Previous blogs in this series:
1-- Pits, Towers, Fields and Dancing
2-- ... Thoughts on Sheep
3-- Getting out of the Towers
4-- The Shadowlands
5-- The Land of Grace: Casting Shadows
6-- When the Tower Crumbles: Getting to the Land of Grace
7-- A Disclaimer
8-- Holy Scripture, Batman
9--Shadows in the Land of Grace: the Comparison Game
I've written one blog about how one can get to the Land of Grace; in that blog, I described a long solo journey over an ocean with Jesus, where He is the only companion, truly the only "pillar" left standing. Although I think the ways to come to the Land of Grace are as varied as the many individual life stories present in the world, I do think I believe there must be some element of recognizing Jesus as the ONLY one, in all of them:
The ONLY one who knows everything in us.
The ONLY one who loves us unconditionally, in spite of knowing everything in us.
The ONLY one who actually has the power to save, heal, and forgive us.
The ONLY one who never runs out of patience or grace.
The ONLY one who is not stained with the corruption of this world, and therefore, the ONLY one who deserves our whole-hearted hope.
And so on.
I've envisioned other metaphorical journeys to the Land of Grace, both inspired by different verses in Isaiah. One journey is through a desert. In that case, just about everything is taken away from you and you finally cry out in desperation. This can be equated to colliding with a huge personal failure, with discovering that safe spots are no longer safe, with dealing with major struggles, etc. What does a desert look like? It looks like a vast barren landscape, with no comfort, no food, no place to hide, no trustworthy companion, no inspiration. Where does Jesus meet us in that moment?
He says, "The poor and needy search for water, but there is none; their tongues are parched with thirst. But I the Lord will answer them; I, the God of Israel, will not forsake them. I will make rivers flow on barren heights, and springs within the valleys. I will turn the desert into pools of water, and the parched ground into springs. I will put in the desert the cedar and the acacia, the myrtle and the olive. I will set pines in the wasteland, the fir and cypress together, so that people may see and know, may consider and understand, that the hand of the Lord has done this, that the Holy One of Israel has created it." (Isaiah 41:17-20)
In other words, after finding ourselves so wholly devoid of confidence, comfort, or companionship, we cry out for help-- and He promises to answer that prayer. Once we've acknowledged that we are wholly lost without Him, He tenderly provides water, springs, new life. He plants trees alongside each other that normally wouldn't be seen in close proximity, as an image of reconcilliation. He makes it BETTER-- and we know, at that point, He's the ONLY one that could have done so.
The other journey I pictured was out of the Shadowlands. In that image, I picture a person diving deeper and deeper into shadows to cover up his or her own sin. He shrouds himself in the death-cloak of the world, because the Light of Truth is too shattering. I imagine that person finally entering into total and utter darkness, lost, wandering, trapped, made blind in suffocating night. At that point, the Lord tells His people in the Land of Grace to go rescue the prisoner of darkness. He tells them,
"I will take hold of your hand. [I will make you a light] to open eyes that are blind, to free captives from prison, and to release from the dungeon those who sit in darkness. ...I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth... All [of these people] are trapped in pits or hidden away in prisons. They have become plunder, with no one to rescue them; they have been made loot, with no one to say, 'Send them back.' Which of you will listen to this or pay close attention in time to come?" (Isaiah 42:6-7, 16, 22-23)
It's interesting isn't it? In that second chunk, I can't tell if God's giving more reassurances to the people trapped in darkness, or to His servants who He orders to go get them. Those Land of Gracers have work to do, that's becoming ever more obvious to me. I can tell you that, throughout the context of this whole passage in Isaiah, the adament theme is that God is the ONLY one who can accomplish this all. He scorns idols in that passage-- i.e. those people or things that we would look to deify and find safety in-- and repeats over and over that, not only does He love us and will protect us, but that He is the ONLY one with the power to save us.
What other journeys occur? You could probably tell me far better than I could tell you at this point, since our actual journeys are as varied as our DNA strands. Especially because I've come to the Land of Grace through a storm of turmoil, my envisioned journeys will generally be pictured as coming out of turmoil. I wonder if, in order to truly understand Grace, we must also understand what it means to feel trapped, what it means to be in Shadows, what it means to feel bereft of worldly safety. Like the song says, "The shadows prove the sunshine." Or, in the words of Annie Parsons, "Maybe the one who's been broken and healed is more graced than the one who's just well."
Still. I sure think it would be beautiful if we could arrive at the Land of Grace without scars.
On Thursday or Friday, in any case, I'll give you the layman's version of how it worked for me: getting from the Tower to the Land of Grace. I'll explain the actual circumstances, the actual thought process, the actual words from the journal. Next entry will be free of metaphor, I promise. Well... as much as it's possible for me to be free of metaphor. :)
In the meantime, I listened to this song today. It's incredible-- talks about the Towers, and the Shadowlands, and the Land of Grace all together. Listen to it and read the lyrics (in the video) with the analogy in mind.
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Mar 2, 2011
Infusion
Yesterday was my birthday.
In my journal, I wrote, "Hope Year 27 is marked by a greater ability to extend grace to others and more readily accept it for myself."
It's funny: phrases that I've heard and "known" my whole life-- concepts like, Love and Grace and Forgiveness-- those Christian buzzwords, you know? For years, they've been in my head. Something about this season though is getting those abstract concepts finally, finally down to a deeper place inside. It isn't sudden, and it isn't glamorous or dramatic. It's more like a waking up percolation-- an infusion of substances and experiences and thoughts dripping down slowly into the deepest understanding-place. Within me, something potent is brewing.
I think it has something to do with all of this.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Pastor Richard often talks about the importance of holding blessings with open hands. That's a very difficult thing for me to do. Isn't that a difficult thing for ALL of us to do? It seems as though when the good things come, I'm able to keep my shaky hands open just long enough to see them tremble in would-be preparatory flight. Then, in a hiccup of panicky fear, I clap my hands shut and clutch tight, fearfully tightening my hands into fists. Inside my grasp, those tissue wings, those dusty rivulets of fragile life-- perish.
I so badly want to hold on.
But today, something different happened.
I had a hope and it landed on my finger-tips. For a long moment, I waited, eyes focused on this diaphanous vibration. Stay.
Won't you stay.
But I plucked no daisy petals and made no demands. I tornadoed no dandelions, and sought no falling stars. I didn't even curl my fingers. I kept my palms upraised, open, spacious. I hungered for this lovely thing, and held my breath-- but most of all my heart prayed freedom.
And-- it flew away.
And even though I ought to be disappointed about the fact-- and even though I suppose I am disappointed about the fact-- it all feels more free than anything has felt in a long time.
The open hands place is a freedom-place, it's a GOOD place, it isn't a trapped place, it's a GRACE place.
Something about this has something to do with everything else. And I know that doesn't make much sense, but most of it doesn't make much "sense," and very little of it looks like what I would choose for it to ACTUALLY look like--
Yet despite that, something about open hands, and even the peace that comes with watching something beautiful fly away... is the most hopeful, restful thing I've known in a long time.
And that makes me feel good about this wide open space I'm in.
In my journal, I wrote, "Hope Year 27 is marked by a greater ability to extend grace to others and more readily accept it for myself."
It's funny: phrases that I've heard and "known" my whole life-- concepts like, Love and Grace and Forgiveness-- those Christian buzzwords, you know? For years, they've been in my head. Something about this season though is getting those abstract concepts finally, finally down to a deeper place inside. It isn't sudden, and it isn't glamorous or dramatic. It's more like a waking up percolation-- an infusion of substances and experiences and thoughts dripping down slowly into the deepest understanding-place. Within me, something potent is brewing.
I think it has something to do with all of this.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Pastor Richard often talks about the importance of holding blessings with open hands. That's a very difficult thing for me to do. Isn't that a difficult thing for ALL of us to do? It seems as though when the good things come, I'm able to keep my shaky hands open just long enough to see them tremble in would-be preparatory flight. Then, in a hiccup of panicky fear, I clap my hands shut and clutch tight, fearfully tightening my hands into fists. Inside my grasp, those tissue wings, those dusty rivulets of fragile life-- perish.
I so badly want to hold on.
But today, something different happened.
I had a hope and it landed on my finger-tips. For a long moment, I waited, eyes focused on this diaphanous vibration. Stay.
Won't you stay.
But I plucked no daisy petals and made no demands. I tornadoed no dandelions, and sought no falling stars. I didn't even curl my fingers. I kept my palms upraised, open, spacious. I hungered for this lovely thing, and held my breath-- but most of all my heart prayed freedom.
And-- it flew away.
And even though I ought to be disappointed about the fact-- and even though I suppose I am disappointed about the fact-- it all feels more free than anything has felt in a long time.
The open hands place is a freedom-place, it's a GOOD place, it isn't a trapped place, it's a GRACE place.
Something about this has something to do with everything else. And I know that doesn't make much sense, but most of it doesn't make much "sense," and very little of it looks like what I would choose for it to ACTUALLY look like--
Yet despite that, something about open hands, and even the peace that comes with watching something beautiful fly away... is the most hopeful, restful thing I've known in a long time.
And that makes me feel good about this wide open space I'm in.
Jan 29, 2011
Not Forgotten
Sometimes, I think of God as an ocean. Some people don't see the ocean at all; they turn their backs on its vast horizon and face the parking lot, denying there's anything there. Some come down to the sand and acknowledge the ocean's thundering existence, but admit they'd rather not get their feet wet. Others step into the water and let it wash over their toes and ankles: they experience the ocean in a completely different way than they ever could by just looking at it. Still others wade in-- they let the ocean nudge them with its waves and currents, soaking themselves up to their waists. Others swim out deep, diving into the ocean, getting wholly immersed. Those people understand the tides, the taste, the power of the ocean that few others can truly comprehend; they let themselves get beyond the power of their own control, they have departed from shore-- and as a result, they are carried along and directed in a way they could never have been if they'd held on to their own "sure" footing.
However, even those last people will never be able to understand the width, the depth, the height of the ocean. They will never know all the creatures, all the underwater worlds, all the secret volcanoes. They cannot see the storm on one end and the sunrise in the other. They cannot predict the ocean's movements, or winds, or direction. It's just too big.
Still, one thing is certain: the goal must always be to go deeper.
I have a story.
The story begins a week from last Thursday. For the last several months, I had been working on a plan-- a plan which I thought was great, really really great. But then Thursday night, the plan fell apart. It unexpectedly, comprehensively dissolved. I was crushed. It was such a disappointment.
But do you know? It wasn't a screeching-tires-crunching-metal sort of falling apart. The way it fell apart was so right, and so beautiful in its dissembling, it was more like a heavy gray cloud falling apart into thousands of crystalline flakes. It was a floating sort of fall.
Still, I cried on Thursday night for a long time, and Friday met me with a heavy heart.
Saturday found me in my apartment all day, grumpily tearing through stacks of finals. Finally, at 8pm, I escaped. It was after dark, but I didn't care. I needed fresh air, and gulped it in while walking to the lake.
What do I do when I need a reset button?
I climb a tree.
I had a specific one in mind-- I'd spotted the tree on a walk earlier that week with Carly. This tree stretches out over the water, its branches simultaneously reaching down, and to the side, and up towards the sky, like a great bark-covered sunburst. In the dark, I climbed up its trunk, wedged myself between the branches and began to pray.
It was a pissed-off prayer. I was really ticked at God. I was angry at Him for messing with my plan, even though I knew the plan probably wasn't the best in the first place, and I was angry at how He's been running my story.
"I am SICK of being here God!" I said. Or whispered. Or mouthed silently, while swinging my fists between branches. "I am TIRED of this. I'm sick of this season-- why does everyone else get to be in a different season God? I'm TIRED of what you're doing!!"
At one point I pictured Jesus hovering there and I demanded answers. Normally when I picture Jesus during prayers, he looks very much like a normal guy. This Jesus, though, was more of the cliched, cartoon version-- white robed and everything. How OBNOXIOUS: a floating, cartoonish, white-robed Jesus. Probably indicative of my current feelings about Him-- and perhaps my momentary suspicion that He was not as powerful or as attentive as I've believed Him to be.
"Can I even maintain this hope?" I demanded. "Can I even believe you ever gave me the promise I thought you did?! Is it ever going to happen?? I want more than what you're giving me right now!"
"It's COMING!" Floating Jesus said.
"WHEN?!!" I roared at Him.
"You have to WAIT," He said adamantly.
That sort of made me want to flip Him off.
It was an honest prayer-- an angry, tearful, raw prayer. And it was intense-- only interrupted once when a man came down to the water and began to pee into the lake.
Yes. A man peed directly beneath me while I was shouting at the Floating Jesus.
I did my best to look like a tree branch.
