bright and hot, and though the boy was light, he seemed a great burden as we went in search of the teacher.
We ran into the crowd long before we reached him. The mob encircled the house, packed together like cattle, hot and sweaty, their whispers rising like a great din.
We could hear nothing, see nothing.
But I knew he was there. All five of us knew. We were so close. But the crowd was impenetrable. Leaving, however, was not an option.
We were so close to him.
Perhaps I imagined it. But I think I could feel him. Where I could not see him, when I could not hear him... I felt something stir in my heart. To the point I recognized his presence. And could not turn away.
We pressed through the crowd with all our might. Some moved aside when they saw us bringing the boy who couldn't walk. Others didn't budge. I became aggravated with the people. For being so large in numbers, for being so healthy, for being so close to Jesus when I was so far away.
We made it as close as the front step. The boy looked up at me. "Can we get any closer?"
But there was no swaying the audience. A huge, unwavering body. But we were so close. And something stirred my soul, and I knew...
All we had to do was let Jesus see the boy. I had heard enough of this teacher to know that was enough.
Later, I would question what went through my mind at that moment, what it was that caused me to act.
Maybe it was courage.
Or desperation. Just as much for myself as for my friend - my friend who'd never been able to use his legs.
Today, still, I don't have the answer.
But the four of us - the ones with the strong, sturdy legs of young boys - climbed onto the roof of the house in which the teacher sat.
No one noticed us.
The man who owned the house did not come out, yelling and scolding for cutting into his roof. He didn't notice.
Because he was listening to Jesus too.
Finally we scrambled back down to the ground; backs were sore, necks hot from the sun. And slowly, slowly, we picked up our friend and lifted him to the roof.
His face was full of emotion.
Trepidation and delight. He was going to see the teacher... surely He would heal his legs. But I think our friend might have been afraid we'd kill him before he ever made it inside.
I held onto one of the ropes, which would lower my friend into the room.
I leaned over and looked inside.
People swarmed like bugs... scurrying and pushing and buzzing. The air in the house wafted through the new hole in the roof, smelling of dirtiness and sweat. I swallowed nervously, seeking His face. Where was He? I could hear His voice above everyone else's.
And even as I searched the faces of the crowd... I saw Him.
Quickly.
We slowly lowered our friend, who now hung suspended in a makeshift hammock.
Then we heard the other people.
They were angry.
They shook their fists at my friend.
I was afraid.
We only had to get our friend to Jesus.
But what if we couldn't get past the crowd? These people, so selfish. So healthy. Standing on two feet.
Then Jesus looked up.
The sun shadowed His face so He squinted -- lines around his forehead and the corners of his eyes deepened.
I almost lost grip of my end of the rope.
Was that a smile?
Had I imagined it... or did the teacher look... amused?
He told everyone to step back, to move out of the way, stepping forward to take our friend in His arms.
We felt our ropes go slack and watched as Jesus lay our friend down on the dirt floor on a mat.
Everything in me wanted to jump down too.
To be held in the teacher's arms like that.
He was a carpenter like my father. Big strong arms and lots of scars.
But I wasn't sick.
So I lay on my belly and lowered my head and shoulders as far as I dared. Just so I could watch.
Just so I didn't miss it when Jesus healed my friend.
But instead, everything went quiet.
I watched as Jesus knelt down and rested his elbows on his knees.
He asked my friend his name.
He smiled. There it was again.
Then Jesus said something and sat back down.
I couldn't hear.
I didn't know.
But my friend didn't get up.
Wouldn't the teacher make my friend's legs work?
I felt the sun beat on the back of my neck and strained to see my friend's face.
My belly flipped inside of me.
My friend looked upon Jesus with a face as radiant as the sun. His young eyes were wet with tears - tears like I hadn't ever seen him cry.
But his legs weren't moving.
Then Jesus said something else. He asked a question.
He shrugged His shoulders and I watched Him rub his calf - back and forth, like He was thinking really hard.
Then He nodded and smiled again.
And He reached out to my friend and whispered again.
I could see the muscles in my friend's legs ripple. And then I saw his toes move. Before I knew it my friend was standing on his feet, rolling up his mat.
Then he turned and looked up at us - his friends who had brought him there to be healed.
He turned to Jesus and pointed. Jesus pulled him close and He looked up at me.
This time, He smiled right at me.
And beckoned for me to come down.
Later my friend would tell me the whole story.
About how Jesus had looked at him and forgiven him of his sins. "He fixed my heart first," my friend said. "The part I didn't know was broken. The part I didn't know was hurt..."
Jesus brought the five of us back later that day and climbed onto the roof with us to help mend the hole we had cut. The crowd was long gone... it was only Jesus and us then.
A carpenter. Like my dad. He explained how all our hearts were broken. How the inside was what needed to be fixed. And He could do that for us... because He loved us.
We had been waiting for him.
We all wanted to see him, to hear his voice, to be close to him.
But, especially, we wanted to bring the boy to him; the boy who could not move his legs.
So the four of us picked up the corners of the boy's mat and we went to where we knew Jesus was.
All we had to do was follow the crowd.
The sun shone bright and hot, and though the boy was light, he seemed a great burden as we went in search of the teacher.
We ran into the crowd long before we reached him. The mob encircled the house, packed together like cattle, hot and sweaty, their whispers rising like a great din.
We could hear nothing, see nothing.
But I knew he was there. All five of us knew. We were so close. But the crowd was impenetrable. Leaving, however, was not an option.
We were so close to him.
Perhaps I imagined it. But I think I could feel him. Where I could not see him, when I could not hear him... I felt something stir in my heart. To the point I recognized his presence. And could not turn away.
We pressed through the crowd with all our might. Some moved aside when they saw us bringing the boy who couldn't walk. Others didn't budge. I became aggravated with the people. For being so large in numbers, for being so healthy, for being so close to Jesus when I was so far away.
We made it as close as the front step. The boy looked up at me. "Can we get any closer?"
But there was no swaying the audience. A huge, unwavering body. But we were so close. And something stirred my soul, and I knew...
All we had to do was let Jesus see the boy. I had heard enough of this teacher to know that was enough.
Later, I would question what went through my mind at that moment, what it was that caused me to act.
Maybe it was courage.
Or desperation. Just as much for myself as for my friend - my friend who'd never been able to use his legs.
Today, still, I don't have the answer.
But the four of us - the ones with the strong, sturdy legs of young boys - climbed onto the roof of the house in which the teacher sat.
No one noticed us.
The man who owned the house did not come out, yelling and scolding for cutting into his roof. He didn't notice.
Because he was listening to Jesus too.
Finally we scrambled back down to the ground; backs were sore, necks hot from the sun. And slowly, slowly, we picked up our friend and lifted him to the roof.
His face was full of emotion.
Trepidation and delight. He was going to see the teacher... surely He would heal his legs. But I think our friend might have been afraid we'd kill him before he ever made it inside.
I held onto one of the ropes, which would lower my friend into the room.
I leaned over and looked inside.
People swarmed like bugs... scurrying and pushing and buzzing. The air in the house wafted through the new hole in the roof, smelling of dirtiness and sweat. I swallowed nervously, seeking His face. Where was He? I could hear His voice above everyone else's.
And even as I searched the faces of the crowd... I saw Him.
Quickly.
We slowly lowered our friend, who now hung suspended in a makeshift hammock.
Then we heard the other people.
They were angry.
They shook their fists at my friend.
I was afraid.
We only had to get our friend to Jesus.
But what if we couldn't get past the crowd? These people, so selfish. So healthy. Standing on two feet.
Then Jesus looked up.
The sun shadowed His face so He squinted -- lines around his forehead and the corners of his eyes deepened.
I almost lost grip of my end of the rope.
Was that a smile?
Had I imagined it... or did the teacher look... amused?
He told everyone to step back, to move out of the way, stepping forward to take our friend in His arms.
We felt our ropes go slack and watched as Jesus lay our friend down on the dirt floor on a mat.
Everything in me wanted to jump down too.
To be held in the teacher's arms like that.
He was a carpenter like my father. Big strong arms and lots of scars.
But I wasn't sick.
So I lay on my belly and lowered my head and shoulders as far as I dared. Just so I could watch.
Just so I didn't miss it when Jesus healed my friend.
But instead, everything went quiet.
I watched as Jesus knelt down and rested his elbows on his knees.
He asked my friend his name.
He smiled. There it was again.
Then Jesus said something and sat back down.
I couldn't hear.
I didn't know.
But my friend didn't get up.
Wouldn't the teacher make my friend's legs work?
I felt the sun beat on the back of my neck and strained to see my friend's face.
My belly flipped inside of me.
My friend looked upon Jesus with a face as radiant as the sun. His young eyes were wet with tears - tears like I hadn't ever seen him cry.
But his legs weren't moving.
Then Jesus said something else. He asked a question.
He shrugged His shoulders and I watched Him rub his calf - back and forth, like He was thinking really hard.
Then He nodded and smiled again.
And He reached out to my friend and whispered again.
I could see the muscles in my friend's legs ripple. And then I saw his toes move. Before I knew it my friend was standing on his feet, rolling up his mat.
Then he turned and looked up at us - his friends who had brought him there to be healed.
He turned to Jesus and pointed. Jesus pulled him close and He looked up at me.
This time, He smiled right at me.
And beckoned for me to come down.
Later my friend would tell me the whole story.
About how Jesus had looked at him and forgiven him of his sins. "He fixed my heart first," my friend said. "The part I didn't know was broken. The part I didn't know was hurt..."
Jesus brought the five of us back later that day and climbed onto the roof with us to help mend the hole we had cut. The crowd was long gone... it was only Jesus and us then.
A carpenter. Like my dad. He explained how all our hearts were broken. How the inside was what needed to be fixed. And He could do that for us... because He loved us.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Soundtrack
In every good movie there is a scene.
The scene where the main character goes from being less to more.
From being uneducated to educated.
Awkward and gangly to a beautiful princess.
Skills are developed.
Lessons are learned (wax on, wax off).
And we sit at the edge of our seats.
Watching the transformation... hoping for the best.
And there's always a song. Playing loudly, or quietly, or changing appropriately.
As we were driving back from picking my sister up from Mississippi about a month ago, I put in my iPod and told her to listen.
There was this song.
This i song that had been playing.
One that made my heart rend a little bit whenever I heard it.
A song that made me think change was coming.
It's never really what the song says. Is it ever, really?
But I turned up the volume and Olivia rolled her shoulders back and closed her eyes. I watched her in the rearview mirror as she choreographed her dance in her mind. My heart filled with pride and joy.
But the song ignited a sense of anticipation in my soul...
Things were about to change. I could feel it. The winds were changing. Muscles needed to be stretched. New things tried.
I need to be re-educated.
I'm hoping for the best.
The scene where the main character goes from being less to more.
From being uneducated to educated.
Awkward and gangly to a beautiful princess.
Skills are developed.
Lessons are learned (wax on, wax off).
And we sit at the edge of our seats.
Watching the transformation... hoping for the best.
And there's always a song. Playing loudly, or quietly, or changing appropriately.
As we were driving back from picking my sister up from Mississippi about a month ago, I put in my iPod and told her to listen.
There was this song.
This i song that had been playing.
One that made my heart rend a little bit whenever I heard it.
A song that made me think change was coming.
It's never really what the song says. Is it ever, really?
But I turned up the volume and Olivia rolled her shoulders back and closed her eyes. I watched her in the rearview mirror as she choreographed her dance in her mind. My heart filled with pride and joy.
But the song ignited a sense of anticipation in my soul...
Things were about to change. I could feel it. The winds were changing. Muscles needed to be stretched. New things tried.
I need to be re-educated.
I'm hoping for the best.
Circus
A Circus
One thing I truly love about this life are “moments”.
These are not measurements of time. They cannot be calculated or counted on a wristwatch.
These moments are when I am in the middle of my every day life. Perhaps I am doing something creative or utterly mundane. I may not always notice them at first. But something – a song or a word or a ray of light – will suddenly ignite my awareness. And I see it. I feel it.
These moments cannot be manufactured. You cannot set out to create one. Sometimes I will go days or weeks or months without them. Then when I am not looking… time will stand still.
Sounds will heighten and colors brighten.
The wind will most certainly blow.
And my heart will surely swell.
I had one such moment on New Years Eve.
Under a rocky overhang in Tennessee.
Sitting on the wooden floor of my very own first house… eating Taco Bell.
Walking through the streets of Atlanta.
Camping in Cave Run.
They always happen when I am being myself. When I am dirty and physically tired. When my bohemian spirit comes to life. When my attention is taken away from the stress and the worry and responsibility.