When the man was done peeing, and I was done praying, I slid back down. I felt a little guilty walking back home that night. I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to want to flip Jesus off-- I hoped God wouldn't smite me.
Far from it. I look back on this moment now after the week I've had, and realize God's response was something more along the lines of: "Fine. You want to get real with me? I'm about to get real with you. Listen up daughter." From this point on, God cranked up the volume.
I was exhausted by the time I got back-- once in bed, it didn't take long for me to feel my body slipping out of consciousness. But just before I did, a thought suddenly lit into my mind:
"Am I enough for you Greta?"
I paused. I had no idea how to answer that question. The thought hovered there, like a flickering neon sign. Finally, I pushed it out of my head and let oblivion take over.
The next morning however, I wrote the question down in my journal while church worship was starting:
"He asks, 'Am I enough for you Greta?' ... And I don't know how to answer." I paused and thought about my prayer from the night before. Beneath what I'd just written, I wrote:
"I want more. :("
Richard's sermon addressed God's burning bush moment with Moses. In that moment, Moses doesn't like God's plan any more than I did in my tree the night before. At one point, Moses asks God, "What name do I give to the Israelites when they ask who sent me?"
God thunders back, "I AM." Richard elaborated-- "'I AM your sufficiency. I AM the power of your freedom. I AM everything you need to fulfill your calling.'"
I wrote that last line down in my journal, and then drew an arrow from what I'd written before-- "Am I enough for you Greta?"-- to the words Richard had just spoken: "I AM everything you need to fulfill your calling."
"Well then," I thought to myself.
Then Richard got to the end of his sermon. He began discussing Moses' disillusionment. Even though Moses finally stepped into God's story, and went and talked to Pharaoh, things got pretty crappy for Moses. Pharaoh basically laughed at Moses' request to lead the Israelites out of Egypt, doubled the Israelites' work load, and had his overseers beat the Israelites if they couldn't meet their daily quota. The Israelites were furious with Moses, and basically wanted to pulp-ify him. Moses then cries out to God and basically asks Him, "What are you DOING, God?!"
I imagined Moses shaking his fist at the sky. "Like me," I thought.
"The lament is one of the purest forms of worship there is," Richard said. "God wants our honesty. He wants a relationship with us. If we assume that the Christian life is only ever praise, we're missing the point. Just look at the Psalms; look at David's crying out and his despair. We should feel comfortable coming to God with laments. The dancing comes after the tears."
This was a great comfort-- and yet, I returned to heart-ache. As the worship started up again, I wrote in my journal: "Why ME, God?"
The answer arrived like a lightning bolt in the ocean storm of my mind:
Let me take you deeper, Greta.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Starting Monday, my school commenced our annual "Spiritual Life" week, where the kids have chapel every day. Monday's speaker was a guy named Zach. He talked about plans falling apart. He talked about seeking purpose. He talked about Daniel being taken away from his home and forced to work in the court of the Babylonian king. He discussed his suspicion that Daniel must have doubted God on the long journey to Babylon; must have asked, "What are you doing Lord?" He talked about the necessity of prayer within our hungry, angry questions.
After chapel, I told my seniors about my experience with prayer over the last year. I really try hard to be open and transparent with my students, so that they then feel comfortable being vulnerable with one another in our class discussions. "Last year was one of the hardest years of my life," I told them laughingly. "It was my first year of teaching, so I was crazy stressed out, trying to get everything together and planned, and trying to 'prove' myself, and I felt insecure and scared half the time... My parents were getting divorced, my personal life was a ROLLER-COASTER, it-- was-- terrible!" I laughed again. "BUT! In the midst of that... I had to pray. There was just absolutely no other way I was going to make it through the day. There were literally some mornings when I cried under the covers and told God that I could not do it, I could NOT do it, and I would TELL him I couldn't do it, and then He would somehow tell me that He would carry me through. Only then... would I be able to get out of bed and face it all. As a result, one of the hardest years of my life... taught me to love prayer."
I told them about my angry prayer in the tree the other night, and encouraged them to be real with God. Then I told them about the man that peed right beneath me, and mimed looking like a tree branch. That was probably their favorite part.
After endorsing prayer so fervently though, a funny thing happened. Tuesday and Wednesday, I didn't particularly feel like having my morning prayer. Normally, after doing my hair and makeup, I crawl back into bed in my pajamas with a cup of coffee and just talk to God for a while. Wednesday morning I thought, "Eh, I don't feel like I have much to talk to God about today. And I'm running late. Phooey."
Still, I climbed back into bed with my coffee, anticipating a mind-wandering prayer, a going-through-the-motions prayer. Sometimes that's what morning-coffee-prayer-time looks like.
Not this morning
As SOON as I "got into position," I suddenly had two Bible verses filling my whole head. I can't remember the last time I've read these passages, but there they were. The first was from Isaiah 40:29-31:
He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.
Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;
But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
They will run and not grow weary,
They will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:29-31
The second was from Hebrews 12:1-3
... Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus... Consider Him... so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
Furthermore, when reading my Bible the night before, I had found these two verses stacked right on top of each other in my One Year Bible-- two verses that appear miles away from one another in the actual Bible but happened to be within the same centimeter when organized in the One-Year format:
Psalm 27:13-14
I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. WAIT for the Lord; be strong and take heart and WAIT for the Lord.
And:
Proverbs 20:22b
WAIT for the Lord, and He will deliver you.
Once again, it all went into the journal. Beneath the four passages, I wrote: "I suppose the message is clear then: Look to the Lord and be strong, take heart. Do not grow weary, but hope in the Lord. Persevere and WAIT on the Lord. He is faithful in keeping His promises."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Shall I get louder, Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The speaker at chapel on Wednesday was a guy named Jeff. Jeff is probably 6'5" and is all arms, legs, and giant facial expressions. He moved those arms and legs into all kinds of ridiculous shapes as he acted out various stories in his talk, pantomiming trying to push his truck out of his garage that morning which subsequently led to his kicking a hole in the garage wall; singing a song about his deep ardor for his comfort food, cheese; interviewing one of our seniors about the school's losing football team; then acting out meeting a girl, falling for her, and ultimately getting rejected. Throughout the talk, Jeff was hilarious, animated, and ridiculously silly.
And then all of a sudden he got profound.
In addressing different failures-- different failed "plans"-- Jeff brought us back to this:
(I'm quoting from his notes, which I demanded he give me after I heard this talk):
"Our grounding promise should be this: Romans 8:28-- We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Purpose is the magic word. There is purpose in the trial you are undergoing, your hardship, the direction of your path. ... James 1:2-4 tells us, Consider it pure joy my brothers whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing. This dissonance gives way to a more satisfying consonance; this dense rain to a bolder rainbow; this wretched sin to a more glorious redemption. ...No matter where we are in life, we will have our plans frustrated; we will not have our way. Instead of reaching for the cheese of comfort, take comfort in the fact that God has a purpose in our trial for maturity and completeness."
In the midst of my grief over frustrated plans, in the midst of my fatigue, in the midst of my desire for something ELSE-- these words were medicine.
Jeff ended his talk by reading a blurb from an email he had once received from his best friend Kirk, as Kirk was preparing to go off to Africa. Jeff gave me a copy of this too-- look at the end of it:
"I must learn to listen, to wait, and to be. So in the holy silence that comes when I abandon my own pursuit to 'be enough' I hope to hear the voice of God saying, "Kirk, I love you. Let that be enough.' So I will place my hope in the God of hope, whose promises do not go unfulfilled and whose Word and love for his people will always endure, that I will let him love me and let that be enough."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He asks, Am I enough for you Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That night, I led my Bible study of five freshmen girls who go to UW. The chapter we happened to be on was John, Ch. 6. It's all about how Jesus is the bread of life-- that everything else will leave us hungry but that He is ENOUGH. I had asked each of the girls to consider what their next "step" in their faith walks might be. The last girl to share said that she wanted to get to a place where she understood that Jesus was truly ENOUGH.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He asks, Am I enough for you Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Thursday, driving to school, I heard a song lyric that said something about getting so far into the ocean that you lose sight of shore; only then, is it time to turn back.
I don't know yet if my heart fully understands that God is enough; I think part of my heart still longs for more... still longs for shore. But I understand now that I am meant for deeper waters, and that I will only be capable of successfully living on land once I have lost sight of it altogether in the vast depth of the ocean.
On Friday, the chapel at school was simply a day of worship. I tried at first to worship up front among my students, but found myself feeling self-conscious. I wondered: am I closing my eyes for them, or for the Lord? Finally, we started singing a song that begins, "He is jealous for me." At that point, I left my spot among the students and walked to the back of the auditorium where I could worship without being seen.
I closed my eyes and sang. I pictured being deep in the ocean, far, far away from shore, in the crow's nest of a ship. The sun was rising over the water. Something lifted me out of the crow's nest and I danced in the sky.
Disappointment lingers. My story is still not the story I would wish for today. But in spite of that, I am overwhelmed with understanding God's LOVE for me. I have not been forgotten. I am part of an incredible adventure, and I am in the midst of something powerful. There is PURPOSE in this moment.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Let me take you deeper, Greta.
Yes, Lord-- I will go.
However, even those last people will never be able to understand the width, the depth, the height of the ocean. They will never know all the creatures, all the underwater worlds, all the secret volcanoes. They cannot see the storm on one end and the sunrise in the other. They cannot predict the ocean's movements, or winds, or direction. It's just too big.
Still, one thing is certain: the goal must always be to go deeper.
I have a story.
The story begins a week from last Thursday. For the last several months, I had been working on a plan-- a plan which I thought was great, really really great. But then Thursday night, the plan fell apart. It unexpectedly, comprehensively dissolved. I was crushed. It was such a disappointment.
But do you know? It wasn't a screeching-tires-crunching-metal sort of falling apart. The way it fell apart was so right, and so beautiful in its dissembling, it was more like a heavy gray cloud falling apart into thousands of crystalline flakes. It was a floating sort of fall.
Still, I cried on Thursday night for a long time, and Friday met me with a heavy heart.
Saturday found me in my apartment all day, grumpily tearing through stacks of finals. Finally, at 8pm, I escaped. It was after dark, but I didn't care. I needed fresh air, and gulped it in while walking to the lake.
What do I do when I need a reset button?
I climb a tree.
I had a specific one in mind-- I'd spotted the tree on a walk earlier that week with Carly. This tree stretches out over the water, its branches simultaneously reaching down, and to the side, and up towards the sky, like a great bark-covered sunburst. In the dark, I climbed up its trunk, wedged myself between the branches and began to pray.
It was a pissed-off prayer. I was really ticked at God. I was angry at Him for messing with my plan, even though I knew the plan probably wasn't the best in the first place, and I was angry at how He's been running my story.
"I am SICK of being here God!" I said. Or whispered. Or mouthed silently, while swinging my fists between branches. "I am TIRED of this. I'm sick of this season-- why does everyone else get to be in a different season God? I'm TIRED of what you're doing!!"
At one point I pictured Jesus hovering there and I demanded answers. Normally when I picture Jesus during prayers, he looks very much like a normal guy. This Jesus, though, was more of the cliched, cartoon version-- white robed and everything. How OBNOXIOUS: a floating, cartoonish, white-robed Jesus. Probably indicative of my current feelings about Him-- and perhaps my momentary suspicion that He was not as powerful or as attentive as I've believed Him to be.
"Can I even maintain this hope?" I demanded. "Can I even believe you ever gave me the promise I thought you did?! Is it ever going to happen?? I want more than what you're giving me right now!"
"It's COMING!" Floating Jesus said.
"WHEN?!!" I roared at Him.
"You have to WAIT," He said adamantly.
That sort of made me want to flip Him off.
It was an honest prayer-- an angry, tearful, raw prayer. And it was intense-- only interrupted once when a man came down to the water and began to pee into the lake.
Yes. A man peed directly beneath me while I was shouting at the Floating Jesus.
I did my best to look like a tree branch.
When the man was done peeing, and I was done praying, I slid back down. I felt a little guilty walking back home that night. I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to want to flip Jesus off-- I hoped God wouldn't smite me.
Far from it. I look back on this moment now after the week I've had, and realize God's response was something more along the lines of: "Fine. You want to get real with me? I'm about to get real with you. Listen up daughter." From this point on, God cranked up the volume.
I was exhausted by the time I got back-- once in bed, it didn't take long for me to feel my body slipping out of consciousness. But just before I did, a thought suddenly lit into my mind:
"Am I enough for you Greta?"
I paused. I had no idea how to answer that question. The thought hovered there, like a flickering neon sign. Finally, I pushed it out of my head and let oblivion take over.
The next morning however, I wrote the question down in my journal while church worship was starting:
"He asks, 'Am I enough for you Greta?' ... And I don't know how to answer." I paused and thought about my prayer from the night before. Beneath what I'd just written, I wrote:
"I want more. :("
Richard's sermon addressed God's burning bush moment with Moses. In that moment, Moses doesn't like God's plan any more than I did in my tree the night before. At one point, Moses asks God, "What name do I give to the Israelites when they ask who sent me?"
God thunders back, "I AM." Richard elaborated-- "'I AM your sufficiency. I AM the power of your freedom. I AM everything you need to fulfill your calling.'"
I wrote that last line down in my journal, and then drew an arrow from what I'd written before-- "Am I enough for you Greta?"-- to the words Richard had just spoken: "I AM everything you need to fulfill your calling."
"Well then," I thought to myself.
Then Richard got to the end of his sermon. He began discussing Moses' disillusionment. Even though Moses finally stepped into God's story, and went and talked to Pharaoh, things got pretty crappy for Moses. Pharaoh basically laughed at Moses' request to lead the Israelites out of Egypt, doubled the Israelites' work load, and had his overseers beat the Israelites if they couldn't meet their daily quota. The Israelites were furious with Moses, and basically wanted to pulp-ify him. Moses then cries out to God and basically asks Him, "What are you DOING, God?!"
I imagined Moses shaking his fist at the sky. "Like me," I thought.
"The lament is one of the purest forms of worship there is," Richard said. "God wants our honesty. He wants a relationship with us. If we assume that the Christian life is only ever praise, we're missing the point. Just look at the Psalms; look at David's crying out and his despair. We should feel comfortable coming to God with laments. The dancing comes after the tears."
This was a great comfort-- and yet, I returned to heart-ache. As the worship started up again, I wrote in my journal: "Why ME, God?"
The answer arrived like a lightning bolt in the ocean storm of my mind:
Let me take you deeper, Greta.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Starting Monday, my school commenced our annual "Spiritual Life" week, where the kids have chapel every day. Monday's speaker was a guy named Zach. He talked about plans falling apart. He talked about seeking purpose. He talked about Daniel being taken away from his home and forced to work in the court of the Babylonian king. He discussed his suspicion that Daniel must have doubted God on the long journey to Babylon; must have asked, "What are you doing Lord?" He talked about the necessity of prayer within our hungry, angry questions.
After chapel, I told my seniors about my experience with prayer over the last year. I really try hard to be open and transparent with my students, so that they then feel comfortable being vulnerable with one another in our class discussions. "Last year was one of the hardest years of my life," I told them laughingly. "It was my first year of teaching, so I was crazy stressed out, trying to get everything together and planned, and trying to 'prove' myself, and I felt insecure and scared half the time... My parents were getting divorced, my personal life was a ROLLER-COASTER, it-- was-- terrible!" I laughed again. "BUT! In the midst of that... I had to pray. There was just absolutely no other way I was going to make it through the day. There were literally some mornings when I cried under the covers and told God that I could not do it, I could NOT do it, and I would TELL him I couldn't do it, and then He would somehow tell me that He would carry me through. Only then... would I be able to get out of bed and face it all. As a result, one of the hardest years of my life... taught me to love prayer."
I told them about my angry prayer in the tree the other night, and encouraged them to be real with God. Then I told them about the man that peed right beneath me, and mimed looking like a tree branch. That was probably their favorite part.
After endorsing prayer so fervently though, a funny thing happened. Tuesday and Wednesday, I didn't particularly feel like having my morning prayer. Normally, after doing my hair and makeup, I crawl back into bed in my pajamas with a cup of coffee and just talk to God for a while. Wednesday morning I thought, "Eh, I don't feel like I have much to talk to God about today. And I'm running late. Phooey."
Still, I climbed back into bed with my coffee, anticipating a mind-wandering prayer, a going-through-the-motions prayer. Sometimes that's what morning-coffee-prayer-time looks like.
Not this morning
As SOON as I "got into position," I suddenly had two Bible verses filling my whole head. I can't remember the last time I've read these passages, but there they were. The first was from Isaiah 40:29-31:
He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.
Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;
But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
They will run and not grow weary,
They will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:29-31
The second was from Hebrews 12:1-3
... Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus... Consider Him... so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
Furthermore, when reading my Bible the night before, I had found these two verses stacked right on top of each other in my One Year Bible-- two verses that appear miles away from one another in the actual Bible but happened to be within the same centimeter when organized in the One-Year format:
Psalm 27:13-14
I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. WAIT for the Lord; be strong and take heart and WAIT for the Lord.
And:
Proverbs 20:22b
WAIT for the Lord, and He will deliver you.
Once again, it all went into the journal. Beneath the four passages, I wrote: "I suppose the message is clear then: Look to the Lord and be strong, take heart. Do not grow weary, but hope in the Lord. Persevere and WAIT on the Lord. He is faithful in keeping His promises."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Shall I get louder, Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The speaker at chapel on Wednesday was a guy named Jeff. Jeff is probably 6'5" and is all arms, legs, and giant facial expressions. He moved those arms and legs into all kinds of ridiculous shapes as he acted out various stories in his talk, pantomiming trying to push his truck out of his garage that morning which subsequently led to his kicking a hole in the garage wall; singing a song about his deep ardor for his comfort food, cheese; interviewing one of our seniors about the school's losing football team; then acting out meeting a girl, falling for her, and ultimately getting rejected. Throughout the talk, Jeff was hilarious, animated, and ridiculously silly.
And then all of a sudden he got profound.
In addressing different failures-- different failed "plans"-- Jeff brought us back to this:
(I'm quoting from his notes, which I demanded he give me after I heard this talk):
"Our grounding promise should be this: Romans 8:28-- We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Purpose is the magic word. There is purpose in the trial you are undergoing, your hardship, the direction of your path. ... James 1:2-4 tells us, Consider it pure joy my brothers whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing. This dissonance gives way to a more satisfying consonance; this dense rain to a bolder rainbow; this wretched sin to a more glorious redemption. ...No matter where we are in life, we will have our plans frustrated; we will not have our way. Instead of reaching for the cheese of comfort, take comfort in the fact that God has a purpose in our trial for maturity and completeness."
In the midst of my grief over frustrated plans, in the midst of my fatigue, in the midst of my desire for something ELSE-- these words were medicine.
Jeff ended his talk by reading a blurb from an email he had once received from his best friend Kirk, as Kirk was preparing to go off to Africa. Jeff gave me a copy of this too-- look at the end of it:
"I must learn to listen, to wait, and to be. So in the holy silence that comes when I abandon my own pursuit to 'be enough' I hope to hear the voice of God saying, "Kirk, I love you. Let that be enough.' So I will place my hope in the God of hope, whose promises do not go unfulfilled and whose Word and love for his people will always endure, that I will let him love me and let that be enough."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He asks, Am I enough for you Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That night, I led my Bible study of five freshmen girls who go to UW. The chapter we happened to be on was John, Ch. 6. It's all about how Jesus is the bread of life-- that everything else will leave us hungry but that He is ENOUGH. I had asked each of the girls to consider what their next "step" in their faith walks might be. The last girl to share said that she wanted to get to a place where she understood that Jesus was truly ENOUGH.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He asks, Am I enough for you Greta?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Thursday, driving to school, I heard a song lyric that said something about getting so far into the ocean that you lose sight of shore; only then, is it time to turn back.
I don't know yet if my heart fully understands that God is enough; I think part of my heart still longs for more... still longs for shore. But I understand now that I am meant for deeper waters, and that I will only be capable of successfully living on land once I have lost sight of it altogether in the vast depth of the ocean.
On Friday, the chapel at school was simply a day of worship. I tried at first to worship up front among my students, but found myself feeling self-conscious. I wondered: am I closing my eyes for them, or for the Lord? Finally, we started singing a song that begins, "He is jealous for me." At that point, I left my spot among the students and walked to the back of the auditorium where I could worship without being seen.
I closed my eyes and sang. I pictured being deep in the ocean, far, far away from shore, in the crow's nest of a ship. The sun was rising over the water. Something lifted me out of the crow's nest and I danced in the sky.
Disappointment lingers. My story is still not the story I would wish for today. But in spite of that, I am overwhelmed with understanding God's LOVE for me. I have not been forgotten. I am part of an incredible adventure, and I am in the midst of something powerful. There is PURPOSE in this moment.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Let me take you deeper, Greta.
Yes, Lord-- I will go.
Jan 7, 2011
Q and A
Email from one of last year's seniors:
Hey this is B-----! I just started a new class; it's called An Introduction to Ethics and each week our teacher asks us a question. This week it's about religion: Is religion necessary for morality? I think that it is because without religion or God plus the Bible we wouldn't know about it, but also people who don't know about Christianity but know about Bhudda know about a different kind of morality. What do you think?
My response:
Remember the Moral Law? :) According to C.S. Lewis, the very fact that people have consciences and a (mostly) common appreciation of what actions are “right” and what are “wrong,” indicates that something beyond ourselves put that “moral law” in us. Especially since our understanding of what is RIGHT so often goes against our desires or instincts (remember the drowning man analogy?)... we know that something ABOVE the coarser human nature instilled this higher sense of morality within us.
Lewis uses this point to argue in favor of God-- the higher being. Different religions, of course, provide various interpretations of this higher being. We believe that Christianity is the religion that most resoundingly speaks truth. That’s the rest of Mere Christianity. :)
In considering the logic and sense that other religions bring to the table, my faith in Christianity has been confirmed above those others because of the incredible story of Jesus. In no other religion does that religion’s god come down, live among his people, and die for them so that they can be saved. Most gods in other religions remain removed-- they remain high up on their seats of power and demand sacrifices or stringent living standards from their followers. Buddhism believes in reincarnation, and I think Buddha was supposed to be a real man—- but the story of the cross is completely unique. It’s unheard of. That’s one reason why the Bible is, to me, so profoundly compelling-- it provides a narrative NO ONE would have made up. To think that the God of all things, the creator and formidable wielder of power would enter into such SQUALOR... and then allow Himself to be humiliated, beaten, and spit upon, tortured to DEATH… so that he could enable us to live...?
Unbelievable.
No other religion illustrates such extravagant, preposterous love from a god, for his people. Furthermore, Jesus is practically the last word on what it means to live morally. Even atheists who disregard his claim as God agree that the moral teachings of Jesus are profound-- I’ve spoken to several atheists who don’t believe in him, but believe in the veracity of his moral teachings. (Lewis would say this claim is impossible; how could Jesus be a good moral teacher if he was a human that was claiming to be God?? That would make him a mad-man, or a liar. Unless-- of course-- he WAS God.)
So do I believe religion is necessary for morality? No. Religion, no. I understand religion to be the practicing of rituals which are meant to honor a god. Religion can be a beautiful thing, but I don’t think it’s the religious rituals that lead to morality, per se.
But God? Absolutely. Jesus? No question. Faith in this incredible God, which shows itself through consistent moral living? Yes. We need all those things for morality.
Writing this email made me fall in love with God a little bit more. Thanks for giving me the excuse to write it. :)
Love to you,
Greta
Hey this is B-----! I just started a new class; it's called An Introduction to Ethics and each week our teacher asks us a question. This week it's about religion: Is religion necessary for morality? I think that it is because without religion or God plus the Bible we wouldn't know about it, but also people who don't know about Christianity but know about Bhudda know about a different kind of morality. What do you think?
My response:
Remember the Moral Law? :) According to C.S. Lewis, the very fact that people have consciences and a (mostly) common appreciation of what actions are “right” and what are “wrong,” indicates that something beyond ourselves put that “moral law” in us. Especially since our understanding of what is RIGHT so often goes against our desires or instincts (remember the drowning man analogy?)... we know that something ABOVE the coarser human nature instilled this higher sense of morality within us.
Lewis uses this point to argue in favor of God-- the higher being. Different religions, of course, provide various interpretations of this higher being. We believe that Christianity is the religion that most resoundingly speaks truth. That’s the rest of Mere Christianity. :)
In considering the logic and sense that other religions bring to the table, my faith in Christianity has been confirmed above those others because of the incredible story of Jesus. In no other religion does that religion’s god come down, live among his people, and die for them so that they can be saved. Most gods in other religions remain removed-- they remain high up on their seats of power and demand sacrifices or stringent living standards from their followers. Buddhism believes in reincarnation, and I think Buddha was supposed to be a real man—- but the story of the cross is completely unique. It’s unheard of. That’s one reason why the Bible is, to me, so profoundly compelling-- it provides a narrative NO ONE would have made up. To think that the God of all things, the creator and formidable wielder of power would enter into such SQUALOR... and then allow Himself to be humiliated, beaten, and spit upon, tortured to DEATH… so that he could enable us to live...?
Unbelievable.