Last night, it happened again.
I met Larry at the park. My stomach was in knots… fearing being extracted from my comfort zone. A knotted stomach because my fear made me feel pathetic.
I sat down, instantly in awe of my father.
You’d never know he was a hippie.
You only see it if you stop looking. If you lean in close enough to smell the patchouli, or ask enough questions to find out he used to do yoga in the park and rides his bike almost everywhere he goes. If you only knew how he knows how to “cure” a headache by rubbing your feet… or if you had seen him in his white t-shirt and flipflops playing the jimbay. Only then would you know.
You might have thought we were at the circus last night. Jugglers and flamethrowers and girls who danced with hula-hoops. They had dreads and drums and cigarettes and tattoos. The park was filled with smells of sweat and oil. Children ran around everywhere. I didn’t know who belonged to whom—everyone took care of everyone else’s kids. Bikes were propped up everywhere. And they continued to play… an ever-changing rhythm coming from five or six drums at a time.
I just sat and watched.
Watched as a couple of college boys who had been sitting on the outskirts of the circle, walked up and got a free lesson on how to juggle.
As a young woman juggled with fire for the first time.
And as an intriguing redheaded juggler floated in and out and around the circle… juggling and maneuvering glass baubles up and down his arms. It was as if it were magic. (I imagined centuries ago when a young man learned he could manipulate the balls in such a way it made them seem controlled by an external force. Magic. Fluid. I was enthralled.)
The group continued to enlarge as the evening went on. New rhythms. Dancing. Clapping. The ice cream truck came and people were walking around holding juggling pins and blue slushies.
And then the redheaded juggler sat down and picked up a guitar. The guitar was attached to a small amp, but there was no microphone. And he began to sing.
Quietly at first.
I strained to listen above the drumbeat.
And then I didn’t have to strain anymore. Because the others in the circle heard; I want to believe they heard his voice for what it really was… believe that every last man and woman changed the beat of their fingers to help create this moment…
For that’s what it was.
His voice rose slightly as if he had swallowed a little nerve.
A song about rising. Out of the fire. Like a phoenix.
He was quiet about it.
He closed his eyes.
He stopped singing and the moment was over. The drummers who had been playing, slowed and then stopped. Everyone applauded quietly. I think they all knew this was not about the attention. It was not about the recognition. But something that quiet, something that beautiful, had to be acknowledged.
Moments come and go as quickly and simply as that.
A little while later I heard two of the men from the circle talking.
“Look how many have come tonight,” one man said. He wore a fedora and a black vest without a shirt underneath. You could see his gray chest hair and smell the smoke on him. His face was illuminated with a smile.
The other man, short and stout and wearing the same clothes as last week, with long gray hair smiled a toothy grin and said, “it’s happening.”
I don’t think I was supposed to hear this.
But a few minutes later then man with the long, gray hair pointed to the sky. A black cloud was being blown in by a wind that would later knock a tree down at my apartment complex.
Immediately… as if they had been expecting it… the jugglers threw their balls in a bag and the hula-hoopers shouldered the hoops and the drummers picked up their drums.
And the park was quiet as it had been before we got there.
It was happening.
Whatever “it” was.
As I got in my car and drove away, I couldn’t help but think that these people, these mismatched, quiet people had gotten something right that the church hadn’t in a few millennia.
They gathered in a public place.
They did what they do best.
When you walked up to the sidelines to watch, one of them would break away from the circle and extend a hand. “This is who we are,” he would explain their purpose for gathering. He would welcome you. “Come just as you are… bring whatever you have… everyone is welcome.” People on the sidelines would nod their head and follow him into the circle. Others would say no, they just wanted to watch. And he would smile and go back to his drum.
When it was time to go home at night, there were a few souls who were better for their presence.
Take a lesson from the hippies… from the people you might avoid on the streets.
The people who might not claim to love Jesus are showing more Christ-like love in the park than many “Christians” often do.
What if one day we gathered – dancing like fools and singing for peace and the Prince of Peace. And we extended our hands to you. “Come, just as you are. Bring whatever you have.”
And at the end of the night, as the wind – or the God Almighty –whipped through the park with holy force, we could look at one another and whisper.
“It’s happening.”
Finally.
That is church my friend.
It looks a little like a circus.
One thing I truly love about this life are “moments”.
These are not measurements of time. They cannot be calculated or counted on a wristwatch.
These moments are when I am in the middle of my every day life. Perhaps I am doing something creative or utterly mundane. I may not always notice them at first. But something – a song or a word or a ray of light – will suddenly ignite my awareness. And I see it. I feel it.
These moments cannot be manufactured. You cannot set out to create one. Sometimes I will go days or weeks or months without them. Then when I am not looking… time will stand still.
Sounds will heighten and colors brighten.
The wind will most certainly blow.
And my heart will surely swell.
I had one such moment on New Years Eve.
Under a rocky overhang in Tennessee.
Sitting on the wooden floor of my very own first house… eating Taco Bell.
Walking through the streets of Atlanta.
Camping in Cave Run.
They always happen when I am being myself. When I am dirty and physically tired. When my bohemian spirit comes to life. When my attention is taken away from the stress and the worry and responsibility.
Last night, it happened again.
I met Larry at the park. My stomach was in knots… fearing being extracted from my comfort zone. A knotted stomach because my fear made me feel pathetic.
I sat down, instantly in awe of my father.
You’d never know he was a hippie.
You only see it if you stop looking. If you lean in close enough to smell the patchouli, or ask enough questions to find out he used to do yoga in the park and rides his bike almost everywhere he goes. If you only knew how he knows how to “cure” a headache by rubbing your feet… or if you had seen him in his white t-shirt and flipflops playing the jimbay. Only then would you know.
You might have thought we were at the circus last night. Jugglers and flamethrowers and girls who danced with hula-hoops. They had dreads and drums and cigarettes and tattoos. The park was filled with smells of sweat and oil. Children ran around everywhere. I didn’t know who belonged to whom—everyone took care of everyone else’s kids. Bikes were propped up everywhere. And they continued to play… an ever-changing rhythm coming from five or six drums at a time.
I just sat and watched.
Watched as a couple of college boys who had been sitting on the outskirts of the circle, walked up and got a free lesson on how to juggle.
As a young woman juggled with fire for the first time.
And as an intriguing redheaded juggler floated in and out and around the circle… juggling and maneuvering glass baubles up and down his arms. It was as if it were magic. (I imagined centuries ago when a young man learned he could manipulate the balls in such a way it made them seem controlled by an external force. Magic. Fluid. I was enthralled.)
The group continued to enlarge as the evening went on. New rhythms. Dancing. Clapping. The ice cream truck came and people were walking around holding juggling pins and blue slushies.
And then the redheaded juggler sat down and picked up a guitar. The guitar was attached to a small amp, but there was no microphone. And he began to sing.
Quietly at first.
I strained to listen above the drumbeat.
And then I didn’t have to strain anymore. Because the others in the circle heard; I want to believe they heard his voice for what it really was… believe that every last man and woman changed the beat of their fingers to help create this moment…
For that’s what it was.
His voice rose slightly as if he had swallowed a little nerve.
A song about rising. Out of the fire. Like a phoenix.
He was quiet about it.
He closed his eyes.
He stopped singing and the moment was over. The drummers who had been playing, slowed and then stopped. Everyone applauded quietly. I think they all knew this was not about the attention. It was not about the recognition. But something that quiet, something that beautiful, had to be acknowledged.
Moments come and go as quickly and simply as that.
A little while later I heard two of the men from the circle talking.
“Look how many have come tonight,” one man said. He wore a fedora and a black vest without a shirt underneath. You could see his gray chest hair and smell the smoke on him. His face was illuminated with a smile.
The other man, short and stout and wearing the same clothes as last week, with long gray hair smiled a toothy grin and said, “it’s happening.”
I don’t think I was supposed to hear this.
But a few minutes later then man with the long, gray hair pointed to the sky. A black cloud was being blown in by a wind that would later knock a tree down at my apartment complex.
Immediately… as if they had been expecting it… the jugglers threw their balls in a bag and the hula-hoopers shouldered the hoops and the drummers picked up their drums.
And the park was quiet as it had been before we got there.
It was happening.
Whatever “it” was.
As I got in my car and drove away, I couldn’t help but think that these people, these mismatched, quiet people had gotten something right that the church hadn’t in a few millennia.
They gathered in a public place.
They did what they do best.
When you walked up to the sidelines to watch, one of them would break away from the circle and extend a hand. “This is who we are,” he would explain their purpose for gathering. He would welcome you. “Come just as you are… bring whatever you have… everyone is welcome.” People on the sidelines would nod their head and follow him into the circle. Others would say no, they just wanted to watch. And he would smile and go back to his drum.
When it was time to go home at night, there were a few souls who were better for their presence.
Take a lesson from the hippies… from the people you might avoid on the streets.
The people who might not claim to love Jesus are showing more Christ-like love in the park than many “Christians” often do.
What if one day we gathered – dancing like fools and singing for peace and the Prince of Peace. And we extended our hands to you. “Come, just as you are. Bring whatever you have.”
And at the end of the night, as the wind – or the God Almighty –whipped through the park with holy force, we could look at one another and whisper.
“It’s happening.”
Finally.
That is church my friend.
It looks a little like a circus.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Shadow of His Wing
Its been over three years now...
and the only real reason it came to mind today was because I saw the pictures on Granddad's desktop.
But the memories came flooding back.
The way a car sounds when its being crushed. The sound of breaking glass. The eerie stillness when its all over... and the radio is the only thing making any noise.
In every way, our Father takes care of us.
I walked away that day (Saturday, May 14th 2005) with only bruises and sore muscles.
There are days when I wonder if my prayers are heard. And others when I know for certain, He has His ear trained to hear my voice.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
400 Years
"See, I will send you the prophet Elijah before that great and dreadful day of the LORD comes. 6 He will turn the hearts of the fathers to their children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers; or else I will come and strike the land with a curse." (Malachi 4:5-6)
These words were followed by four hundred years of silence.
I imagine something theatrical.
A powerful voice declaring these words... the world spinning on end... a people, suddenly deaf to the voice of God.
Like in the movies... the film would play in fast forward, indicating passage of time. Generations would grow old and die. New ones conceived and brought up. The story of a sovereign Lord, of a present deity, would be told by the ones who had felt Him. Who had seen HIs work. But soon, those few would be gone. The story would be passed down--diligently at first, religiously, hopefully.
Surely the Lord would not stay silent long.
The truth would soon become not much more than a bedtime story.
But as always... there are a few children who believe the fairy tales.
Who believe passionately in the truth that is told to them just before they close their eyes.
These are the ones who continued to tell the story.
And after four hundred years... scores of generations and a multitude of decades...
After a winter that knew hope, but no evidence...
Stillness was shattered with words.
As the Lord, who had remained distant for so long, stooped not only to speak, but to live among us. The people who had turned His love and passion into a legend - he came to hold them, and sacrifice himself for them.
No one alive had ever heard His voice, or seen His undeniable glory.
And in a blink of an eye, His voice was heard by the poorest.
By the most unlikely.
And the movie is stopped abruptly. A panoramic view of a hillside... of sleeping sheep...
"Do not be afraid. For I bring to you tidings of great joy..."
The heart of a Father was turned to His children.
And the world would never be the same.
These words were followed by four hundred years of silence.
I imagine something theatrical.
A powerful voice declaring these words... the world spinning on end... a people, suddenly deaf to the voice of God.
Like in the movies... the film would play in fast forward, indicating passage of time. Generations would grow old and die. New ones conceived and brought up. The story of a sovereign Lord, of a present deity, would be told by the ones who had felt Him. Who had seen HIs work. But soon, those few would be gone. The story would be passed down--diligently at first, religiously, hopefully.
Surely the Lord would not stay silent long.
The truth would soon become not much more than a bedtime story.
But as always... there are a few children who believe the fairy tales.
Who believe passionately in the truth that is told to them just before they close their eyes.
These are the ones who continued to tell the story.
And after four hundred years... scores of generations and a multitude of decades...
After a winter that knew hope, but no evidence...
Stillness was shattered with words.
As the Lord, who had remained distant for so long, stooped not only to speak, but to live among us. The people who had turned His love and passion into a legend - he came to hold them, and sacrifice himself for them.
No one alive had ever heard His voice, or seen His undeniable glory.
And in a blink of an eye, His voice was heard by the poorest.
By the most unlikely.
And the movie is stopped abruptly. A panoramic view of a hillside... of sleeping sheep...