No other religion illustrates such extravagant, preposterous love from a god, for his people. Furthermore, Jesus is practically the last word on what it means to live morally. Even atheists who disregard his claim as God agree that the moral teachings of Jesus are profound-- I’ve spoken to several atheists who don’t believe in him, but believe in the veracity of his moral teachings. (Lewis would say this claim is impossible; how could Jesus be a good moral teacher if he was a human that was claiming to be God?? That would make him a mad-man, or a liar. Unless-- of course-- he WAS God.)
So do I believe religion is necessary for morality? No. Religion, no. I understand religion to be the practicing of rituals which are meant to honor a god. Religion can be a beautiful thing, but I don’t think it’s the religious rituals that lead to morality, per se.
But God? Absolutely. Jesus? No question. Faith in this incredible God, which shows itself through consistent moral living? Yes. We need all those things for morality.
Writing this email made me fall in love with God a little bit more. Thanks for giving me the excuse to write it. :)
Love to you,
Greta
Oct 4, 2010
Paths and Bricks and Signs
Have been doing a unit on Mere Christianity with my seniors. (Remember: private Christian school.) Predestination vs. freewill has become a hot topic of debate. We've been trying real hard to figure out just how IT (i.e. the universe, salvation, living life, etc.) all works. One day, I drew four cartoon-y squiggles on the board, to represent two cartoon-y paths.
"Maybe the way it works, is that when God creates us, He has this BEST story in mind for us. Right? If everything went according to His plan, *this* would be THE best story for our lives. That's this path. BUT: we have the bricks in our hands, and we get to choose where we lay the bricks down. We can choose to seek Him, and pray for guidance, and lay the bricks down on His path... OR: we can lay the bricks down on our OWN path. It's our choice. We've got the bricks. But our own path is never going to measure up to the one He's envisioned. It could just never be as good of a story."
Someone else pointed out that, maybe God wants us to get to certain key landmarks, but that we can determine how we get there. That's a good idea too, I think. I also think, if we're the praying sort and are asking for God to play a part in our lives, then we sometimes allow Him to pull rank on where we lay the bricks down. Sometimes, it seems like we HAVE to lay them down a certain way, even when we'd prefer to lay them down differently. That's probably Him interfering. (We asked Him to.)
In any case, this evening, I am having these thoughts:
1.) We pray for God's will, and sometimes we ask for things.
2.) Sometimes we ask for things that are not on the "best-story" path. It's like, we see a sign pointing down a path that says, "THIS LOOKS GOOD" and-- of course-- we want to go down that one.
3.) Sometimes God doesn't give us those things, because He knows if we got them, we would run after them so fast, we'd lose the good path. In those cases, it's like God doesn't even let us find the THIS LOOKS GOOD sign.
4.) Sometimes God DOES give us those things, because He knows when we get them, we'll realize, "Oh. Hey. This actually isn't the way I want my life to go after all." It's sort of like, He shows us the THIS LOOKS GOOD path, and lets us look down it, because He knows-- this time-- we'll realize that that path isn't the best story. And so, we'll make our way very comfortably back to the good one.
I think I'm experiencing a bit of "4" lately. Which is always surprising.
I'm watching some of my favorite people experience what I suspect is a bit of #3. That's tougher stuff.
So.
These are my thoughts this Monday evening.
"Maybe the way it works, is that when God creates us, He has this BEST story in mind for us. Right? If everything went according to His plan, *this* would be THE best story for our lives. That's this path. BUT: we have the bricks in our hands, and we get to choose where we lay the bricks down. We can choose to seek Him, and pray for guidance, and lay the bricks down on His path... OR: we can lay the bricks down on our OWN path. It's our choice. We've got the bricks. But our own path is never going to measure up to the one He's envisioned. It could just never be as good of a story."
Someone else pointed out that, maybe God wants us to get to certain key landmarks, but that we can determine how we get there. That's a good idea too, I think. I also think, if we're the praying sort and are asking for God to play a part in our lives, then we sometimes allow Him to pull rank on where we lay the bricks down. Sometimes, it seems like we HAVE to lay them down a certain way, even when we'd prefer to lay them down differently. That's probably Him interfering. (We asked Him to.)
In any case, this evening, I am having these thoughts:
1.) We pray for God's will, and sometimes we ask for things.
2.) Sometimes we ask for things that are not on the "best-story" path. It's like, we see a sign pointing down a path that says, "THIS LOOKS GOOD" and-- of course-- we want to go down that one.
3.) Sometimes God doesn't give us those things, because He knows if we got them, we would run after them so fast, we'd lose the good path. In those cases, it's like God doesn't even let us find the THIS LOOKS GOOD sign.
4.) Sometimes God DOES give us those things, because He knows when we get them, we'll realize, "Oh. Hey. This actually isn't the way I want my life to go after all." It's sort of like, He shows us the THIS LOOKS GOOD path, and lets us look down it, because He knows-- this time-- we'll realize that that path isn't the best story. And so, we'll make our way very comfortably back to the good one.
I think I'm experiencing a bit of "4" lately. Which is always surprising.
I'm watching some of my favorite people experience what I suspect is a bit of #3. That's tougher stuff.
So.
These are my thoughts this Monday evening.
May 13, 2010
Desert Places
The other day, I was giving my seniors a lecture on common symbols found in literature. One of the ones I hit on was "desert."
"Connotations for desert?" I asked them. "What do we think of when we think 'desert'?"
They chirped up dutifully. "Barren." "Devoid of life." "Death." "HOT." "Yeah, like HELL." "Lonely."
"Absolutely," I said. "You are so brilliant." Then I filled them in on the alternate symbolism of a desert that I'd discovered when researching my lecture.
"Deserts are also common places for spiritual awakenings," I said. "Like... In the Bible, the book of Hosea is all about being stripped down and taken into the desert, away from all the distractions, where there's ONLY God. Disney's a fan-- Simba has his big soul-searching moment with Mufasa-in-the-clouds when he's in the desert... Jesus went into the desert to fast for 40 days... John the Baptist was in the desert. In the Indian epic The Ramayana, the hero, Rama, goes into the desert to train and do all his ascetic practices... You see it all over the place."
Which is odd, right? Why would we associate a barren landscape, something devoid of life, something associated with death, and hell, and loneliness-- with awakening?
We can nod and stroke our chins at the notion. It's an old cliche, I guess-- go through struggles, learn, come out wiser and stronger. So why is it that, when we're IN the desert places, we always forget about the awakening part and become so overwhelmed with how HARD it is?
Me, I can't tell if I'm in the desert right now, the rain-soaked valley attempting to flower into spring-time, or if I'm on a mountain pathway of switchbacks-- super difficult to climb, and difficult to see ahead any fair distance, but promising a great view in a few more hundred feet.
Sometimes I feel like I'm crawling through a desert just to hunt that dancing mirage. Can't for the life of me tell if it's something I made up in my head, or if it's really that real, and that beautiful. Do I slog out the desperate crawl towards it? Or do I turn away and try to find a more promising help, even if there's nothing of that description nearby? This is the fear: I will use up my last bits of strength to seek out the mirage, only to die with a gasp when it dissolves into the shimmering heat. But if I turn away, and it DOES exist... well then I'm just killing myself for the sake of pessimism.
This is all very obscure, I know. I tend to lapse into that.
What I DO know is this: throughout this long, difficult, EMOTIONAL year, there have been many moments when I have collapsed in a heap on the desert sand of my bedroom, and panted out a cry for help. And in that desert place, when there is NOTHING else, when I am spent of every last reserve I've got... God has shown up.
I remember one morning crying under the covers. "I can't do this. Please. I can't go out and live right now."
And I got a picture of being perched on top of a wave, rolling, rolling, rolling forward. Watch me carry you through today.
And then I was carried through.
When there is nothing, He is everything.
What's really hard, I suppose, is when you're in the desert place, and there IS no apparent comforting voice or cooling wave to respond to your cries. I don't really know why God gets us to those places, where we're so entirely bereft of comfort, companionship, or personal strength-- when even He seems to have deserted us.
Maybe God is the oasis-mirage in those moments. Does He exist? Is He worth crawling towards? Or is He something we've been fabricating in our heads? That swimming vision ahead is our only hope-- but it's so tempting to just write Him off altogether. I will grapple with the sand I can feel and curse the hope that beckons me. There is nothing of comfort here. I am alone.
We choose, one way or the other, I guess. According to the Encyclopedia of Symbolism, the ideal outcome of finding oneself in a desert place would be a greater spiritual awakening. We are brought to the desert to cleanse, to clarify, to re-evaluate, to hone, to be tested, and to triumph-- emerging out of the golden dunes as ultimately a wiser, stronger, more centered being. The other choice is to give in to the barren death-- to dig our own graves in the sand before the mirage can disappoint us.
One thing is sure though-- well... I think it is anyway. The desert requires many slow, labored steps to escape. Whatever epiphanies or trials happen on the way-- the goal is to get out. And it's hard getting there. Feet get sore, skin is burnt, throat is parched, and you have to step, step, step. Where is comfort? Where is love? Step, step, step. How long God? Have you forgotten me? Step, step, step.
For those of you in the desert places-- for me squinting at my own personal mirage-- let's keep walking, yes?
There's something to be found in getting through it.
Feb 5, 2010
Trust Anyway
It's my 5th period prep. A Spanish class shares my classroom during 5th period. Someone keeps mentioning donuts.
Me gusta donut.
I've become buddies with one of my sophomore boys, who recently acquired a sticker machine. He brought in a couple homemade stickers for me, with his own graphic designs; I asked him if he would make me one that said, "Trust anyway"-- a phrase that has become a personal mantra for me this year. He misheard me, and made a sticker that said, "Trust anyone."
This makes me laugh. :)
Trust anyone! Trust,like, ANYONE!
I think he's bringing in a "Trust Anyway" sticker for me today.
And that's the Friday charge, y'all. You with the baggage? You with the issues? You who deals with self-loathing? You who deals with shame and lust and pride? You who deals with insecurity? You who can't believe love could happen for you? You who can't believe love will WORK for you? You who is sure you're going to end up just like your parents? You that's unemployed? You that's feeling like a failure? You that's lonely? You that's unsure? You that's jaded? You that's bitter and cynical and angry? You that's grieving? You that feels exhausted and broken?
Trust anyway.
We serve a God that makes things new. He is good, and He loves us.
So even if you have every reason in the world to doubt: trust anyway.
Do.
Me gusta donut.
I've become buddies with one of my sophomore boys, who recently acquired a sticker machine. He brought in a couple homemade stickers for me, with his own graphic designs; I asked him if he would make me one that said, "Trust anyway"-- a phrase that has become a personal mantra for me this year. He misheard me, and made a sticker that said, "Trust anyone."
This makes me laugh. :)
Trust anyone! Trust,like, ANYONE!
I think he's bringing in a "Trust Anyway" sticker for me today.
And that's the Friday charge, y'all. You with the baggage? You with the issues? You who deals with self-loathing? You who deals with shame and lust and pride? You who deals with insecurity? You who can't believe love could happen for you? You who can't believe love will WORK for you? You who is sure you're going to end up just like your parents? You that's unemployed? You that's feeling like a failure? You that's lonely? You that's unsure? You that's jaded? You that's bitter and cynical and angry? You that's grieving? You that feels exhausted and broken?
Trust anyway.
We serve a God that makes things new. He is good, and He loves us.
So even if you have every reason in the world to doubt: trust anyway.
Do.
Feb 1, 2010
...Hello out there?
This year is kicking my caboose. Working as a first year teacher is taking up every spare minute I have; it's honestly tough to do ANYTHING non-teaching-related-- even sleep-- without feeling guilty. No matter what I'm doing, in the back of my head, I'm panicking about my grading pile, trying to invent new lesson plans, thinking about the books I'm teaching which I haven't yet read, criticizing myself for not writing up a handout to help my sophomores better comprehend the Shakespeare they're reading, and so on, and so on, and guilt guilt guilt.
This is why I have not been blogging. Right now, in fact, the thoughts going through my head are, "You need to finish writing up the "Tale of Two Cities" questions. You need to be checking your students' blogs. You need to figure out how you're going to better assist your sophomores." And so on, and so on, and guilt guilt guilt.
However-- as some of you may have just mentally commented when reading the above paragraph-- living so single-mindedly is not healthy. Letting my job take over my entire life is not healthy.
And it's taking a toll, honestly. I'm losing myself. I'm exhausted. I tie so much self-worth to my job that, for instance, when a student in my AP Literature class tells me she doesn't feel like the class is adequately preparing her, as she did this morning-- I feel absolutely crushed.