"Do not be afraid. For I bring to you tidings of great joy..."
The heart of a Father was turned to His children.
And the world would never be the same.
Remembering How
We went to the park the other day. It was a perfect July afternoon. The blue sky, the yellow sun, the few clouds. There was a slight, refreshing breeze. Sunlight shown on my family's faces as we grilled out and threw a football and a frisbee.
For the first time in a long time I felt the urge to have a real camera in my hand. Not a digital. A completely-manual, film camera. I've missed capturing these moments... these perfect opportunities to capture shadow and detail.
Before it was time to go we brought out the volleyball.
Last summer I played volleyball with my uncle and his girlfriend. I learned a vital lesson from Marty that summer... and a few things about how to play the game.
So I picked up the volleyball again this July. But it felt foreign in my hand. Too heavy or too light maybe... but the ball was the same size. Almost like my hands were different. I embarrassed myself over and over again, feeling my trademark shut-down, my signature "quitting before it gets too hard".
And then everyone looked away. I had been telling Jordan all day long about muscle memory. He had said he hadn't played volleyball in years, but that he used to play every spring break. "Your muscles will remember," I told him. But I didn't apply that logic to myself.
Then everyone looked away. For once, everyone's back was turned to me. I am not one to thrive under pressure... with the lack of attention, I took the ball in my hand again. I held it until it felt right. Until I remembered how it used to feel - what it was supposed to feel like.
And I sent it clear over the net.
These days I am learning to do things I never learned how to do as a child. I'm getting dirty, sleeping outside, laughing until my belly hurts, laying on the floor.
But there are things I feel like I'm forgetting how to do. Things I want desperately to remember. To hold on to. As my self fluctuates and grows and changes, there are pieces I don't want to lose.
I feel like I've forgotten how to tell a story.
Funny. All my life, when I've gone to my mother with complaints about writer's block, she just shrugs and says "Just keep writing".
Muscle memory. Repeating until the muscles remember. Until the ball feels right in your hand. Until the words ring true on the page.
I'm remembering how.
For the first time in a long time I felt the urge to have a real camera in my hand. Not a digital. A completely-manual, film camera. I've missed capturing these moments... these perfect opportunities to capture shadow and detail.
Before it was time to go we brought out the volleyball.
Last summer I played volleyball with my uncle and his girlfriend. I learned a vital lesson from Marty that summer... and a few things about how to play the game.
So I picked up the volleyball again this July. But it felt foreign in my hand. Too heavy or too light maybe... but the ball was the same size. Almost like my hands were different. I embarrassed myself over and over again, feeling my trademark shut-down, my signature "quitting before it gets too hard".
And then everyone looked away. I had been telling Jordan all day long about muscle memory. He had said he hadn't played volleyball in years, but that he used to play every spring break. "Your muscles will remember," I told him. But I didn't apply that logic to myself.
Then everyone looked away. For once, everyone's back was turned to me. I am not one to thrive under pressure... with the lack of attention, I took the ball in my hand again. I held it until it felt right. Until I remembered how it used to feel - what it was supposed to feel like.
And I sent it clear over the net.
These days I am learning to do things I never learned how to do as a child. I'm getting dirty, sleeping outside, laughing until my belly hurts, laying on the floor.
But there are things I feel like I'm forgetting how to do. Things I want desperately to remember. To hold on to. As my self fluctuates and grows and changes, there are pieces I don't want to lose.
I feel like I've forgotten how to tell a story.
Funny. All my life, when I've gone to my mother with complaints about writer's block, she just shrugs and says "Just keep writing".
Muscle memory. Repeating until the muscles remember. Until the ball feels right in your hand. Until the words ring true on the page.
I'm remembering how.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Rhythm
I imagine my life being made up of many cogs and wheels and gears... all different shapes and purposes. Some are rusty, some are shiny and new.
And every once in a while, a wrench gets thrown in.
And the whole operation goes haywire.
This wrench could be sickness. Or stress. A fight, confusion, deadlines, finances... even good things can sometimes throw the whole, smooth process out of whack.
I am in the middle of a very serious malfunction.
Well. Let's not call it a malfunction. Instead... my smooth-running, quick-witted, energetic system is temporarily out of order.
Days like today I wonder if temporary shut-downs are part of the plan.
Normally I don't read sappy, Christian novels. But today at lunch I was doing just that. And in between the gush and sap, there were a few small words of wisdom. "Sometimes, God gives us hard things because He cares about us enough to make us grow up."
The problem is, when one gear stops working, they all seem to come to a grinding halt. And I feel the jam in my heart and legs and fingertips.
Or perhaps, we could compare this to juggling... or a drum circle.
Last Sunday night we were walking through the park.
The Jugglers Convention was in town.
And Drums for Peace had gathered on the lawn.
I can't play any instrument... I can't read music... I can't dance.
But somewhere in my soul is a precious reservoir of rhythm. It only takes a few counts before I can pick out the beat... the heart... the foundation of the music.
So the six of us sat on the lawn and listened and watched as people played in what Larry called "a drum circle".
Some people were naturally rhythmic. You could see it in their face. The beat didn't come from their hands, or the bare feet they tapped against the grass. It came from somewhere deeper. A much more natural place.... something, somehow, was exiting their bodies through this music.
There were others who didn't quite have the natural rhythm. Their hands hit the drums and their bodies moved in no particular cadence. They just moved.
And I drew comparisons as I watched.
Knowing that the gears and cogs and wheels of my life and my future needed a good oiling. Roll up those sleeves, reach in, remove the wrench. That, however, is the technical part of my self. The nuts and bolts of the mechanism.
All passion, all emotion, is tangled up in the rhythm.
Whether its the rhythm that emerges from your veins... or the foolish, off-beat.
I think I've lost my rhythm.
I've fallen into a monotonous tone... no music at all.
My prayer is that in the coming days I would be able to stop... count until I find the beat in the deep part of myself.
And whether I dance like a fool, or tap my fingers on the steering wheel...
the rest just might make sense.
And every once in a while, a wrench gets thrown in.
And the whole operation goes haywire.
This wrench could be sickness. Or stress. A fight, confusion, deadlines, finances... even good things can sometimes throw the whole, smooth process out of whack.
I am in the middle of a very serious malfunction.
Well. Let's not call it a malfunction. Instead... my smooth-running, quick-witted, energetic system is temporarily out of order.
Days like today I wonder if temporary shut-downs are part of the plan.
Normally I don't read sappy, Christian novels. But today at lunch I was doing just that. And in between the gush and sap, there were a few small words of wisdom. "Sometimes, God gives us hard things because He cares about us enough to make us grow up."
The problem is, when one gear stops working, they all seem to come to a grinding halt. And I feel the jam in my heart and legs and fingertips.
Or perhaps, we could compare this to juggling... or a drum circle.
Last Sunday night we were walking through the park.
The Jugglers Convention was in town.
And Drums for Peace had gathered on the lawn.
I can't play any instrument... I can't read music... I can't dance.
But somewhere in my soul is a precious reservoir of rhythm. It only takes a few counts before I can pick out the beat... the heart... the foundation of the music.
So the six of us sat on the lawn and listened and watched as people played in what Larry called "a drum circle".
Some people were naturally rhythmic. You could see it in their face. The beat didn't come from their hands, or the bare feet they tapped against the grass. It came from somewhere deeper. A much more natural place.... something, somehow, was exiting their bodies through this music.
There were others who didn't quite have the natural rhythm. Their hands hit the drums and their bodies moved in no particular cadence. They just moved.
And I drew comparisons as I watched.
Knowing that the gears and cogs and wheels of my life and my future needed a good oiling. Roll up those sleeves, reach in, remove the wrench. That, however, is the technical part of my self. The nuts and bolts of the mechanism.
All passion, all emotion, is tangled up in the rhythm.
Whether its the rhythm that emerges from your veins... or the foolish, off-beat.
I think I've lost my rhythm.
I've fallen into a monotonous tone... no music at all.
My prayer is that in the coming days I would be able to stop... count until I find the beat in the deep part of myself.
And whether I dance like a fool, or tap my fingers on the steering wheel...
the rest just might make sense.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
My Campaign
This is the first presidential election I am able to vote in.
Consequently, this election will go down in history.
I'm excited to be a part of it.
But along with an eligibility to vote, has come a lot of thoughts of my own.
And I'm not even sure I should share them with you.
They're slightly complicated.
And I don't think you'll like what I have to say.
Oh well.
Barak Obama just won the Democratic Primary.
And a lot of you are mad about it.
Next year, Bush will leave the White House.
And a lot of you are happy about it.
In the near future we will see lots of social and economic changes such as universal healthcare, pulling troops out of Iraq, laws about gay marriage, and where you can send your child to school (and how much that will take out of your paycheck).
You have a lot to say about that.
These issues will affect your vote.
But I've been doing a lot of thinking.
And I've been talking it out, writing it out (using prepositions at the ends of my sentences and conjunctions at the beginning... you know, like a pro).
I'm a little frustrated.
Suddenly, I've found myself a little passionate about all of this.
I think something has to change.
Not "should", or "ought to".
It's not just a good idea.
Something has to change. Or else.
What is it that has to change, you ask me.
You.
You do.
I do.
What? You didn't sign up for this by opening this blog, I know. It's risky enough talking about politics openly like this. But to challenge you to a change of attitude, belief, or action... I should probably go crawl in a hole and await the wrath.
But it's true.
Or... at least I think it is.
Reagan was president when I was born. That fall, when I was six months old, Bush Sr. was elected. Since then, either a Bush or a Clinton has been in office. We've had a fluctuating economy, we've missed chances at "redemptive violence", we've declared war, there's been adultery and lying...
We elect these men.
It's been twenty years of Bush's and Clintons. And today, our economy is on the decline, we are in a war with an unknown purpose, and our dependence on foreign goods and oil is only increasing. Daily, we have people dying because they don't have healthcare and our jails are filled with kids charged with possession while our streets are filled with rapists.
We have guards at the borders of our country.
And hijackers on our planes.
We are fighting for pro-life laws, but our foster care system is horrendous.
We've told you that you have a right to vote.
You also have the right not to.
"We want you to be our president!" The majority of our polls say.
And they become the greatest thing since sliced bread...
Until they do something wrong.
Then it was our neighbor who voted for them.
And we put nasty bumper stickers on our cars.
They're not our president anymore.
Presidents go down in history as responsible for the bad things that happened, or renowned for the good that was done in their term.
That's not democracy at all.
You may think it is. It may be all you know. It may be what we teach our children in school.
But it's not right.
So I've come up with my own campaign.
I'm considering writing Obama... knowing full well he may never even get the letter (but no one could tell me I didn't try).
And letting him know what I think.
My campaign?
May be slightly reminiscent of the 1970s.
(That'd be okay with me.)
A president should be the voice of the people.
We should elect a president because he best represents our belief system, our political view, and addresses our societal issues in the best way feasible.
To have a president get up at a podium and "campaign"... to propose a solution, to promise change, to guarantee success... is a bunch of crap.
For us to solely blame a man for the action of a cabinet and a country is diffusion of responsibility.
The greatest achievements, the greatest change, has NEVER been caused by a president.
Think of Gandhi and MLK Jr. and Mother Teresa.
My campaign is for us to take back our government.
To get off our lazy... tails and to act.
Elect a president who will represent you, not lead you.
If you want something changed, change it.
If you don't like what you are seeing, do something about it.
You want to see this war end? Think about the America you want your sons and daughters to come home to.
Think about the America you want to raise your children and grandchildren in.
We've become apathetic.
We lay blame.
We accuse.
We judge.
But it's our fault.
We use the excuse all the time that one vote doesn't count.
One voice can't be heard.
You're definitely right.
But as cliche as it is, if many people, each with one voice and one vote come together...that is when change occurs.
Gandhi encouraged us to be the change we wished to see.
Margaret Mead said, "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."
Take back your government.
When you go to the voting booth in November, elect the man or woman who you want to represent you.
Who will have a loud voice, but speak our words.
Who will, because we elected them, have influence.
It won't be changed in a term.
Or even in two.
We've screwed it all up too badly.
And there's a lot of other issues we have to face.
More that you won't like. Not one little bit.
But take responsibility.
This is your home.
And mine.
Consequently, this election will go down in history.
I'm excited to be a part of it.
But along with an eligibility to vote, has come a lot of thoughts of my own.
And I'm not even sure I should share them with you.
They're slightly complicated.
And I don't think you'll like what I have to say.
Oh well.
Barak Obama just won the Democratic Primary.
And a lot of you are mad about it.