I am more than an AP class. I am more than just a teacher. And-- what I'm able to feebly assert in the midst of these exhausting, defeating, tangled cobwebs-- I am a GOOD teacher. I know I am. I've seen it. My kids are learning, and they're having fun. I am a GOOD teacher.
But that's not all I am.
What I am, is part divine, and part cursed.
The last several weeks I have been confronted with the magnitude of what it means to consider yourself a Christian. We must acknowledge that we are both made in the image of God-- that we are of heavenly origin, that we have every instinct to recognize what is good, and true, and right-- yet also, that we are fallen. We are cursed. We are sickened and impaired by the perversion of our sinful humanity.
Made in the image of God... and fallen. What a beast, right?
I recognize that I can choose to indulge in one or the other. I can give into this twisted part of me, and indulge in lies, in feelings of insufficiency-- I can tell myself that being a teacher defines me and so when I fail as a teacher, I FAIL. I can tell myself that the fears I have about marriage, about faithfulness, about myself, are all TRUE and that Hope is nothing more than a cruel deceiver. I can give in to self-loathing. I can indulge in sin, and tell myself it doesn't matter. I can work myself to death and distract myself from the things that are truly important. I can howl out at the darkness and let it overwhelm me.
Or, I can indulge in the OTHER half. I can hope, and believe in hope. I can claim a whimsical moment and laugh, and share it with a loving Lord. I can seek goodness, and purity, and the understanding that I am beloved and delighted in. I can choose forgiveness. I can choose wholeness. I can choose to trust, to drive a stake in the ground called TRUST and to cling to it while the storm approaches. I can look defiantly at the rolling dark clouds, and I can roar back at the thunder. I can cry out at the darkness and declare that it has no power over me. I am a child of God. I am made in His image. I am blessed. I am protected.
They fight over me, every day. This dual nature wages a tug of war over my soul, over my psyche, over my heart.
And it is just hard, sometimes, to cling to the right half. You know? Some days, it is just hard.
This is why I have not been blogging. Right now, in fact, the thoughts going through my head are, "You need to finish writing up the "Tale of Two Cities" questions. You need to be checking your students' blogs. You need to figure out how you're going to better assist your sophomores." And so on, and so on, and guilt guilt guilt.
However-- as some of you may have just mentally commented when reading the above paragraph-- living so single-mindedly is not healthy. Letting my job take over my entire life is not healthy.
And it's taking a toll, honestly. I'm losing myself. I'm exhausted. I tie so much self-worth to my job that, for instance, when a student in my AP Literature class tells me she doesn't feel like the class is adequately preparing her, as she did this morning-- I feel absolutely crushed.
I am more than an AP class. I am more than just a teacher. And-- what I'm able to feebly assert in the midst of these exhausting, defeating, tangled cobwebs-- I am a GOOD teacher. I know I am. I've seen it. My kids are learning, and they're having fun. I am a GOOD teacher.
But that's not all I am.
What I am, is part divine, and part cursed.
The last several weeks I have been confronted with the magnitude of what it means to consider yourself a Christian. We must acknowledge that we are both made in the image of God-- that we are of heavenly origin, that we have every instinct to recognize what is good, and true, and right-- yet also, that we are fallen. We are cursed. We are sickened and impaired by the perversion of our sinful humanity.
Made in the image of God... and fallen. What a beast, right?
I recognize that I can choose to indulge in one or the other. I can give into this twisted part of me, and indulge in lies, in feelings of insufficiency-- I can tell myself that being a teacher defines me and so when I fail as a teacher, I FAIL. I can tell myself that the fears I have about marriage, about faithfulness, about myself, are all TRUE and that Hope is nothing more than a cruel deceiver. I can give in to self-loathing. I can indulge in sin, and tell myself it doesn't matter. I can work myself to death and distract myself from the things that are truly important. I can howl out at the darkness and let it overwhelm me.
Or, I can indulge in the OTHER half. I can hope, and believe in hope. I can claim a whimsical moment and laugh, and share it with a loving Lord. I can seek goodness, and purity, and the understanding that I am beloved and delighted in. I can choose forgiveness. I can choose wholeness. I can choose to trust, to drive a stake in the ground called TRUST and to cling to it while the storm approaches. I can look defiantly at the rolling dark clouds, and I can roar back at the thunder. I can cry out at the darkness and declare that it has no power over me. I am a child of God. I am made in His image. I am blessed. I am protected.
They fight over me, every day. This dual nature wages a tug of war over my soul, over my psyche, over my heart.
And it is just hard, sometimes, to cling to the right half. You know? Some days, it is just hard.
Sep 2, 2009
Soldier
It's 7:00AM, and I'm at my desk. Class will start in 45 minutes.
I was still here, less than twelve hours ago. I was here for the twelve hours before that. When I finally DID leave, I went home, and prepared for Friday's class, packed for the retreat, and finally fell into bed around 10:15PM. I had frantic, nerve-wracking dreams all night, and when my alarm finally sounded at 4:45AM, I woke with a jolt and a gasp. I could barely keep my eyes open on my drive to work.
It's not a good sign when you imagine getting into a car wreck and feel some relief, thinking, "At least then, I could take the day off..."
And it's only Wednesday.
Why this sudden terror and exhaustion? Why this seizure of anxiety after two solid days of teaching? Is this the devil?
I am dreading 6th period. I'm pretty sure they were largely featured in the terrible dreams.
Two thoughts, I'm finding comfort in. One, is that I know that, SOMEHOW, I will make it to the end of the day. 3:00PM will come. And bedtime-- glorious, blissful bedtime will come after that. I might even get to sleep in until, like, 7:00 tomorrow because the kids won't show up at the retreat center until later. Whenever I'm feeling overwhelmed with how much I have to do, it's been a comforting thing to look at the final deadline and say, "SOMEHOW it will all get done. I don't know how, but it will." And it always has. And it will today. I will make it to 3:00PM, and by the time I do, I will have taught five high-school English classes.
Second: this is a little childish, but that is sometimes a pattern with me. And whenever I'm feeling especially knotted up with nerves, it's tremendously helpful to find myself in a moment of silliness. I am picturing myself as a solider. This morning, I am in camo gear, lying on my belly in a trench after a fitful night of sleep. I'm watching the sun rise through a barbed wire coil, and thinking that it's beautiful, and thinking that I need to GEAR UP for the battle today. I've got mud on my face because, word: I am hard core. I can do this. I have weapons. And I can take on 6th period. And besides, there are other hard core soldiers fighting with me.
(Cue bloggies to PRAY.)
Anyway. I will make it. I will survive. This is just teaching! Why am I so freaked out? I know the ending to the story: God wins. All I have to do is love others, and love Him in the meantime. He'll take care of the rest.
Roger that.
I was still here, less than twelve hours ago. I was here for the twelve hours before that. When I finally DID leave, I went home, and prepared for Friday's class, packed for the retreat, and finally fell into bed around 10:15PM. I had frantic, nerve-wracking dreams all night, and when my alarm finally sounded at 4:45AM, I woke with a jolt and a gasp. I could barely keep my eyes open on my drive to work.
It's not a good sign when you imagine getting into a car wreck and feel some relief, thinking, "At least then, I could take the day off..."
And it's only Wednesday.
Why this sudden terror and exhaustion? Why this seizure of anxiety after two solid days of teaching? Is this the devil?
I am dreading 6th period. I'm pretty sure they were largely featured in the terrible dreams.
Two thoughts, I'm finding comfort in. One, is that I know that, SOMEHOW, I will make it to the end of the day. 3:00PM will come. And bedtime-- glorious, blissful bedtime will come after that. I might even get to sleep in until, like, 7:00 tomorrow because the kids won't show up at the retreat center until later. Whenever I'm feeling overwhelmed with how much I have to do, it's been a comforting thing to look at the final deadline and say, "SOMEHOW it will all get done. I don't know how, but it will." And it always has. And it will today. I will make it to 3:00PM, and by the time I do, I will have taught five high-school English classes.
Second: this is a little childish, but that is sometimes a pattern with me. And whenever I'm feeling especially knotted up with nerves, it's tremendously helpful to find myself in a moment of silliness. I am picturing myself as a solider. This morning, I am in camo gear, lying on my belly in a trench after a fitful night of sleep. I'm watching the sun rise through a barbed wire coil, and thinking that it's beautiful, and thinking that I need to GEAR UP for the battle today. I've got mud on my face because, word: I am hard core. I can do this. I have weapons. And I can take on 6th period. And besides, there are other hard core soldiers fighting with me.
(Cue bloggies to PRAY.)
Anyway. I will make it. I will survive. This is just teaching! Why am I so freaked out? I know the ending to the story: God wins. All I have to do is love others, and love Him in the meantime. He'll take care of the rest.
Roger that.
Aug 30, 2009
The Eve
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow: I will face down one hundred students, divided into five different classes, as their teacher. Tomorrow, I will give students syllabi that I have spent hours writing, which describe texts and units spanning the entire year. Tomorrow, I will ask them to introduce themselves, and I will introduce myself to them. Tomorrow, these students will see my classroom-- they will see the art on the walls that I selected to stimulate their thinking; they will see the world map that I've hung with pins stuck in the places that I've been, with more pins at the ready for them to stick in the cities they've traveled to. Tomorrow, they will see the vocabulary words that have been hung in a border around the room, and they will see the sign I made that says, "You must learn the rules before you can break them," flanked on one side by the Mona Lisa, and on the other, by a cubist Picasso portrait. Tomorrow, I will show them the hockey stick that I've turned into a hall pass, and I will tell them sternly that they must be so tender with the hall pass. Tomorrow, they will sit in the desks that I've meticulously arranged in a circle formation, and they will listen as I review the syllabi via a Powerpoint with silly pictures to accompany the various points.
Tomorrow, they will be my students, and I will be their teacher.
Tomorrow, I will pretend that I've completed the summer reading assignments of "Crime and Punishment," and "Mere Christianity," instead of telling them the truth: that I was frantically scanning Sparksnotes the night before, trying to catch myself up on all major points. Tomorrow, I will smile, and give my Senior AP students the reading cards that were fashioned by a former teacher, requiring them to identify the novel's symbols, motifs, tones, syntax structure, diction style, genre, and so on-- many terms which I still feel shaky on myself. Tomorrow, if they ask me to explain what I mean by identifying the novel's "syntax," I will glibly say, "We'll go over all these terms later. For now, I'd like to see what terms you're comfortable with and what you're still unsure about. Think of this as a pretest. Do your best; we'll go over all of these later this week."
Tomorrow, I will get on my knees and pray with determination that God hold to His promise that in my weakness, He will be strong, and also well informed about literary analysis.
Tomorrow, I will wear a navy blue pencil skirt, a pink blouse, tan boots, and a thick brown belt around my waist.
Tomorrow, I will give my fellow English teachers boxes of tea, because English teachers love tea, and because I want to show them that I am thankful and excited to teach alongside them this year.
Tomorrow, I might get sick to my stomach, which is what my body does when it gets very nervous. But tomorrow, if that happens, I will square my shoulders and breathe into my diaphragm and lift my chin and say, "Good morning folks. Welcome to Senior year," and I will pretend that I never had a previous encounter with the toilet bowl.
(But tomorrow, please God, don't let me get sick WHILE the students are there. Amen.)
Tomorrow, I will meet my kids. I will begin to know their names. I will begin to hear their stories. Tomorrow, I will remember why it is that I LOVE this.
Tomorrow, I will thank God for the miraculous blessing of a job, of supportive co-teachers, of a wonderful principal, and for being in a school that allows me to post my fervent prayer in the form of a Bible verse outside my door. Tomorrow, I will pray for my students, and I will pray that He enables me to teach them as they deserve to be taught.
"Tomorrow" gets over at 3:00 PM. And boy-- tomorrow? That hour just can't come soon enough.
Tomorrow: I will face down one hundred students, divided into five different classes, as their teacher. Tomorrow, I will give students syllabi that I have spent hours writing, which describe texts and units spanning the entire year. Tomorrow, I will ask them to introduce themselves, and I will introduce myself to them. Tomorrow, these students will see my classroom-- they will see the art on the walls that I selected to stimulate their thinking; they will see the world map that I've hung with pins stuck in the places that I've been, with more pins at the ready for them to stick in the cities they've traveled to. Tomorrow, they will see the vocabulary words that have been hung in a border around the room, and they will see the sign I made that says, "You must learn the rules before you can break them," flanked on one side by the Mona Lisa, and on the other, by a cubist Picasso portrait. Tomorrow, I will show them the hockey stick that I've turned into a hall pass, and I will tell them sternly that they must be so tender with the hall pass. Tomorrow, they will sit in the desks that I've meticulously arranged in a circle formation, and they will listen as I review the syllabi via a Powerpoint with silly pictures to accompany the various points.
Tomorrow, they will be my students, and I will be their teacher.
Tomorrow, I will pretend that I've completed the summer reading assignments of "Crime and Punishment," and "Mere Christianity," instead of telling them the truth: that I was frantically scanning Sparksnotes the night before, trying to catch myself up on all major points. Tomorrow, I will smile, and give my Senior AP students the reading cards that were fashioned by a former teacher, requiring them to identify the novel's symbols, motifs, tones, syntax structure, diction style, genre, and so on-- many terms which I still feel shaky on myself. Tomorrow, if they ask me to explain what I mean by identifying the novel's "syntax," I will glibly say, "We'll go over all these terms later. For now, I'd like to see what terms you're comfortable with and what you're still unsure about. Think of this as a pretest. Do your best; we'll go over all of these later this week."
Tomorrow, I will get on my knees and pray with determination that God hold to His promise that in my weakness, He will be strong, and also well informed about literary analysis.
Tomorrow, I will wear a navy blue pencil skirt, a pink blouse, tan boots, and a thick brown belt around my waist.
Tomorrow, I will give my fellow English teachers boxes of tea, because English teachers love tea, and because I want to show them that I am thankful and excited to teach alongside them this year.
Tomorrow, I might get sick to my stomach, which is what my body does when it gets very nervous. But tomorrow, if that happens, I will square my shoulders and breathe into my diaphragm and lift my chin and say, "Good morning folks. Welcome to Senior year," and I will pretend that I never had a previous encounter with the toilet bowl.
(But tomorrow, please God, don't let me get sick WHILE the students are there. Amen.)
Tomorrow, I will meet my kids. I will begin to know their names. I will begin to hear their stories. Tomorrow, I will remember why it is that I LOVE this.
Tomorrow, I will thank God for the miraculous blessing of a job, of supportive co-teachers, of a wonderful principal, and for being in a school that allows me to post my fervent prayer in the form of a Bible verse outside my door. Tomorrow, I will pray for my students, and I will pray that He enables me to teach them as they deserve to be taught.
"Tomorrow" gets over at 3:00 PM. And boy-- tomorrow? That hour just can't come soon enough.
Aug 14, 2009
If I Had a Magic Wand
Today, I would use it to enable people to see themselves as others see them. Or better yet, as God sees them. How would we be different if we knew how treasured we are? If we saw ourselves, not as messy, bumbling, wrong individuals, but as loved, adored, and delighted in?
Last year, on my drive to school every morning, I would pray, "Help me to see these kids the way that YOU see them, and help me to love them the way that YOU love them."
The worlds looks completely different when you ask that. People are so much more huggable.
Not that I hugged the kids. (Inappropriate.)
But people become dear. Someone that was offensive and abrasive is suddenly, so clearly, hurt. I always feel like I get a special little window, and I'm able to understand something more than before. Not completely-- but MORE.
It grieves me when people don't understand, can't comprehend, their own wonderfulness.
Zap.
Wish I could.
Last year, on my drive to school every morning, I would pray, "Help me to see these kids the way that YOU see them, and help me to love them the way that YOU love them."
The worlds looks completely different when you ask that. People are so much more huggable.
Not that I hugged the kids. (Inappropriate.)
But people become dear. Someone that was offensive and abrasive is suddenly, so clearly, hurt. I always feel like I get a special little window, and I'm able to understand something more than before. Not completely-- but MORE.
It grieves me when people don't understand, can't comprehend, their own wonderfulness.
Zap.
Wish I could.
Aug 13, 2009
There Were Ducks.
Lately, I've been trying to make a point to pray in the morning. When I was feeling super stressed out over how much I had to do a couple weeks ago, I remember somehow feeling like I got the message, "If you give me time, I'll give you time." I don't believe God works like a juke box-- "you do this, I'll do that"-- but I DO think that He has a cool way of helping us out when we say, "Ack, you do it!" rather than looking at our To-Do list and bursting into tears.
This morning I forgot though. I procrastinated and did other things.
I finally left for my study cafe, feeling guilty about my late start, but then remembered the not praying. "Whoops," I thought. Split-second debate: could I manage just throwing up the prayer on my drive to the cafe? The answer came immediately. (Nope.) I turned the wheel to head down to the park on the lake.
When walking to the dock, I saw black-berries and I ate some.
I chose a dock that was pierced four times by tall metal mooring pillars. I walked to the last pillar and leaned against it, looking out over gray lake, reflecting the dark sky. The mooring pillar rocked with the pull of the water underneath, and I booped and bopped along with it.
Started breathing.
A duck hopped up on the dock and wandered over to me. It pecked my red cowboy boot, which made me grin. Another one hopped up on the dock-- an ugly duck whose feathers had somehow turned a mottled white. I thought of people whose hair turns white because of a traumatic experience, and I wondered if the duck had been traumatized, and I thought, "That is a poor duck." Then one more hopped up: by far the prettiest, and she seemed rather satisfied with herself. They strutted around me, the ugly one quacking in conversational bursts. I looked at their lone purple feathers underneath the brown. Why is it ducks should have that one jewel-colored feather? It is such a surprise-feather. They stretched their wings and their feet and shook their heads, and looked like they were impromptu yoga-ing.
And I liked all that.
And I prayed, and it made my heart feel full, and it made things just right.
Now I am at my cafe-- still not working-- but I will. And the barista made a picture in my latte and the picture was a feather.
And my heart feels full, and things feel just right.
This morning I forgot though. I procrastinated and did other things.
I finally left for my study cafe, feeling guilty about my late start, but then remembered the not praying. "Whoops," I thought. Split-second debate: could I manage just throwing up the prayer on my drive to the cafe? The answer came immediately. (Nope.) I turned the wheel to head down to the park on the lake.
When walking to the dock, I saw black-berries and I ate some.
I chose a dock that was pierced four times by tall metal mooring pillars. I walked to the last pillar and leaned against it, looking out over gray lake, reflecting the dark sky. The mooring pillar rocked with the pull of the water underneath, and I booped and bopped along with it.
Started breathing.
A duck hopped up on the dock and wandered over to me. It pecked my red cowboy boot, which made me grin. Another one hopped up on the dock-- an ugly duck whose feathers had somehow turned a mottled white. I thought of people whose hair turns white because of a traumatic experience, and I wondered if the duck had been traumatized, and I thought, "That is a poor duck." Then one more hopped up: by far the prettiest, and she seemed rather satisfied with herself. They strutted around me, the ugly one quacking in conversational bursts. I looked at their lone purple feathers underneath the brown. Why is it ducks should have that one jewel-colored feather? It is such a surprise-feather. They stretched their wings and their feet and shook their heads, and looked like they were impromptu yoga-ing.
And I liked all that.
And I prayed, and it made my heart feel full, and it made things just right.
Now I am at my cafe-- still not working-- but I will. And the barista made a picture in my latte and the picture was a feather.
And my heart feels full, and things feel just right.
Aug 8, 2009
Moth Wings Grace
Yesterday morning, I hit my head on feelings of intimidation and fear right when I woke up. My thoughts shouted at me, throwing stones and making cruel faces. How am I going to succeed at this new job?? How am I going to possibly plan three different classes, including Senior AP, when I have four grad school classes to finish?? I clutched my knees on the floor in the shower, and let the water beat down on me, and felt afraid, and felt small, and felt so unsure of myself.
And then I thought, "Next year will be exactly what it's supposed to be, because that is what God does." And I thought, "Trust anyway. Even though there are myriad reasons to doubt. Trust anyway. He got you this job, didn't he?"
And then I got out of the shower, and I saw a moth beating its wings against the stained glass window, covered in steam. The wings made the most magical pattern on the glass-- light and soft and perfectly unsynchronized-- tiny fans and feathers pleading release from a fog of hard obscurity. It flew to and fro, and the significance of the occasion made me wonder, awed. I once more felt wrapped up in reassurance of His beauty, His attention to the smallest things, the way He can draw the loveliest painting on a window with the dust of a moth's wings and the vapor from streaming water.
I just watched the moth create, and felt so astounded, and so thankful.
Then I opened the window, set it free, and felt a little more courage in facing the day.
And then I thought, "Next year will be exactly what it's supposed to be, because that is what God does." And I thought, "Trust anyway. Even though there are myriad reasons to doubt. Trust anyway. He got you this job, didn't he?"
And then I got out of the shower, and I saw a moth beating its wings against the stained glass window, covered in steam. The wings made the most magical pattern on the glass-- light and soft and perfectly unsynchronized-- tiny fans and feathers pleading release from a fog of hard obscurity. It flew to and fro, and the significance of the occasion made me wonder, awed. I once more felt wrapped up in reassurance of His beauty, His attention to the smallest things, the way He can draw the loveliest painting on a window with the dust of a moth's wings and the vapor from streaming water.
I just watched the moth create, and felt so astounded, and so thankful.
Then I opened the window, set it free, and felt a little more courage in facing the day.
Jul 30, 2009
Thankful
Last night, I went for another late swim.
There was a thin veil of wispy clouds covering most of the stars, but a yellow half-moon hung low in the sky and made a dizzy ripple on the water. I followed that for a while, chasing the gold through the cool embrace.
I floated on my back, and dreamed up at the sky. Saw a satellite racing, and tried to keep pace with it, backstroking just underneath its distant arc. It was faster than me though, and I had to swim faster and faster until finally I gave up, treading water and catching my breath. When I finally eased back into my sky-view float though, it was just above me: waiting. Keeping time while I rested. As I began to move once more, it eased back into its own wayfaring odyssey and led me, this time, towards shore.
And it felt like a God sort of satellite. I thought of all the chasing, and worry, and reaching of this last year-- all the discouraging moments, all the desperate prayers. I thought of losing my breath, and crumbling-- and of finding Him right beside me when I lifted my tear-bleared eyes: waiting. Ready to carry me, if need be. I thought of God leading me on, of the worn out following, and of deciding finally, "I will trust anyway. Whatever happens, wherever I end up: I will trust Him anyway." And praise God: I find myself on shore. I find myself led to a safe, indescribably beautiful place.
I got a job, friends.
In this horrible economy, with the countless other young teachers vying for positions-- I got a job. I got a GREAT job, at a GREAT school, working for a woman that seems like she'll be a fantastic administrator, and in a community that seems supportive, and truth-centered, and wonderful.
I get to be a teacher next year. I get to be a real teacher.
And even though I know that teaching Senior AP English is going to feel like backstroking faster and longer than I could ever manage, I trust in my Satellite God. I trust that I will be able to find rest when I truly need it, and that He will lead me in the way I need to go, and provide me the instruction I need to give. I trust in His close, beautiful moments, that I will find long yellow moon paths on cool water. I trust in His huge, intimate, vast, swirling embrace-- as big as an ocean, but as close as the water surrounding me, holding me.
I love a GOOD God. There were so many moments of doubt... but I never needed to worry. I just needed to believe.
There was a thin veil of wispy clouds covering most of the stars, but a yellow half-moon hung low in the sky and made a dizzy ripple on the water. I followed that for a while, chasing the gold through the cool embrace.
I floated on my back, and dreamed up at the sky. Saw a satellite racing, and tried to keep pace with it, backstroking just underneath its distant arc. It was faster than me though, and I had to swim faster and faster until finally I gave up, treading water and catching my breath. When I finally eased back into my sky-view float though, it was just above me: waiting. Keeping time while I rested. As I began to move once more, it eased back into its own wayfaring odyssey and led me, this time, towards shore.
And it felt like a God sort of satellite. I thought of all the chasing, and worry, and reaching of this last year-- all the discouraging moments, all the desperate prayers. I thought of losing my breath, and crumbling-- and of finding Him right beside me when I lifted my tear-bleared eyes: waiting. Ready to carry me, if need be. I thought of God leading me on, of the worn out following, and of deciding finally, "I will trust anyway. Whatever happens, wherever I end up: I will trust Him anyway." And praise God: I find myself on shore. I find myself led to a safe, indescribably beautiful place.
I got a job, friends.
In this horrible economy, with the countless other young teachers vying for positions-- I got a job. I got a GREAT job, at a GREAT school, working for a woman that seems like she'll be a fantastic administrator, and in a community that seems supportive, and truth-centered, and wonderful.
I get to be a teacher next year. I get to be a real teacher.
And even though I know that teaching Senior AP English is going to feel like backstroking faster and longer than I could ever manage, I trust in my Satellite God. I trust that I will be able to find rest when I truly need it, and that He will lead me in the way I need to go, and provide me the instruction I need to give. I trust in His close, beautiful moments, that I will find long yellow moon paths on cool water. I trust in His huge, intimate, vast, swirling embrace-- as big as an ocean, but as close as the water surrounding me, holding me.