Next year, Bush will leave the White House.
And a lot of you are happy about it.
In the near future we will see lots of social and economic changes such as universal healthcare, pulling troops out of Iraq, laws about gay marriage, and where you can send your child to school (and how much that will take out of your paycheck).
You have a lot to say about that.
These issues will affect your vote.
But I've been doing a lot of thinking.
And I've been talking it out, writing it out (using prepositions at the ends of my sentences and conjunctions at the beginning... you know, like a pro).
I'm a little frustrated.
Suddenly, I've found myself a little passionate about all of this.
I think something has to change.
Not "should", or "ought to".
It's not just a good idea.
Something has to change. Or else.
What is it that has to change, you ask me.
You.
You do.
I do.
What? You didn't sign up for this by opening this blog, I know. It's risky enough talking about politics openly like this. But to challenge you to a change of attitude, belief, or action... I should probably go crawl in a hole and await the wrath.
But it's true.
Or... at least I think it is.
Reagan was president when I was born. That fall, when I was six months old, Bush Sr. was elected. Since then, either a Bush or a Clinton has been in office. We've had a fluctuating economy, we've missed chances at "redemptive violence", we've declared war, there's been adultery and lying...
We elect these men.
It's been twenty years of Bush's and Clintons. And today, our economy is on the decline, we are in a war with an unknown purpose, and our dependence on foreign goods and oil is only increasing. Daily, we have people dying because they don't have healthcare and our jails are filled with kids charged with possession while our streets are filled with rapists.
We have guards at the borders of our country.
And hijackers on our planes.
We are fighting for pro-life laws, but our foster care system is horrendous.
We've told you that you have a right to vote.
You also have the right not to.
"We want you to be our president!" The majority of our polls say.
And they become the greatest thing since sliced bread...
Until they do something wrong.
Then it was our neighbor who voted for them.
And we put nasty bumper stickers on our cars.
They're not our president anymore.
Presidents go down in history as responsible for the bad things that happened, or renowned for the good that was done in their term.
That's not democracy at all.
You may think it is. It may be all you know. It may be what we teach our children in school.
But it's not right.
So I've come up with my own campaign.
I'm considering writing Obama... knowing full well he may never even get the letter (but no one could tell me I didn't try).
And letting him know what I think.
My campaign?
May be slightly reminiscent of the 1970s.
(That'd be okay with me.)
A president should be the voice of the people.
We should elect a president because he best represents our belief system, our political view, and addresses our societal issues in the best way feasible.
To have a president get up at a podium and "campaign"... to propose a solution, to promise change, to guarantee success... is a bunch of crap.
For us to solely blame a man for the action of a cabinet and a country is diffusion of responsibility.
The greatest achievements, the greatest change, has NEVER been caused by a president.
Think of Gandhi and MLK Jr. and Mother Teresa.
My campaign is for us to take back our government.
To get off our lazy... tails and to act.
Elect a president who will represent you, not lead you.
If you want something changed, change it.
If you don't like what you are seeing, do something about it.
You want to see this war end? Think about the America you want your sons and daughters to come home to.
Think about the America you want to raise your children and grandchildren in.
We've become apathetic.
We lay blame.
We accuse.
We judge.
But it's our fault.
We use the excuse all the time that one vote doesn't count.
One voice can't be heard.
You're definitely right.
But as cliche as it is, if many people, each with one voice and one vote come together...that is when change occurs.
Gandhi encouraged us to be the change we wished to see.
Margaret Mead said, "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."
Take back your government.
When you go to the voting booth in November, elect the man or woman who you want to represent you.
Who will have a loud voice, but speak our words.
Who will, because we elected them, have influence.
It won't be changed in a term.
Or even in two.
We've screwed it all up too badly.
And there's a lot of other issues we have to face.
More that you won't like. Not one little bit.
But take responsibility.
This is your home.
And mine.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Ambition
What are you ambitious about?
Or should I say, "for"?
What is it that gets you going... lights your fire... makes "your clock tick"?
We all go through seasons. Every season looks different. You never repeat the same one twice.
As a people, we have fallen into the misconception that we are supposed to have things figured out. That we have a purpose and it should be found and we should succeed at whatever it is by the time we're 22. (This is the cause of a midlife crisis.)
What if we raised our children in a different way? To view the world as a blessing. To live sustainably. To conserve. To reuse. To create. To appreciate. To sweat. To laugh until their bellies hurt.
As a people, we expect children to be children. We expect college students to be loud and irresponsible and drunk. We expect the middle aged to be conservative and quiet. We expect the elderly to be wise.
When did we forget this is a journey? When did we forget that in their few years, children have wisdom? Or that in their feverish energy, the college age community has a voice? Or that the middle aged are spontaneous and creative? Or that the elderly are spunky and sometimes foolish?
We begin to lose our souls when we define ourselves and each other by social status and the number of years we've been breathing and eating.
Too often we set off to figure out who we are... we end relationships because "who we are" is stifled... we get into a relationship because they help us understand.
I told Larry the other night that I had no idea what was coming next. He shrugged. "It'd be horrible to know what's next, don't you think?"
The other night he asked a question about ambition.
And I rambled... wishing I had an answer... knowing he saw right through my words and my frantic hand gestures.
What does it mean to have ambition?
What does it mean to know who you are?
What does it mean to know what you believe, what you think, and to act on that?
It is when we lose our ambition, when we believe we have finally "arrived", that we grow old.
Because, in reality, we never arrive.
Until you breathe your last breath, you are changing and evolving.
What is your ambition?
Don't think it has to be a fanatastic agenda, or a lengthy project, or anything profound.
Life is profound enugh without us over-thinking it.
Walk a little farther today.
Carry your groceries home.
Learn something new.
Get your hands dirty.
Shakespeare once said, "The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream."
Use everything you have today.
Whatever that looks like.
My ambition today is to see with new eyes. To take in new words. To recycle what I see and hear and feel and turn it into art.
Or should I say, "for"?
What is it that gets you going... lights your fire... makes "your clock tick"?
We all go through seasons. Every season looks different. You never repeat the same one twice.
As a people, we have fallen into the misconception that we are supposed to have things figured out. That we have a purpose and it should be found and we should succeed at whatever it is by the time we're 22. (This is the cause of a midlife crisis.)
What if we raised our children in a different way? To view the world as a blessing. To live sustainably. To conserve. To reuse. To create. To appreciate. To sweat. To laugh until their bellies hurt.
As a people, we expect children to be children. We expect college students to be loud and irresponsible and drunk. We expect the middle aged to be conservative and quiet. We expect the elderly to be wise.
When did we forget this is a journey? When did we forget that in their few years, children have wisdom? Or that in their feverish energy, the college age community has a voice? Or that the middle aged are spontaneous and creative? Or that the elderly are spunky and sometimes foolish?
We begin to lose our souls when we define ourselves and each other by social status and the number of years we've been breathing and eating.
Too often we set off to figure out who we are... we end relationships because "who we are" is stifled... we get into a relationship because they help us understand.
I told Larry the other night that I had no idea what was coming next. He shrugged. "It'd be horrible to know what's next, don't you think?"
The other night he asked a question about ambition.
And I rambled... wishing I had an answer... knowing he saw right through my words and my frantic hand gestures.
What does it mean to have ambition?
What does it mean to know who you are?
What does it mean to know what you believe, what you think, and to act on that?
It is when we lose our ambition, when we believe we have finally "arrived", that we grow old.
Because, in reality, we never arrive.
Until you breathe your last breath, you are changing and evolving.
What is your ambition?
Don't think it has to be a fanatastic agenda, or a lengthy project, or anything profound.
Life is profound enugh without us over-thinking it.
Walk a little farther today.
Carry your groceries home.
Learn something new.
Get your hands dirty.
Shakespeare once said, "The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream."
Use everything you have today.
Whatever that looks like.
My ambition today is to see with new eyes. To take in new words. To recycle what I see and hear and feel and turn it into art.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
What I Think
Whenever I start a sentence, let alone a blog, with the sentence "what I think...", you're in for a ride.
I'll go ahead and tell you I'm probably wrong.
You can count on the fact I don't have all my thoughts together, or that I haven't looked at every perspective.
But I am a woman who thinks a lot.
And if I save up all my thoughts, eventually the proverbial levee will break...
That would be a mess.
Just take my word for it.
I've been reading a book.
I used to do that a lot.
When I was younger, you would have had to pay me to go outside. Most often you'd find me laying on my stomach on my bed reading a fiction novel.
These days, all I want to do is be outside.
And I rarely have time for books.
But I've been reading this one.
A few years ago a guy named Shane wrote a book called Irresistable Revolution. It was a book that changed my life when I read it, ended up being common ground between me and Caleb, and has given me food for thought ever since.
Just recently Shane wrote another book.
In lieu of the presidential election, it is called Jesus For President.
Caleb bought me the book for my birthday.
And it has been an amazing birthday present... made me think more than anything in a long time.
What I've been thinking? (There you go... get ready to disregard anything Im about to say)
I've been thinking about how, for a couple of guys who dislike the government so much, they should be thankful they have freedom of speech. They just used the government and popularity and society to promote a book... get it published and on the shelves... without getting thrown in jail or executed.
The two authors of this book talk a lot about the culture in Jesus' time. They talk about translation of words (aramaic, hebrew, greek) and what they really mean. And the phrase "this is what Jesus meant" occurs over and over again.
And so I started wondering.
If Jesus came today... would he be wearing camel skin and walking barefoot? Would he be Jewish? Would he be Jewish? Would he be crucified?
I don't think so.
I don't think that the Christian faith should be based on relativism, but I also don't think that Jesus' message of salvation had anything to do with his culture or the shoes he wore or the way he was killed. Today, he'd be the guy sitting at the corner booth at Waffle House with another friend or two, drinking black coffee.
There was nothing about Jesus, his everyday living, or his appearance that made him stand out. Just the way he loved. The way he was pure and blameless.
I think we should keep that in mind when reading the Bible.
Also keep in mind that the Bible was put together by imperfect people.
That the first church in Acts was made up of sinners.
That there are almost 30 years of Jesus' life that are pratically unaccounted for.
That the rich need Jesus just as much as the poor.
That MONEY is not the root of all evil... but the LOVE of money is.
That most of our faith, most of what is required of us, is willingness.
Not what you do. It is what you are willing to do. Stepping up to the plate with arms open wide, saying, "Whatever you say, my love."
We need to remember not to seclude ourselves.
To be in the world... surrounded by people who need grace and crave love. But not to be "of" it, in the sense that our love sets us apart.
Not the way we dress. Or where we live. But simply how we love.
Derek Webb sings about how "people love us the most for what we hate."
How can we HATE anything in the name of Jesus?
What I think is that we've gotten full of ourselves.
We've come to believe we are right and they are wrong.
How dangerous...
What I think, is that we need to remember that none of this has anything to do with us.
And that Jesus is the only way...
And he was pretty normal.
And that the evil of this world that we are fighting is not politics, presidents, money, or power.
It's a spiritual war we're fighting.
A fight for our lives and the lives of our neighbors.
...
All that to say it's a great bok. One you should read and mark up and get mad about and nod your head with and question the entire time.
Because that's what he thinks.
And this is what I think.
And the wisest thing he had to say was, "We need to learn how to disagree well".
Love. At the end of the day, just love.
Let Jesus (the carpenter, the fisherman, the one with the corny jokes and the obscure analogies, the one with the dirty feet and scraggly beard) show you the rest.
I'll go ahead and tell you I'm probably wrong.
You can count on the fact I don't have all my thoughts together, or that I haven't looked at every perspective.
But I am a woman who thinks a lot.
And if I save up all my thoughts, eventually the proverbial levee will break...
That would be a mess.
Just take my word for it.
I've been reading a book.
I used to do that a lot.
When I was younger, you would have had to pay me to go outside. Most often you'd find me laying on my stomach on my bed reading a fiction novel.
These days, all I want to do is be outside.
And I rarely have time for books.
But I've been reading this one.
A few years ago a guy named Shane wrote a book called Irresistable Revolution. It was a book that changed my life when I read it, ended up being common ground between me and Caleb, and has given me food for thought ever since.
Just recently Shane wrote another book.
In lieu of the presidential election, it is called Jesus For President.
Caleb bought me the book for my birthday.
And it has been an amazing birthday present... made me think more than anything in a long time.
What I've been thinking? (There you go... get ready to disregard anything Im about to say)
I've been thinking about how, for a couple of guys who dislike the government so much, they should be thankful they have freedom of speech. They just used the government and popularity and society to promote a book... get it published and on the shelves... without getting thrown in jail or executed.