I love a GOOD God. There were so many moments of doubt... but I never needed to worry. I just needed to believe.
May 19, 2009
Confession
Today, a guest poet came to perform for our kids. Through the course of the day, he recited many outstanding poems, many of which subtly derided God and the idea of religion. When one girl asked if there was any one experience or thought that showed up in almost all of his writing, he admitted that religion did. Although he didn't get specific, he DID say that he had been told once that he was going to go to hell for being himself, and he stated adamantly that he didn't believe THAT anymore. It was clear that he had been shown a face of religion that all too many people are shown-- that of judgement, anger, and condemnation, rather than love, welcome, and grace. It grieved me deeply, as I've had several conversations lately with people who have told me about the battle-scars they've walked away with after church services. After a day of hearing poetry, my thoughts in response to this came out in the abstract verse below. I took great creative license in "quoting" this man in the beginning of the poem-- however, whether or not those are words he would say, I would venture that they have been thought/felt/spoken, if not by him, by one of the many other people who have been shown a mangled face of Jesus.
"There are no scars on His hands or His wrists," he says
"But my heart is clenched like a fist," he says
"What else could it be, when they shouted out 'Hell!' to a boy who was only being himself? And these sinners, these speakers, they unfurled floods of anger, they sneered while condemning their own vice and dangers, they steered their church across my knees, I see train wrecks, I see ship wrecks, I hear them speak, 'You: fault line, no straight lines where you come from,' they said, they said, they said to me.
"Angels make wings, right? They fly, right?
"But the feathers I found were only rubbed-out eyelashes for wishes made upon,
"Wish for light,
"Wish for wholeness,
"She put me to bed, said 'Sweet dreams son,' but running is all I dream about.
"I want wishes, I want light,
"And she pulls out her lashes to get me through the night.
"She says, 'One of these days, we'll both wake up with grace on our pillows.'
"I tried to follow.
"They said flames, they named names, but when I offered up mine,
"They said, 'Beast, away,'
"I looked for light, I looked for freedom, I tried to fly but hit the ceiling,
"There was no light switch, there was no quick fix, I said the prayer, I said, 'Pick me then!'
"But what I found was cold religion.
"'Do as I say, not as I do.
"'He forgives sinners, except sinners like you.
"'Toe the line kid, and do it our way
"'Take up the cross or rue the day
"'You didn't.'
"Just myself," he says.
"I was just myself
"And they said that that
"Was plenty hell-worthy."
I take it in.
I ache within,
I've said those words,
I've dug a hole for burials of lesser souls
I've nailed the lid on the coffin.
I confess. I confess.
I confess, I did.
And I look at a man with residue
Of religion gone wrong, of God misused.
He cried out for help, and he got abuse, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry
I'm sorry, I did.
We should have said, come as you are.
Should have said, right there too.
Should have said, I'll just listen
Since speaking is so over-used.
And no shaking fingers,
No skeptical foreheads
The face He had
Could not have been the face you read
From us.
Where do I begin?
Is there water to wash the damage, to clean off the face of a Lord we've mangled, to wipe the eyebrows to clean the nail beds, are there waves to recreate the music we've savaged? Is there water to make the sunrise, to send up steam for reflective cloud skies shape them in angels, shape out the feathers, send down a real one to a boy still asleep, send it to the boy who is running through dreams, send it then, send him grace, send him grace on his pillow.
Rouse him gently.
Show him a face of kindness first.
Don't speak, don't hurt, just deepen eyes,
Soften your breathing,
Just show him a sigh, show him healing.
If you open your mouth, you should only sing something lullaby,
Just quiet-like.
Let the light creep in through the window
And let that soften the harsher corners,
Let that ruffle the dusty curtains,
Let that chase away the spiders,
Let that reach into monster corners,
Let that blow the cobwebs and ashes,
He is just a boy, he is just
Himself
And that is loved. And that is worth holding.
Let the dawn break
On the heart that he's clutching.
I can't begin to apologize
For the lies the lies the lies the lies
That said you weren't acceptable.
Those words are damnable.
Saving
Should be a safe place to land
Grace
Should be a strong weathered hand
His face
Should say, "I understand,
"And I love you, I love you, I love you,
"It's love
"Like sand on the shore
"Like rain from the sky
"Like poppy weed buds that fire burst bright
"I love you like this
"I love you right now
"I love you running and aching and braving and shaking and falling and breaking again, and I loved you then
"And I loved you then
"And I loved you then, even then."
It's kindness
We missed it
It's mercy we forgot.
Instead of His words,
We sang funeral songs.
I confess,
And I'm sorry.
And I pray with my lashes,
That His face in the sunrise
Gives you grace
And not ashes.
_
"There are no scars on His hands or His wrists," he says
"But my heart is clenched like a fist," he says
"What else could it be, when they shouted out 'Hell!' to a boy who was only being himself? And these sinners, these speakers, they unfurled floods of anger, they sneered while condemning their own vice and dangers, they steered their church across my knees, I see train wrecks, I see ship wrecks, I hear them speak, 'You: fault line, no straight lines where you come from,' they said, they said, they said to me.
"Angels make wings, right? They fly, right?
"But the feathers I found were only rubbed-out eyelashes for wishes made upon,
"Wish for light,
"Wish for wholeness,
"She put me to bed, said 'Sweet dreams son,' but running is all I dream about.
"I want wishes, I want light,
"And she pulls out her lashes to get me through the night.
"She says, 'One of these days, we'll both wake up with grace on our pillows.'
"I tried to follow.
"They said flames, they named names, but when I offered up mine,
"They said, 'Beast, away,'
"I looked for light, I looked for freedom, I tried to fly but hit the ceiling,
"There was no light switch, there was no quick fix, I said the prayer, I said, 'Pick me then!'
"But what I found was cold religion.
"'Do as I say, not as I do.
"'He forgives sinners, except sinners like you.
"'Toe the line kid, and do it our way
"'Take up the cross or rue the day
"'You didn't.'
"Just myself," he says.
"I was just myself
"And they said that that
"Was plenty hell-worthy."
I take it in.
I ache within,
I've said those words,
I've dug a hole for burials of lesser souls
I've nailed the lid on the coffin.
I confess. I confess.
I confess, I did.
And I look at a man with residue
Of religion gone wrong, of God misused.
He cried out for help, and he got abuse, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry
I'm sorry, I did.
We should have said, come as you are.
Should have said, right there too.
Should have said, I'll just listen
Since speaking is so over-used.
And no shaking fingers,
No skeptical foreheads
The face He had
Could not have been the face you read
From us.
Where do I begin?
Is there water to wash the damage, to clean off the face of a Lord we've mangled, to wipe the eyebrows to clean the nail beds, are there waves to recreate the music we've savaged? Is there water to make the sunrise, to send up steam for reflective cloud skies shape them in angels, shape out the feathers, send down a real one to a boy still asleep, send it to the boy who is running through dreams, send it then, send him grace, send him grace on his pillow.
Rouse him gently.
Show him a face of kindness first.
Don't speak, don't hurt, just deepen eyes,
Soften your breathing,
Just show him a sigh, show him healing.
If you open your mouth, you should only sing something lullaby,
Just quiet-like.
Let the light creep in through the window
And let that soften the harsher corners,
Let that ruffle the dusty curtains,
Let that chase away the spiders,
Let that reach into monster corners,
Let that blow the cobwebs and ashes,
He is just a boy, he is just
Himself
And that is loved. And that is worth holding.
Let the dawn break
On the heart that he's clutching.
I can't begin to apologize
For the lies the lies the lies the lies
That said you weren't acceptable.
Those words are damnable.
Saving
Should be a safe place to land
Grace
Should be a strong weathered hand
His face
Should say, "I understand,
"And I love you, I love you, I love you,
"It's love
"Like sand on the shore
"Like rain from the sky
"Like poppy weed buds that fire burst bright
"I love you like this
"I love you right now
"I love you running and aching and braving and shaking and falling and breaking again, and I loved you then
"And I loved you then
"And I loved you then, even then."
It's kindness
We missed it
It's mercy we forgot.
Instead of His words,
We sang funeral songs.
I confess,
And I'm sorry.
And I pray with my lashes,
That His face in the sunrise
Gives you grace
And not ashes.
_
Mar 5, 2009
Breathing
Last year, when I was studying for some of the horrendous tests that you have to take to get into grad school, I stressed out to a boy.
"I don't know how I'm going to pass this."
"You'll pass it."
"But what if I don't??"
"You'll pass it."
"But what if I DON'T?"
"Do you believe God wants you to be a teacher?"
"Yes."
"Then don't worry about it. He'll make you a teacher."
I thought my would-be advisor was awfully patronizing at the time, but the more I think about those words, the more reassuring I find them to be.
I have been stressing out ALL DAY LONG about getting a job for next year. I know of at least three districts in Seattle that are in hiring freezes-- in fact, I don't know if I know of a district that is NOT in a hiring freeze. MY school is being shut down, so all of the teachers are scrambling like rats on a sinking ship. Everyone's losing their jobs. Everyone's panicked. Everyone is freaked out.
I woke up feeling terrible, so I called in sick and just worked on my resume all day long. I've been to two resume workshops in the last couple weeks. Each one has said things like, "You need to do THIS, but you CANNOT do this, and you should definitely feature this, but by no means do THIS!" And so I've been working on my resume, but each little thing feels like a wire connected to a bomb-- it's taken on THAT much dire significance. Finally I called SPU and asked someone at the career center to take a look at what I had. They sent it back-- the version that I'd been working on all day-- with tons of suggestions for how to improve it.
Then I called my mom and cried.
Anxiety is not a new experience. Starting last year, on the morning that I took the GRE, anxiety has batted me around every once in a while like a cat toying with a mouse. Earlier this year, at one of my counseling appointments, I talked about how frustrating it was to feel so imprisoned by WORRY. We discussed a couple sides of it, and finally we just prayed and decided to see if God had anything to say.
I got a picture in my head, of me, barefoot, in a field that was dotted with wildflowers and bordered by some trees in the distance. There was a breeze, but it was warm. My hair was down, and I had on a linen dress with a skirt that was full enough to catch the wind and move around my legs. There was a full length mirror in front of me, situated in the long grass-- one of those old fashioned oval ones, that stands up on big wooden legs. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Wind-blown. Barefoot. Open. Light.
I heard: "THIS is you. You're meant for freedom."
Big deep breath in. But then came a flood of questions and doubts and worries, and "What if's???" and I asked the speaker in my dream, "But whatif, whatif, whatif??"
And I heard: "None of those matter in deciding where you go next. I am the one who chooses where you go next. And I have a good next step for you."
Then, something in that girl in the field rose up and floated like a kite over the trees, bobbing and dancing in the wind.
I heard, "THIS is you. You're meant for freedom. That's the sort of spirit I've given you."
... So now, after a day of stressing out, and feeling panicked, and feeling insecure, and feeling unsure, and feeling terrified by this economy, I come back to the simplicity of that question:
"Do you believe God wants you to be a teacher?"
"Yes."
"Then don't worry about it. He'll make you a teacher."
Resting in that this evening.
"I don't know how I'm going to pass this."
"You'll pass it."
"But what if I don't??"
"You'll pass it."
"But what if I DON'T?"
"Do you believe God wants you to be a teacher?"
"Yes."
"Then don't worry about it. He'll make you a teacher."
I thought my would-be advisor was awfully patronizing at the time, but the more I think about those words, the more reassuring I find them to be.
I have been stressing out ALL DAY LONG about getting a job for next year. I know of at least three districts in Seattle that are in hiring freezes-- in fact, I don't know if I know of a district that is NOT in a hiring freeze. MY school is being shut down, so all of the teachers are scrambling like rats on a sinking ship. Everyone's losing their jobs. Everyone's panicked. Everyone is freaked out.
I woke up feeling terrible, so I called in sick and just worked on my resume all day long. I've been to two resume workshops in the last couple weeks. Each one has said things like, "You need to do THIS, but you CANNOT do this, and you should definitely feature this, but by no means do THIS!" And so I've been working on my resume, but each little thing feels like a wire connected to a bomb-- it's taken on THAT much dire significance. Finally I called SPU and asked someone at the career center to take a look at what I had. They sent it back-- the version that I'd been working on all day-- with tons of suggestions for how to improve it.
Then I called my mom and cried.
Anxiety is not a new experience. Starting last year, on the morning that I took the GRE, anxiety has batted me around every once in a while like a cat toying with a mouse. Earlier this year, at one of my counseling appointments, I talked about how frustrating it was to feel so imprisoned by WORRY. We discussed a couple sides of it, and finally we just prayed and decided to see if God had anything to say.