The two authors of this book talk a lot about the culture in Jesus' time. They talk about translation of words (aramaic, hebrew, greek) and what they really mean. And the phrase "this is what Jesus meant" occurs over and over again.
And so I started wondering.
If Jesus came today... would he be wearing camel skin and walking barefoot? Would he be Jewish? Would he be Jewish? Would he be crucified?
I don't think so.
I don't think that the Christian faith should be based on relativism, but I also don't think that Jesus' message of salvation had anything to do with his culture or the shoes he wore or the way he was killed. Today, he'd be the guy sitting at the corner booth at Waffle House with another friend or two, drinking black coffee.
There was nothing about Jesus, his everyday living, or his appearance that made him stand out. Just the way he loved. The way he was pure and blameless.
I think we should keep that in mind when reading the Bible.
Also keep in mind that the Bible was put together by imperfect people.
That the first church in Acts was made up of sinners.
That there are almost 30 years of Jesus' life that are pratically unaccounted for.
That the rich need Jesus just as much as the poor.
That MONEY is not the root of all evil... but the LOVE of money is.
That most of our faith, most of what is required of us, is willingness.
Not what you do. It is what you are willing to do. Stepping up to the plate with arms open wide, saying, "Whatever you say, my love."
We need to remember not to seclude ourselves.
To be in the world... surrounded by people who need grace and crave love. But not to be "of" it, in the sense that our love sets us apart.
Not the way we dress. Or where we live. But simply how we love.
Derek Webb sings about how "people love us the most for what we hate."
How can we HATE anything in the name of Jesus?
What I think is that we've gotten full of ourselves.
We've come to believe we are right and they are wrong.
How dangerous...
What I think, is that we need to remember that none of this has anything to do with us.
And that Jesus is the only way...
And he was pretty normal.
And that the evil of this world that we are fighting is not politics, presidents, money, or power.
It's a spiritual war we're fighting.
A fight for our lives and the lives of our neighbors.
...
All that to say it's a great bok. One you should read and mark up and get mad about and nod your head with and question the entire time.
Because that's what he thinks.
And this is what I think.
And the wisest thing he had to say was, "We need to learn how to disagree well".
Love. At the end of the day, just love.
Let Jesus (the carpenter, the fisherman, the one with the corny jokes and the obscure analogies, the one with the dirty feet and scraggly beard) show you the rest.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Shelter
Five miles into the woods... on a trail that would extend 270-some more for the three boys.
We'd already gotten lost. Already had an injury. We were hot and tired and hungry.
And as we slowly climbed down the last leg of the trail to the campsite... we heard the thunder.
It clapped. The lightening flashed dimly.
We threw our packs to the ground. Pulled the tents and the tarps and the hammocks out.
But it was too late.
We heard the rain coming like an army of soldiers. Like a wall, or a wave, we were bent over the tent, almost having it completely set up. And it hit us.
By the time the tent was standing up, we were soaked down to our underwear.
Water was dripping down my neck, down my shirt. And I looked up at Liza, who was just as wet, and I started laughing.
What else was there to do?
Our tent was filled with water. Our bags were getting wet. Our shoes were squishing. No one could tell the difference between the rain and the sweat. All the grime was washed from my face.
We huddled under a small, yellow tarp with two corners tied to two trees. We held up the other corners with our heads, the boys took off their shirts, we put on hats... and we laughed. And shivered.
It was only 5:30. The rain wasn't stopping. And so we decided to grab our things and head back UP the trail to a cavern we had passed.
All I could think of was Moses. He wanted to see the glory of God and so the Lord protected him in the cleft of a mountain and covered Moses with His hand as He passed by....
Our overhang was probably fifty feet wide, thirty feet high, and twenty feet deep. The ground was covered in dry sand. And there was dry wood and boulders everywhere.
We rung out our clothes and put on dry shirts. The boys built a fire and Pat made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We dried our shoes out on the rocks around the fire, and pulled out the crank radio to try and see what the weather would be like the next day.
The sun began to set. The rain persisted. We laid down our sleeping bags and fed the fire. Two of the boys boiled water for hot chocolate, and cranked the radio again.
The only radio station that would pick up was one that was playing opera.
So the sky was black. And the rain was pattering on the leaves just outside the cavern. The fire was crackling and we were finally getting warm and dry. And as we were drifting off to sleep, the haunting sound of the opera music lifted around us.
Liza looked up and we all smiled. "I've never loved opera music so much in my life," she said. And we all agreed.
We all fell asleep then, as the radio slowly lost energy and the sound of the singing faded into the steady rain.
Words will never be able to express that moment.
A moment from a movie.
That made the whole, wet, difficult day worthwhile.
A moment that I will never forget as long as I live.
A moment, sheltered and protected in the cleft of a mountain...
We'd already gotten lost. Already had an injury. We were hot and tired and hungry.
And as we slowly climbed down the last leg of the trail to the campsite... we heard the thunder.
It clapped. The lightening flashed dimly.
We threw our packs to the ground. Pulled the tents and the tarps and the hammocks out.
But it was too late.
We heard the rain coming like an army of soldiers. Like a wall, or a wave, we were bent over the tent, almost having it completely set up. And it hit us.
By the time the tent was standing up, we were soaked down to our underwear.
Water was dripping down my neck, down my shirt. And I looked up at Liza, who was just as wet, and I started laughing.
What else was there to do?
Our tent was filled with water. Our bags were getting wet. Our shoes were squishing. No one could tell the difference between the rain and the sweat. All the grime was washed from my face.
We huddled under a small, yellow tarp with two corners tied to two trees. We held up the other corners with our heads, the boys took off their shirts, we put on hats... and we laughed. And shivered.
It was only 5:30. The rain wasn't stopping. And so we decided to grab our things and head back UP the trail to a cavern we had passed.
All I could think of was Moses. He wanted to see the glory of God and so the Lord protected him in the cleft of a mountain and covered Moses with His hand as He passed by....
Our overhang was probably fifty feet wide, thirty feet high, and twenty feet deep. The ground was covered in dry sand. And there was dry wood and boulders everywhere.
We rung out our clothes and put on dry shirts. The boys built a fire and Pat made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We dried our shoes out on the rocks around the fire, and pulled out the crank radio to try and see what the weather would be like the next day.
The sun began to set. The rain persisted. We laid down our sleeping bags and fed the fire. Two of the boys boiled water for hot chocolate, and cranked the radio again.
The only radio station that would pick up was one that was playing opera.
So the sky was black. And the rain was pattering on the leaves just outside the cavern. The fire was crackling and we were finally getting warm and dry. And as we were drifting off to sleep, the haunting sound of the opera music lifted around us.
Liza looked up and we all smiled. "I've never loved opera music so much in my life," she said. And we all agreed.
We all fell asleep then, as the radio slowly lost energy and the sound of the singing faded into the steady rain.
Words will never be able to express that moment.
A moment from a movie.
That made the whole, wet, difficult day worthwhile.
A moment that I will never forget as long as I live.
A moment, sheltered and protected in the cleft of a mountain...
Love you, Bye
On Monday we rolled out of bed and headed to Cracker Barrel for a last supper... or... a last breakfast. The boys piled into the mini van with their fort-some pound packs and we filled our bellies with pancakes and hit the road.
I hadn't adequately psyched myself up for this.
A month. No Caleb.
I was quiet on the ride to Tennessee, thoughts of what being without him would be like.
No emails. No phone calls at the end of the night.
The day before we had locked up the dorm building for the last time.
We had bought bungee cords and I had bought his last Chipotle for a month.
On Monday, after four hours in the car, we signed papers at Pickett State Park and drove to the trailhead.
We took pictures and laughed over the roaring noise of the seventeen-year cecadas in the trees above our heads.
And we shouldered our packs... and started hiking.
The next day, after rain and injury and getting lost and freezing during the night, we shouldered our packs again and set off on the trail.
This time... we would go two separate ways.
Liza and I would head back to the van.
The boys would head north on the Sheltowee Trace.
And so we stopped where the paths diverged. "What is it that Caleb always says before he leaves?" Liza asked. I laughed. "Loveyou,bye. Real fast like that," I told her.
I felt my eyes filling up with tears. And so I kissed Caleb on the cheek. Told the boys to be careful. Told Paul I'd come get them tomorrow if they needed me to...
Grabbed Caleb's hand and then turned toward my trail.
"Love you, bye!" I yelled real fast.
And we walked ahead.
I'll see him again in a few weeks.
I didn't adequately psyche myself up for this.
I hadn't adequately psyched myself up for this.
A month. No Caleb.
I was quiet on the ride to Tennessee, thoughts of what being without him would be like.
No emails. No phone calls at the end of the night.
The day before we had locked up the dorm building for the last time.
We had bought bungee cords and I had bought his last Chipotle for a month.
On Monday, after four hours in the car, we signed papers at Pickett State Park and drove to the trailhead.
We took pictures and laughed over the roaring noise of the seventeen-year cecadas in the trees above our heads.
And we shouldered our packs... and started hiking.
The next day, after rain and injury and getting lost and freezing during the night, we shouldered our packs again and set off on the trail.
This time... we would go two separate ways.
Liza and I would head back to the van.
The boys would head north on the Sheltowee Trace.
And so we stopped where the paths diverged. "What is it that Caleb always says before he leaves?" Liza asked. I laughed. "Loveyou,bye. Real fast like that," I told her.
I felt my eyes filling up with tears. And so I kissed Caleb on the cheek. Told the boys to be careful. Told Paul I'd come get them tomorrow if they needed me to...
Grabbed Caleb's hand and then turned toward my trail.
"Love you, bye!" I yelled real fast.
And we walked ahead.
I'll see him again in a few weeks.
I didn't adequately psyche myself up for this.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Rain
Of course it would rain today.
Two years ago it was raining too.
As I got my first tattoo and the world lost another young life.
Two years ago today was a Thursday.
It rained that whole weekend.
Today is Sunday. And it's been raining all day.
Today is also Mother's day. And there's one mother out there who is terribly heartbroken on this two year anniversary.
My heart goes out to her tonight.
I only wish the sun could have shone...
I don't remember who I was back then. I remember some thoughts I had. I remember waking up that third morning of rain to a phone call... that shut the door with an ominous thud. I was an eighteen year old with one semester of college under her belt, one tattoo, living on Long Avenue in a room painted purple. I was a little less than a year into a job that payed more money than I knew what to do with. But I don't remember what I wanted to do with my life. Or who I thought God was. Or how I felt about being alone. I remember being a peculiar person in a peculiar stage in life...
And in that regard, not much has changed.
I am twenty. With five semesters of college, and a degree, under my belt. Three tattoos later... each one represents another lesson learned. Another permanent fixture of my identity. I've lived in three other rooms since that purple one... and am coming up on three years in the same job (except the money isn't quite as sufficient as it used to be). The plan is to go the nursing school. I believe that God is in the wind, that He is good and merciful, and that the more I try to understand Him, the less I do.
Today, it is raining.
I wish the sun would shine.
Because I need some light to be shed on this darkness.
Because I still have no idea what I'm doing.
"Strange how hard it rains now. Rows and rows of big dark clouds. But I'm still alive underneath this shroud..."
I sat down here tonight in this coffee shop, by myself, to try and collect my thoughts. But I'm as creatively constipated as you can get... all the ideas, the thoughts, the contemplations are there. And they ar backing up... causing me discomfort. Part of my thought process, my decision-making process, my way of life is to get this stuff out. And it's not coming. It's only a matter of time before I remember how to use my words...
But tonight all I know is that it's raining.
What does that even mean?
Two years ago it was raining too.
As I got my first tattoo and the world lost another young life.
Two years ago today was a Thursday.
It rained that whole weekend.
Today is Sunday. And it's been raining all day.
Today is also Mother's day. And there's one mother out there who is terribly heartbroken on this two year anniversary.
My heart goes out to her tonight.
I only wish the sun could have shone...
I don't remember who I was back then. I remember some thoughts I had. I remember waking up that third morning of rain to a phone call... that shut the door with an ominous thud. I was an eighteen year old with one semester of college under her belt, one tattoo, living on Long Avenue in a room painted purple. I was a little less than a year into a job that payed more money than I knew what to do with. But I don't remember what I wanted to do with my life. Or who I thought God was. Or how I felt about being alone. I remember being a peculiar person in a peculiar stage in life...
And in that regard, not much has changed.
I am twenty. With five semesters of college, and a degree, under my belt. Three tattoos later... each one represents another lesson learned. Another permanent fixture of my identity. I've lived in three other rooms since that purple one... and am coming up on three years in the same job (except the money isn't quite as sufficient as it used to be). The plan is to go the nursing school. I believe that God is in the wind, that He is good and merciful, and that the more I try to understand Him, the less I do.
Today, it is raining.
I wish the sun would shine.
Because I need some light to be shed on this darkness.
Because I still have no idea what I'm doing.
"Strange how hard it rains now. Rows and rows of big dark clouds. But I'm still alive underneath this shroud..."
I sat down here tonight in this coffee shop, by myself, to try and collect my thoughts. But I'm as creatively constipated as you can get... all the ideas, the thoughts, the contemplations are there. And they ar backing up... causing me discomfort. Part of my thought process, my decision-making process, my way of life is to get this stuff out. And it's not coming. It's only a matter of time before I remember how to use my words...
But tonight all I know is that it's raining.
What does that even mean?
Thursday, May 8, 2008
A New Decade
I just turned twenty.
As I told my dad last night, it's only weird when I think about it.
Nothing feels different. I didn't wake up yesterday morning with a new sensation, or should I say 'feeling the loss' of my childhood.
But people tell me I'm old now.
And I laugh a little.
I've felt old for a long time.
In my old age... I still make endless notes when no one is looking at work. There are so many things that run through my head in a day. We concluded last night that its a genetic issue... thinking too much that is.
I've been thinking about infection.
Infection in the body. In the soul. In the mind.
How suburbs are not the problem; just as money isn't the problem. It's the love of, the attachment to, the use of (insert vice) that is a sin. The moment we begin blaming something inanimate for our downfall... the deeper we sink.
We need the world to quiet down. We need to slow down... to listen carefully. A lot is being said. We just don't hear.
We adapt to the rhythm around us. Whatever is playing in our ears... our bodies will eventually become in sync with. This is the method I rely on when I go running. But it's also the truth that is evident in our lives. The faster our bodies go, the faster our minds go. And our souls get lost in the shuffle.
Delicious ambiguity.
A man named Lonely.
I'm a college graduate.
We succeed and climb to the top. If we are smart... and wish to live long, fulfilling lives... we will go back down to the bottom and do it again. This is the scariest part of the journey. Requires different muscles, a different mentality. To start over, we must be humbled. And none of us have any interest in being humbled.
This week is an anniversary. Of lost hope, of heartbreak, of a horrible car accident. Amazing how time changes things. How people change. Next month my insurance premium will go down by 50%... this is the best change of all.
Out of these things... maybe one will spark an insightful post.
But probably not. There will be something new tomorrow. It is a new decade. I'm praying for new inspiration. New ideas. New vision.
As I told my dad last night, it's only weird when I think about it.
Nothing feels different. I didn't wake up yesterday morning with a new sensation, or should I say 'feeling the loss' of my childhood.
But people tell me I'm old now.
And I laugh a little.
I've felt old for a long time.
In my old age... I still make endless notes when no one is looking at work. There are so many things that run through my head in a day. We concluded last night that its a genetic issue... thinking too much that is.
I've been thinking about infection.
Infection in the body. In the soul. In the mind.
How suburbs are not the problem; just as money isn't the problem. It's the love of, the attachment to, the use of (insert vice) that is a sin. The moment we begin blaming something inanimate for our downfall... the deeper we sink.
We need the world to quiet down. We need to slow down... to listen carefully. A lot is being said. We just don't hear.
We adapt to the rhythm around us. Whatever is playing in our ears... our bodies will eventually become in sync with. This is the method I rely on when I go running. But it's also the truth that is evident in our lives. The faster our bodies go, the faster our minds go. And our souls get lost in the shuffle.
Delicious ambiguity.
A man named Lonely.
I'm a college graduate.
We succeed and climb to the top. If we are smart... and wish to live long, fulfilling lives... we will go back down to the bottom and do it again. This is the scariest part of the journey. Requires different muscles, a different mentality. To start over, we must be humbled. And none of us have any interest in being humbled.
This week is an anniversary. Of lost hope, of heartbreak, of a horrible car accident. Amazing how time changes things. How people change. Next month my insurance premium will go down by 50%... this is the best change of all.
Out of these things... maybe one will spark an insightful post.
But probably not. There will be something new tomorrow. It is a new decade. I'm praying for new inspiration. New ideas. New vision.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Emotional Revolution
I am supposed to be writing about biofuels. But I always do my best writing here when I'm supposed to be writing somewhere, or about something, else. That's just the way of it.
Life is not easy. I'm wondering how we ever came to the conclusion that it was supposed to be?
All I know is that my 66 year old grandmother has been in the hospital for a month... and a 15 year old boy died the day before yesterday after spending weeks in a coma...
I know that we are faced with questions that have no answers. And we are thrown into this cycle of life that is continuously changing...
You find yourself in your very last week of college... ever. A life you've known for four, maybe five years, is coming to an end. There will never be this many people around again. No more community bathrooms or parking tags or greasy cafeteria food. And maybe you wonder what life outside those walls will feel like...
Or you're stuck in a job you hate. Or starting a new one that terrifies you. Or you love your job but dont make enough money.
You want to buy an engagement ring, but can't even make ends meet. Maybe you want to take her on a date, but life is just too crazy, people are too demanding. Maybe you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, but she, your other half, needs you by her side.
Maybe you're facing a move. A change of location. Or you feel unsafe in your own home. Maybe you've become static... and this place where you are is no longer where you need to be... but leaving just doesnt seem like an option. Or maybe your heart is somewhere else entirely. And your body just hasn't caught up yet.
Maybe you are worried about the world... your mind is filled with thoughts of sustainable living and nonrenewable resources and energy efficience... about those who labor to give you your lifestyle... about being selfless and innovative and free.
Some of us are angry at God right now.
Some of us have just succumbed to the tears... all but let our bodies collapse beneath us.
Others are enjoying the sunshine today.
Our minds are consumed with thoughts and feelings.
We are stressed and stretched too thin and we are scared.
Or we are excited.
Or we miss you.
Or all of these things rolled into one.
Life is not easy.
I've heard you're supposed to take it one day at a time... but I haven't learned how to do that yet.
All I know is that I can't resist the revolution... with this unpredictable life, these unpredictable people, these haphazard ways of living... there's no telling where we'll end up.
But we count on His grace.
And we cling to hope.
And we treasure peace as if it were worth more than gold...
Life is not easy. I'm wondering how we ever came to the conclusion that it was supposed to be?
All I know is that my 66 year old grandmother has been in the hospital for a month... and a 15 year old boy died the day before yesterday after spending weeks in a coma...
I know that we are faced with questions that have no answers. And we are thrown into this cycle of life that is continuously changing...
You find yourself in your very last week of college... ever. A life you've known for four, maybe five years, is coming to an end. There will never be this many people around again. No more community bathrooms or parking tags or greasy cafeteria food. And maybe you wonder what life outside those walls will feel like...
Or you're stuck in a job you hate. Or starting a new one that terrifies you. Or you love your job but dont make enough money.
You want to buy an engagement ring, but can't even make ends meet. Maybe you want to take her on a date, but life is just too crazy, people are too demanding. Maybe you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, but she, your other half, needs you by her side.
Maybe you're facing a move. A change of location. Or you feel unsafe in your own home. Maybe you've become static... and this place where you are is no longer where you need to be... but leaving just doesnt seem like an option. Or maybe your heart is somewhere else entirely. And your body just hasn't caught up yet.
Maybe you are worried about the world... your mind is filled with thoughts of sustainable living and nonrenewable resources and energy efficience... about those who labor to give you your lifestyle... about being selfless and innovative and free.
Some of us are angry at God right now.
Some of us have just succumbed to the tears... all but let our bodies collapse beneath us.
Others are enjoying the sunshine today.
Our minds are consumed with thoughts and feelings.
We are stressed and stretched too thin and we are scared.
Or we are excited.
Or we miss you.
Or all of these things rolled into one.
Life is not easy.
I've heard you're supposed to take it one day at a time... but I haven't learned how to do that yet.
All I know is that I can't resist the revolution... with this unpredictable life, these unpredictable people, these haphazard ways of living... there's no telling where we'll end up.
But we count on His grace.
And we cling to hope.
And we treasure peace as if it were worth more than gold...
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The Archives
I am sitting in Coffea Island. I'm supposed to be doing computer homework, but have gotten distracted. A barista just put on Alison Krauss, I am drinking a bottomless cup of Peaberry coffee, sitting in the sunlight coming through the blinds.
In my distraction, I logged onto Myspace for the first time in months. I had one task in mind. I went and opened up my blog archives and started reading.The earliest one dates back to June 2006. On paper, that doesn't seem that long ago. A little under two years. But I started reading what I had written, and felt as though I was reading about a stranger's life.
I remember all the experiences. I remember all the people. But I dont remember what all the subtle references mean. But what amazes me... is how much people can change. Our fears, our anxieties, our residence, our friends, our language, our music taste, our dreams. There is one blog that has a list of about 50 things I wanted to accomplish before I die (you know, the typical bucket list). As I read through them, I realized that the only ones that still resonated with my new heart are the ones I've already done. Does this mean it's time for a new list? Or time to celebrate?
There are people who were an intrinsic part of my life two years ago, who are nowhere to be found these days. The Beaver Creek house stands empty, with a drained pool. My green room still smells like the candle Ellen gave me. But we dont live there anymore. We don't dance down the hallways or hang air fresheners from the ceiling fans... my room at the Hays house is no longer mine either. I gave back the garage door opener and changed my address. I don't go to Starbucks anymore. The lessons I learned as a college student fresh out on her own, about cheap prices at Walmart and the best route to work are of no use to me now.
There are lessons that I learned back then that I've already forgotten. These are the lessons we all learn... and relearn... and teach others... and then forget again. Lessons about God and love and loneliness.It's been two years since that first blog. And I am nowhere near the girl I was then.
Except for the part about being a hippie. I laugh about that now... knowing I had no idea what that meant the first time I said it. The first time I felt the twinge in my heart for dirty feet and breezy skirts... how could I have known that would get me here? To this place?
In a few years I may go back and dig into the blog archives again. This one, from April 19th in 2008, may be completely foreign to me. I may have changed so much again that most of my words are those of a stranger...
But isn't that the beauty of life?
In my distraction, I logged onto Myspace for the first time in months. I had one task in mind. I went and opened up my blog archives and started reading.The earliest one dates back to June 2006. On paper, that doesn't seem that long ago. A little under two years. But I started reading what I had written, and felt as though I was reading about a stranger's life.
I remember all the experiences. I remember all the people. But I dont remember what all the subtle references mean. But what amazes me... is how much people can change. Our fears, our anxieties, our residence, our friends, our language, our music taste, our dreams. There is one blog that has a list of about 50 things I wanted to accomplish before I die (you know, the typical bucket list). As I read through them, I realized that the only ones that still resonated with my new heart are the ones I've already done. Does this mean it's time for a new list? Or time to celebrate?
There are people who were an intrinsic part of my life two years ago, who are nowhere to be found these days. The Beaver Creek house stands empty, with a drained pool. My green room still smells like the candle Ellen gave me. But we dont live there anymore. We don't dance down the hallways or hang air fresheners from the ceiling fans... my room at the Hays house is no longer mine either. I gave back the garage door opener and changed my address. I don't go to Starbucks anymore. The lessons I learned as a college student fresh out on her own, about cheap prices at Walmart and the best route to work are of no use to me now.
There are lessons that I learned back then that I've already forgotten. These are the lessons we all learn... and relearn... and teach others... and then forget again. Lessons about God and love and loneliness.It's been two years since that first blog. And I am nowhere near the girl I was then.
Except for the part about being a hippie. I laugh about that now... knowing I had no idea what that meant the first time I said it. The first time I felt the twinge in my heart for dirty feet and breezy skirts... how could I have known that would get me here? To this place?
In a few years I may go back and dig into the blog archives again. This one, from April 19th in 2008, may be completely foreign to me. I may have changed so much again that most of my words are those of a stranger...
But isn't that the beauty of life?
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Where Your Heart Is
All our lives, most of us struggle with issues of identity.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
We can take classes on the subject. We go through therapy because of this. Halfway through our lives we go through a crisis. Relationships break up, bad habits are formed. Our lives can be drastically changed just by the pursuit of the answer to these sorts of questions.
And the repercussions are not always negative.
Sometimes... we run into an answer that is infinite. And we come to grips, are satisfied with, our ever-changing, fluctuating, shape-shifting, evolving self. Those of us who accept change so graciously are lucky. And few and far between.
An old Creole proverb says: "Show me who you love, and I'll show you who you are."
Perhaps it is the secret to life...
While it is important to search the inner workings of our souls, to turn inward and figure out what the heck is going on in our hearts, delving into a kingdom belonging only, and specific to ourselves. Perhaps the secret is to turn outward.
See who we surround ourselves with.
Who do we seek out?
Who, what, do we surround ourselves with?
With whom are we the most comfortable?
Where are we the most at peace?
Who do we love?
Yesterday afternoon, I spent a few hours at Keeneland. This is a tradition in my family, way before I was ever legally allowed to gamble. The past few years I have started going with friends instead of family. Yesterday, my sister, my roommate and a few friends of ours got breakfast and then drove to Versailles Road. I knew, before ever reaching the first gate, that we were in for a ride. Because of my past experiences, I knew what the expect. The traffic. The cops. The parking. The programs. The beer and hotdogs. The silks. The trust fund babies. The girls with high heels and short dresses. The expensive sunglasses. And I was comfortable, because I understood. I knew what I was in the midst of. I could determine the wealthy from the wanna-bes, the regulars from the first-timers. I knew when to go to the concession stand, how to bob and weave in the "traffic" of people. I knew when to hold my breath to keep from inhaling cigar smoke. Comfortable.
But I found myself leaving, knowing that I had enjoyed myself. That I had been able to hold my own. That, had I placed any bets, I would have won a little bit of money. But I was not at home. I did not feel like it was safe to be myself. Or that anyone around felt it was safe to be themselves either. A good place to spend the afternoon... but as we turned back onto Versailles Rd, I knew I was glad that was not my life.
After church, Caleb told me we were going on a date. "Where?" was my first question, always feeling a little apprehensive about surprises. My mind went through all the possibilities, and could not come up with anything. His eyes were bright with excitement. "Come on, " he said. "We're gonna be late! Get me to 64 east."
Those were the tell-tale words. 64 east. I started to laugh.
In Powell County, Clay City, last night there was a bluegrass concert. J.D. Crowe and the New South.
The sun had started to set. Once you're on 64 east, the landscape starts to change. Houses are farther apart. There are more cows. Less power lines. More tractors. The rolling hills of Kentucky were crowned with golden sunlight, the wind whistled through the back windows. Caleb put on his sunglasses. The sun hit our faces as we drove farther east, taking the Parkway and hanging a left, following homemade signs to the park.
We pulled into a gravel parking lot, got out and walked toward a barn. As you got closer, the gravel crunching beneath our flip flops, the sun shining off a flooded pond, you began to hear a banjo. People were standing around in Carhartt and baseball hats, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. We walked past everyone and into the barn. Dim light, smoky air. An older woman sat at the front door with the family dog selling tickets to the show. Later, the music would start. Banjos and mandolins and fiddles. Fried apple pie and cowboy boots and banjo-pickin'. Just a group of people, no pretension. No one was putting on airs or pretending to be something they weren't. Simple people. Dirty people. People who were asking themselves the same questions I was asking. We were the same.
We left around 11pm, laughing at the strange turn of events that had landed us in Powell County on a Saturday night. The stars were bright overhead and the grass was wet with dew.
I drew the correlation on the drive home. Feeling utterly content and amused and at peace.
Who do you love?
Where is your heart?
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
We can take classes on the subject. We go through therapy because of this. Halfway through our lives we go through a crisis. Relationships break up, bad habits are formed. Our lives can be drastically changed just by the pursuit of the answer to these sorts of questions.
And the repercussions are not always negative.
Sometimes... we run into an answer that is infinite. And we come to grips, are satisfied with, our ever-changing, fluctuating, shape-shifting, evolving self. Those of us who accept change so graciously are lucky. And few and far between.
An old Creole proverb says: "Show me who you love, and I'll show you who you are."
Perhaps it is the secret to life...
While it is important to search the inner workings of our souls, to turn inward and figure out what the heck is going on in our hearts, delving into a kingdom belonging only, and specific to ourselves. Perhaps the secret is to turn outward.
See who we surround ourselves with.
Who do we seek out?
Who, what, do we surround ourselves with?
With whom are we the most comfortable?
Where are we the most at peace?
Who do we love?
Yesterday afternoon, I spent a few hours at Keeneland. This is a tradition in my family, way before I was ever legally allowed to gamble. The past few years I have started going with friends instead of family. Yesterday, my sister, my roommate and a few friends of ours got breakfast and then drove to Versailles Road. I knew, before ever reaching the first gate, that we were in for a ride. Because of my past experiences, I knew what the expect. The traffic. The cops. The parking. The programs. The beer and hotdogs. The silks. The trust fund babies. The girls with high heels and short dresses. The expensive sunglasses. And I was comfortable, because I understood. I knew what I was in the midst of. I could determine the wealthy from the wanna-bes, the regulars from the first-timers. I knew when to go to the concession stand, how to bob and weave in the "traffic" of people. I knew when to hold my breath to keep from inhaling cigar smoke. Comfortable.
But I found myself leaving, knowing that I had enjoyed myself. That I had been able to hold my own. That, had I placed any bets, I would have won a little bit of money. But I was not at home. I did not feel like it was safe to be myself. Or that anyone around felt it was safe to be themselves either. A good place to spend the afternoon... but as we turned back onto Versailles Rd, I knew I was glad that was not my life.
After church, Caleb told me we were going on a date. "Where?" was my first question, always feeling a little apprehensive about surprises. My mind went through all the possibilities, and could not come up with anything. His eyes were bright with excitement. "Come on, " he said. "We're gonna be late! Get me to 64 east."
Those were the tell-tale words. 64 east. I started to laugh.
In Powell County, Clay City, last night there was a bluegrass concert. J.D. Crowe and the New South.
The sun had started to set. Once you're on 64 east, the landscape starts to change. Houses are farther apart. There are more cows. Less power lines. More tractors. The rolling hills of Kentucky were crowned with golden sunlight, the wind whistled through the back windows. Caleb put on his sunglasses. The sun hit our faces as we drove farther east, taking the Parkway and hanging a left, following homemade signs to the park.
We pulled into a gravel parking lot, got out and walked toward a barn. As you got closer, the gravel crunching beneath our flip flops, the sun shining off a flooded pond, you began to hear a banjo. People were standing around in Carhartt and baseball hats, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. We walked past everyone and into the barn. Dim light, smoky air. An older woman sat at the front door with the family dog selling tickets to the show. Later, the music would start. Banjos and mandolins and fiddles. Fried apple pie and cowboy boots and banjo-pickin'. Just a group of people, no pretension. No one was putting on airs or pretending to be something they weren't. Simple people. Dirty people. People who were asking themselves the same questions I was asking. We were the same.
We left around 11pm, laughing at the strange turn of events that had landed us in Powell County on a Saturday night. The stars were bright overhead and the grass was wet with dew.
I drew the correlation on the drive home. Feeling utterly content and amused and at peace.
Who do you love?
Where is your heart?
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Ordinary Days
Think about it.
Stop and think for a second about the day your life changed.
Maybe you got a new job. Or lost an old one. The day you started college, or the day you graduated. The day your first child was born. Or the day your last child left home for the first time.
Maybe you met the person you would spend the rest of your life with. Or you signed papers that said you didn't want to spend your life with that person anymore. Maybe it was a day spent at a cemetary...
Or maybe it was the most ordinary of days.
If you pause for a minute, and you choose to retreat into your mind... you will remember a day.
An ordinary day. You hit the snooze button, not wanting to get out of bed. You took a shower, maybe. Dressed accordingly for the weather. Got in the car, turned on the ignition. Headed wherever it is your normally go.
And then there would be that day. The day that changed things forever.
A day it rained a little harder than normal. A day the roads were unusually slick.
A bright September morning, a doctor's appointment.
A cold day in March, the first day of spring.
The first day of June.
A warm Sunday at the end of September.
A Tuesday night or a Thursday morning at the end of March.
We expect holidays, an anniversary, a special occasion, or a birthday to be significant milestones in our life.
But what happens when an ordinary day turns into a day you will never forget?
When you get in the car one Saturday in May, covered in paint, and lose control on a wet country road.
When the bright September morning was suddenly filled with xrays and talk of surgery, and ashes filled the sky in New York.
A cold night in March when something died, and even though it was the first day of spring, it began to snow.
A warm night in June when a family sat down and altered the course of all their lives.
A sunny Sunday afternoon, eating lunch with a group of people that would become a family. Meeting the one who would become my favorite. My love.
A Tuesday night, opening the mail. Plans shattered, new options explored.
A Thursday morning. Angels began to dance.
Even the ordinary days are extraordinary.
Remember that as you roll out of bed on this day.
Stop and think for a second about the day your life changed.
Maybe you got a new job. Or lost an old one. The day you started college, or the day you graduated. The day your first child was born. Or the day your last child left home for the first time.
Maybe you met the person you would spend the rest of your life with. Or you signed papers that said you didn't want to spend your life with that person anymore. Maybe it was a day spent at a cemetary...
Or maybe it was the most ordinary of days.
If you pause for a minute, and you choose to retreat into your mind... you will remember a day.
An ordinary day. You hit the snooze button, not wanting to get out of bed. You took a shower, maybe. Dressed accordingly for the weather. Got in the car, turned on the ignition. Headed wherever it is your normally go.
And then there would be that day. The day that changed things forever.
A day it rained a little harder than normal. A day the roads were unusually slick.
A bright September morning, a doctor's appointment.
A cold day in March, the first day of spring.
The first day of June.
A warm Sunday at the end of September.
A Tuesday night or a Thursday morning at the end of March.
We expect holidays, an anniversary, a special occasion, or a birthday to be significant milestones in our life.
But what happens when an ordinary day turns into a day you will never forget?
When you get in the car one Saturday in May, covered in paint, and lose control on a wet country road.
When the bright September morning was suddenly filled with xrays and talk of surgery, and ashes filled the sky in New York.
A cold night in March when something died, and even though it was the first day of spring, it began to snow.
A warm night in June when a family sat down and altered the course of all their lives.
A sunny Sunday afternoon, eating lunch with a group of people that would become a family. Meeting the one who would become my favorite. My love.
A Tuesday night, opening the mail. Plans shattered, new options explored.
A Thursday morning. Angels began to dance.
Even the ordinary days are extraordinary.
Remember that as you roll out of bed on this day.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Jesus and Hybrids
I was driving to work this morning, having just left the hospital where I drop off and pick up files. The sky was gray, but no rain had come yet. I didn't want to go to work, or school. It was a morning to sleep.
I was almost to work when a big old SUV pulled up alongside of me. I let off the gas a little, and the SUV kept going. North Carolina tags.Just a few seconds later I was beside the SUV again. I felt someone looking at me. So I turned to see who it was.
In a big old tan SUV with North Carolina tags sat a man who looked more like Jesus than anyone I have ever met. He had a beard halfway down his chest and his hair was matted and completely wild. He just stared at me, slowing down as we got to the stoplight. Not a creepy stare. Just steady eye contact. This wild man with a gaunt face and intense eyes just stared at me until I turned into my office parking lot.
I got into the office and laughingly told my coworkers that I had just seen Jesus driving down the road. Nettie looked at me and shrugged. "Maybe someone's trying to tell you something." I smiled. Amy looked at me and I knew some criticism was coming. I do not like to take criticism with my breakfast. It was way too early for that. But it came anyway. And not the way I'd expected.
"Well," she said. "I'd say that if Jesus were here today he wouldn't be driving at SUV." I almost choked. "He'd drive a small, economical car. Probably a hybrid." She laughed, but was completely serious.
I shook my head and said, "You're right. He probably wouldn't drive an SUV. He'd ride a bike. Or the bus."
She didn't like that answer very much. And so all day Tuesday, I thought about this. I laughed a little, wondering if this hippie man with a gas-guzzling sports utility vehicle from North Carolina knew what he got started....
And I was frustrated. How many of us think this way? That Jesus is just like us. Clean. Pale. Upper middle class. With good teeth. I remember Him telling us that we never know when we are entertaining angels. I remember Him saying that what we do for the least of these, we do for Him.
There's not a blessed thing wrong with driving a hybrid car. I like them. But I think, if we met Jesus today, He'd be riding down the road on a bike, wearing beat-up Chuck Taylors and a flannel shirt. He wouldn't have a dental plan and he might be a little leathery from all that work in the sun. But He would smile at you. He would want to take His lunch break with you, because He thinks you're special. But when you eat together, you might not want to sit downwind. My guess is He wouldn't have been able to shower for a few days.
Just an idea.
I was almost to work when a big old SUV pulled up alongside of me. I let off the gas a little, and the SUV kept going. North Carolina tags.Just a few seconds later I was beside the SUV again. I felt someone looking at me. So I turned to see who it was.
In a big old tan SUV with North Carolina tags sat a man who looked more like Jesus than anyone I have ever met. He had a beard halfway down his chest and his hair was matted and completely wild. He just stared at me, slowing down as we got to the stoplight. Not a creepy stare. Just steady eye contact. This wild man with a gaunt face and intense eyes just stared at me until I turned into my office parking lot.
I got into the office and laughingly told my coworkers that I had just seen Jesus driving down the road. Nettie looked at me and shrugged. "Maybe someone's trying to tell you something." I smiled. Amy looked at me and I knew some criticism was coming. I do not like to take criticism with my breakfast. It was way too early for that. But it came anyway. And not the way I'd expected.
"Well," she said. "I'd say that if Jesus were here today he wouldn't be driving at SUV." I almost choked. "He'd drive a small, economical car. Probably a hybrid." She laughed, but was completely serious.
I shook my head and said, "You're right. He probably wouldn't drive an SUV. He'd ride a bike. Or the bus."
She didn't like that answer very much. And so all day Tuesday, I thought about this. I laughed a little, wondering if this hippie man with a gas-guzzling sports utility vehicle from North Carolina knew what he got started....
And I was frustrated. How many of us think this way? That Jesus is just like us. Clean. Pale. Upper middle class. With good teeth. I remember Him telling us that we never know when we are entertaining angels. I remember Him saying that what we do for the least of these, we do for Him.
There's not a blessed thing wrong with driving a hybrid car. I like them. But I think, if we met Jesus today, He'd be riding down the road on a bike, wearing beat-up Chuck Taylors and a flannel shirt. He wouldn't have a dental plan and he might be a little leathery from all that work in the sun. But He would smile at you. He would want to take His lunch break with you, because He thinks you're special. But when you eat together, you might not want to sit downwind. My guess is He wouldn't have been able to shower for a few days.
Just an idea.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Doodles and Scribbles
Yesterday evening was wonderful.
The work day had lasted eight hours too long. The sunshine had been tempting me through the blinds (that my coworkers repeatedly close, so only stripes of light get through). Someone had turned the thermostat up to 75 degrees... I had office fever. And when 3pm rolled around, I bolted out of the building.
I rolled down my window. Turned up the music. Drove home with my arm hanging out the window and got things ready for dinner.
I spent half an hour on the phone with an old friend.
I ate a good dinner with my roommate.
And then we drove to the park.
We were outside for hours. Walking laps around the park... slowly, but deliberately. Only stopping to smoke cigars she had brought home from Seattle.
We drove away with the windows down and went to Coffee Times to get drinks. We sat down at a table together and a book on the shelf behind me caught my eye.
"The Very Giant Book of Doodles". Taro Gomi.
I opened it.
It was a very giant book of doodles.
Not your average coloring book.
There were animals. The instructions were to put clothes on them. There were people with dialog bubbles. "What are these people saying?"
I turned the page.
Most of the page was black. "What is in the grass?"
There was a page with a squiggly line.
"This is a mountain. Draw a mountain climber."
And for some reason... I almost started crying.
Turned one more page.
It was blank.
"Draw something beautiful."
I almost bought the book. A twenty dollar coloring book. Somehow, I had been touched by a coloring book! It took me a minute to figure out why.
And then my roommate said something that made me realize.
She made a very offhanded comment on how smart my children would be. How much they would love to learn, how creative they would be.
And I realized how easy a coloring book like this would be for a five year old. When asked to draw something beautiful, he would not sit back and contemplate how to draw something beautifully. Instead, he would pick up a crayon and draw a flower. And it would be beautiful, because flowers are beautiful.
We are too analytical.
Too cynical.
Somewhere in the process of growing up, a wall went up between our brains and our creativity.
We made things complicated.
The beauty of life is in the doodles and scribbles.
I think I may go back and get the book for myself... tear down that wall separating me from my imagination.
And then, one day, when I have kids...
We will sit down with crayons and draw a mountain climber.
And a flower that is beautiful.
The work day had lasted eight hours too long. The sunshine had been tempting me through the blinds (that my coworkers repeatedly close, so only stripes of light get through). Someone had turned the thermostat up to 75 degrees... I had office fever. And when 3pm rolled around, I bolted out of the building.
I rolled down my window. Turned up the music. Drove home with my arm hanging out the window and got things ready for dinner.
I spent half an hour on the phone with an old friend.
I ate a good dinner with my roommate.
And then we drove to the park.
We were outside for hours. Walking laps around the park... slowly, but deliberately. Only stopping to smoke cigars she had brought home from Seattle.
We drove away with the windows down and went to Coffee Times to get drinks. We sat down at a table together and a book on the shelf behind me caught my eye.
"The Very Giant Book of Doodles". Taro Gomi.
I opened it.
It was a very giant book of doodles.
Not your average coloring book.
There were animals. The instructions were to put clothes on them. There were people with dialog bubbles. "What are these people saying?"
I turned the page.
Most of the page was black. "What is in the grass?"
There was a page with a squiggly line.
"This is a mountain. Draw a mountain climber."
And for some reason... I almost started crying.
Turned one more page.
It was blank.
"Draw something beautiful."
I almost bought the book. A twenty dollar coloring book. Somehow, I had been touched by a coloring book! It took me a minute to figure out why.
And then my roommate said something that made me realize.
She made a very offhanded comment on how smart my children would be. How much they would love to learn, how creative they would be.
And I realized how easy a coloring book like this would be for a five year old. When asked to draw something beautiful, he would not sit back and contemplate how to draw something beautifully. Instead, he would pick up a crayon and draw a flower. And it would be beautiful, because flowers are beautiful.
We are too analytical.
Too cynical.
Somewhere in the process of growing up, a wall went up between our brains and our creativity.
We made things complicated.
The beauty of life is in the doodles and scribbles.
I think I may go back and get the book for myself... tear down that wall separating me from my imagination.
And then, one day, when I have kids...
We will sit down with crayons and draw a mountain climber.
And a flower that is beautiful.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Glory
Sunday, March 2nd, 2008
Today has not been a good day.
The reasons are numerous, but even as I sit down to write, they feel silly. Petty. Unimportant.
But my day was still bad. And so here I am... trying to make it better. Talk it out. Tell you what I’m learning. Tell you how short I’ve fallen, how far I have to reach.
I told Larry about my struggles. We’re told to seek wise council. He’s the closest thing I have. He told me all this sounds like healthy emotional struggling.
And then he said something wise.
"The struggling is what makes us feel alive."
I cried today. I don’t cry a lot. When I do, I’m embarrassed. I try really hard to control it, to keep the tears from getting out of control. I managed to only let a few tears be shed today. But that’s not a healthy practice. We cry for a reason. There’s a purpose behind the tears we shed.
So we started talking about church. Or... "the Church". Or "going to church". Or all of the above. We talked about spreading ourselves too thin. About recognizing when we are spent. When what we have has been used up, our resources, wisdom, words are depleted.
And this is what we came up with.
We are the church. That’s not a new idea. The church is not a building. We are the church. You are the church. I am the church. They are the church. We are not many churches. We are one church. One body. One purpose.
What is our purpose?
Do you even know?
We are sick of the way the Church behaves. We have misrepresented our Jesus. We have been horrible ambassadors, leaky vessels of His love.
This is not a new idea either. We know we are sinners. We know we are not pure.
We just forget.
We forget that it is grace, and only grace, that separates us from the whore. From the murderer.
From the abuser.
We haven’t come up with a new idea yet. How is it that we all know these things... and yet fail to remember?
We get wrapped up in religion. In the "politics" of religion. Consumed with ideas of righteousness and purity... holding others to higher standards than we hold ourselves. There are a few of us who have abandoned so-called "religion". We declare that Christianity is not about the steeple or the translation of your Bible. And then... we woke up one day and had turned spirituality, had transformed our non-religion, into a religion all unto itself.
A change has to be made.
I went driving this morning. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I began to pray out loud.
And I prayed until I’d reached Wal-mart.
Prayed for you. Prayed for me. Prayed for the Church. Prayed for my broken family. Prayed the way I usually pray.
And then I asked Him to show up.
The way things are, just aren’t working. The way we think, the way we love, the way we seek Him... just wasn’t working anymore.
I told Him we expected Him to be here.
Not just hoped. Not just believed.
Expected.
We are spread thin. In the process of loving others, we’ve forgotten to love ourselves. We’ve forgotten to love the ones we stand beside.
We’ve broken commitments and promises... we’ve begun something wonderful, with ambition and passion, and let it fizzle out...
Far too often, we forget our purpose. We forget why we were created in the first place.
And more often than not, we behave like whores. Like Gomer. We are sinners. He has loved us, taken us in, shown us grace. And we run away again... returning to our promiscuous behavior and lying in another’s bed. We are cheating on our Christ.
A change has to be made.
On an individual level.
No more blanket statements.
No more "church-wide" commitments.
No more holiday offerings.
On an individual level, a change is required.
You must change.
I must change.
I must know, love, and be committed.
You must know, love, and be committed.
If you do, and I do, and they do so...
That will be enough.
I encourage you, today, to remember.
Remember you were created to bring Him glory.
Whatever that looks like...
Bring Him glory today.
Today has not been a good day.
The reasons are numerous, but even as I sit down to write, they feel silly. Petty. Unimportant.
But my day was still bad. And so here I am... trying to make it better. Talk it out. Tell you what I’m learning. Tell you how short I’ve fallen, how far I have to reach.
I told Larry about my struggles. We’re told to seek wise council. He’s the closest thing I have. He told me all this sounds like healthy emotional struggling.
And then he said something wise.
"The struggling is what makes us feel alive."
I cried today. I don’t cry a lot. When I do, I’m embarrassed. I try really hard to control it, to keep the tears from getting out of control. I managed to only let a few tears be shed today. But that’s not a healthy practice. We cry for a reason. There’s a purpose behind the tears we shed.
So we started talking about church. Or... "the Church". Or "going to church". Or all of the above. We talked about spreading ourselves too thin. About recognizing when we are spent. When what we have has been used up, our resources, wisdom, words are depleted.
And this is what we came up with.
We are the church. That’s not a new idea. The church is not a building. We are the church. You are the church. I am the church. They are the church. We are not many churches. We are one church. One body. One purpose.
What is our purpose?
Do you even know?
We are sick of the way the Church behaves. We have misrepresented our Jesus. We have been horrible ambassadors, leaky vessels of His love.
This is not a new idea either. We know we are sinners. We know we are not pure.
We just forget.
We forget that it is grace, and only grace, that separates us from the whore. From the murderer.
From the abuser.
We haven’t come up with a new idea yet. How is it that we all know these things... and yet fail to remember?
We get wrapped up in religion. In the "politics" of religion. Consumed with ideas of righteousness and purity... holding others to higher standards than we hold ourselves. There are a few of us who have abandoned so-called "religion". We declare that Christianity is not about the steeple or the translation of your Bible. And then... we woke up one day and had turned spirituality, had transformed our non-religion, into a religion all unto itself.
A change has to be made.
I went driving this morning. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I began to pray out loud.
And I prayed until I’d reached Wal-mart.
Prayed for you. Prayed for me. Prayed for the Church. Prayed for my broken family. Prayed the way I usually pray.
And then I asked Him to show up.
The way things are, just aren’t working. The way we think, the way we love, the way we seek Him... just wasn’t working anymore.
I told Him we expected Him to be here.
Not just hoped. Not just believed.
Expected.
We are spread thin. In the process of loving others, we’ve forgotten to love ourselves. We’ve forgotten to love the ones we stand beside.
We’ve broken commitments and promises... we’ve begun something wonderful, with ambition and passion, and let it fizzle out...
Far too often, we forget our purpose. We forget why we were created in the first place.
And more often than not, we behave like whores. Like Gomer. We are sinners. He has loved us, taken us in, shown us grace. And we run away again... returning to our promiscuous behavior and lying in another’s bed. We are cheating on our Christ.
A change has to be made.
On an individual level.
No more blanket statements.
No more "church-wide" commitments.
No more holiday offerings.
On an individual level, a change is required.
You must change.
I must change.
I must know, love, and be committed.
You must know, love, and be committed.
If you do, and I do, and they do so...
That will be enough.
I encourage you, today, to remember.
Remember you were created to bring Him glory.
Whatever that looks like...
Bring Him glory today.
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