I got a picture in my head, of me, barefoot, in a field that was dotted with wildflowers and bordered by some trees in the distance. There was a breeze, but it was warm. My hair was down, and I had on a linen dress with a skirt that was full enough to catch the wind and move around my legs. There was a full length mirror in front of me, situated in the long grass-- one of those old fashioned oval ones, that stands up on big wooden legs. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Wind-blown. Barefoot. Open. Light.
I heard: "THIS is you. You're meant for freedom."
Big deep breath in. But then came a flood of questions and doubts and worries, and "What if's???" and I asked the speaker in my dream, "But whatif, whatif, whatif??"
And I heard: "None of those matter in deciding where you go next. I am the one who chooses where you go next. And I have a good next step for you."
Then, something in that girl in the field rose up and floated like a kite over the trees, bobbing and dancing in the wind.
I heard, "THIS is you. You're meant for freedom. That's the sort of spirit I've given you."
... So now, after a day of stressing out, and feeling panicked, and feeling insecure, and feeling unsure, and feeling terrified by this economy, I come back to the simplicity of that question:
"Do you believe God wants you to be a teacher?"
"Yes."
"Then don't worry about it. He'll make you a teacher."
Resting in that this evening.
Jan 27, 2009
The Disentangling
Taught all day today and feel a bit knackered. I'm supposed to be responding to my grad school classmates in an online discussion right now, but I need to hit the refresh button on my brain first.
Therefore:
Blogging.
(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)
Last week, I snapped at this boy named Dylan. Dylan is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Dylan, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Dylan, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.
I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?
After class I tried again.
"Dylan. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.
ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?
When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.
Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs that had gone on my "New 2" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of life.
I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.
Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.
But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.
And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.
And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."
Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Dylan. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.
Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.
Therefore:
Blogging.
(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)
Last week, I snapped at this boy named Dylan. Dylan is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Dylan, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Dylan, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.
I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?
After class I tried again.
"Dylan. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.
ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?
When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.
Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs that had gone on my "New 2" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of life.
I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.
Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.
But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.
And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.
And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."
Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Dylan. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.
Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.
Jan 2, 2009
Faith in Freedom
The sky is gray, I think it will rain soon
But the clouds are polite
And unassuming
The sun has just about gone down
That shady dusk lingers.
I look at that vast gray ocean
From inside my car
I'm parked at the top of a hill
I've got my window down
And my head is out
And it's resting on my folded arms.
Power lines stretch like
Horizontal prison bars
And they're blocking my view of that ocean
They're blocking my flight
To what is all unbound
Blocking my flight
And I am not unbound
Right now, I've got to have faith in freedom
Right now, I've got to have a little bit of faith
In freedom for me
There's got to be some freedom
From myself,
This life.
When I was a girl, I loved to sink
Into deep water
With my eyes closed
Sink into deep water
With my eyes closed
And every muscle relaxed.
When I released and
Surrendered control
When everything just everything had all been let go
I felt safe
I felt peace.
This is the blog where I tell you about what I did on January 1st.
I wrote that poem a couple years ago, the year I lived in California.
The other day, I told my friend that I felt like driftwood in the ocean. "Like... I bob, and I get tossed back and forth and all over the place... But I'm still AFLOAT, you know? I haven't SUNK yet. And I have no control. The funny thing is though, is that I've always associated the ocean with the idea of God, and of peace--"
My friend made a noise like she'd had a THOUGHT, and said, "You've given up being anchored."
And I thought, "Well."
"That is sort of true."
Last New Year's Day was about getting back to "me," getting back to center, getting back to Him. This New Year's was not about that. I have me. I have Him. This New Year's was about letting myself be blown blown blown about and rained rained rained upon and tossed tossed tossed around, and saying, "Okay. I can hope. I can believe. I can trust. I can let go. I will be okay. I can keep going."
But I didn't realize that when I woke up on January 1st.
When I woke up on New Year's, I felt the same as the day before. Maybe not quite the same. Maybe an inch different. But not leaps and bounds different. Not transformed, different. Not a whole new calendar different. And I thought, "What. Lame. This is my big new start. What the heck."
And I looked out at the weather and it was AWFUL. It was dark dark dark, like oppressively dark, and COLD, and rainy, and windy. And I thought, "Ew. I don't want My Big New Year's Walk out in that. That will not be a sparkly walk."
So I took a long time eating breakfast, and I took a long time getting dressed, and I took a long time looking out the window, and I took a long time playing my guitar, and I took a long time getting my plan together.
I'm not sure if I want to tell you the plan yet. I might keep what the plan was a secret.
I took a long time, is my point. And finally it was 12:30pm and I knew that if I wanted to make My Big New Year's Walk happen, I needed to get going. The plan this year was to get to Golden Gardens, which-- I would discover-- is about 11 miles away from Grandpa's house. I had already decided that the walk would probably not be as incredible as last year, because last year's walk was just like a zip-line into the land of rainbows and fairy dust and sparkle lollipops and baby sea otters that wink. I couldn't expect that to just replicate itself. So I made the plan more about what I would DO at the final destination.
That part of the plan is what I haven't told you yet. I still don't know if I want to tell you.
I got my backpack together, and bundled up, and left.
I saw people and waited for last year's twinkling to happen. "Happy New Year!" I called. But they did not become my instantaneous friends. They gave me a bemused smile, or a nod of acknowledgment, or a short, "Hello." "What...??" I wondered. "Why are these not fabulous New Year's interactions...?"
I did not see silly men pulling rick-shaws on bicycles, or the ladies in their matching track suits. I ran into no friends at Starbucks, and I gave up taking pictures just out of my neighborhood. The day was just DRAB. I knew it wouldn't be last year, but it was just ESPECIALLY drab. Annie called at one point to ask how it was going and all I could get out was, "Well... It's just not very magical!" And then I cried.
(I know. Silly.)
But I kept walking. And walking. And my legs started getting sore, because I really don't make a habit of being physically active, but I knew the dark day would get ACTUALLY dark at an earlier time than usual, so I picked up the pace and hurried up hills and down hills and up hills and down hills. And finally, I reached Golden Gardens.
Golden Gardens, for those of you unfamiliar with Seattle, is not really a gardeny place at all. It is a beach. It looks like this:
Kind of like a normal beach.
And I made my way out onto rocks that led to where the water was deeper, and I took a glass mason jar out of my back-pack. And I took one more look at the duct taping job to ensure the jar would be water-tight, and I took one more peek through the glass at the letter inside. I thought about what I'd written.
And then I chucked the jar out into the Pacific.
That is the part of the plan I've only decided to tell you about just now.
Environmentalists: forgive me. The romantic notion overrode more realistic musings until the jar was already bobbing away from me. I know that it may very well end up just down the beach. I know it might hit a rock and break and sink. But the throw and the arc and the release of all those soul scrawlings was such a breath-filled feeling. It was a physical representation of letting myself be unanchored. Off I go, and it felt like flying. I don't know where it will end up, nor do I: me. But after years and years of begging for answers, and grasping for control, and clutching at the future: it was such a good feeling to just LET IT GO.
When I was a girl, I loved to sink
Into deep water
With my eyes closed
Sink into deep water
With my eyes closed
And every muscle relaxed.
When I released and
Surrendered control
When everything just everything had all been let go
I felt safe
I felt peace.
I felt faith.
I felt freedom.
But the clouds are polite
And unassuming
The sun has just about gone down
That shady dusk lingers.
I look at that vast gray ocean
From inside my car
I'm parked at the top of a hill
I've got my window down
And my head is out
And it's resting on my folded arms.
Power lines stretch like
Horizontal prison bars
And they're blocking my view of that ocean
They're blocking my flight
To what is all unbound
Blocking my flight
And I am not unbound
Right now, I've got to have faith in freedom
Right now, I've got to have a little bit of faith
In freedom for me
There's got to be some freedom
From myself,
This life.
When I was a girl, I loved to sink
Into deep water
With my eyes closed
Sink into deep water
With my eyes closed
And every muscle relaxed.
When I released and
Surrendered control
When everything just everything had all been let go
I felt safe
I felt peace.
This is the blog where I tell you about what I did on January 1st.
I wrote that poem a couple years ago, the year I lived in California.
The other day, I told my friend that I felt like driftwood in the ocean. "Like... I bob, and I get tossed back and forth and all over the place... But I'm still AFLOAT, you know? I haven't SUNK yet. And I have no control. The funny thing is though, is that I've always associated the ocean with the idea of God, and of peace--"
My friend made a noise like she'd had a THOUGHT, and said, "You've given up being anchored."
And I thought, "Well."
"That is sort of true."
Last New Year's Day was about getting back to "me," getting back to center, getting back to Him. This New Year's was not about that. I have me. I have Him. This New Year's was about letting myself be blown blown blown about and rained rained rained upon and tossed tossed tossed around, and saying, "Okay. I can hope. I can believe. I can trust. I can let go. I will be okay. I can keep going."
But I didn't realize that when I woke up on January 1st.
When I woke up on New Year's, I felt the same as the day before. Maybe not quite the same. Maybe an inch different. But not leaps and bounds different. Not transformed, different. Not a whole new calendar different. And I thought, "What. Lame. This is my big new start. What the heck."
And I looked out at the weather and it was AWFUL. It was dark dark dark, like oppressively dark, and COLD, and rainy, and windy. And I thought, "Ew. I don't want My Big New Year's Walk out in that. That will not be a sparkly walk."
So I took a long time eating breakfast, and I took a long time getting dressed, and I took a long time looking out the window, and I took a long time playing my guitar, and I took a long time getting my plan together.
I'm not sure if I want to tell you the plan yet. I might keep what the plan was a secret.
I took a long time, is my point. And finally it was 12:30pm and I knew that if I wanted to make My Big New Year's Walk happen, I needed to get going. The plan this year was to get to Golden Gardens, which-- I would discover-- is about 11 miles away from Grandpa's house. I had already decided that the walk would probably not be as incredible as last year, because last year's walk was just like a zip-line into the land of rainbows and fairy dust and sparkle lollipops and baby sea otters that wink. I couldn't expect that to just replicate itself. So I made the plan more about what I would DO at the final destination.
That part of the plan is what I haven't told you yet. I still don't know if I want to tell you.
I got my backpack together, and bundled up, and left.
I saw people and waited for last year's twinkling to happen. "Happy New Year!" I called. But they did not become my instantaneous friends. They gave me a bemused smile, or a nod of acknowledgment, or a short, "Hello." "What...??" I wondered. "Why are these not fabulous New Year's interactions...?"
I did not see silly men pulling rick-shaws on bicycles, or the ladies in their matching track suits. I ran into no friends at Starbucks, and I gave up taking pictures just out of my neighborhood. The day was just DRAB. I knew it wouldn't be last year, but it was just ESPECIALLY drab. Annie called at one point to ask how it was going and all I could get out was, "Well... It's just not very magical!" And then I cried.
(I know. Silly.)
But I kept walking. And walking. And my legs started getting sore, because I really don't make a habit of being physically active, but I knew the dark day would get ACTUALLY dark at an earlier time than usual, so I picked up the pace and hurried up hills and down hills and up hills and down hills. And finally, I reached Golden Gardens.
Golden Gardens, for those of you unfamiliar with Seattle, is not really a gardeny place at all. It is a beach. It looks like this:
Kind of like a normal beach.
And I made my way out onto rocks that led to where the water was deeper, and I took a glass mason jar out of my back-pack. And I took one more look at the duct taping job to ensure the jar would be water-tight, and I took one more peek through the glass at the letter inside. I thought about what I'd written.
And then I chucked the jar out into the Pacific.
That is the part of the plan I've only decided to tell you about just now.
Environmentalists: forgive me. The romantic notion overrode more realistic musings until the jar was already bobbing away from me. I know that it may very well end up just down the beach. I know it might hit a rock and break and sink. But the throw and the arc and the release of all those soul scrawlings was such a breath-filled feeling. It was a physical representation of letting myself be unanchored. Off I go, and it felt like flying. I don't know where it will end up, nor do I: me. But after years and years of begging for answers, and grasping for control, and clutching at the future: it was such a good feeling to just LET IT GO.
When I was a girl, I loved to sink
Into deep water
With my eyes closed
Sink into deep water
With my eyes closed
And every muscle relaxed.
When I released and
Surrendered control
When everything just everything had all been let go
I felt safe
I felt peace.
I felt faith.
I felt freedom.
Dec 1, 2008
Caddywampus Clarity
I think I may have had a thought.
I had counseling tonight. Mondays are counseling. I told my counselor that my trip to California to see Beau went well. (My trip to California to see Beau went so well.) I told her that Thanksgiving was hard. (Thanksgiving was hard.) I told her about my reluctant approach to the holidays. (I am reluctantly approaching the holidays.) And then we talked about need.
And we agreed that it seems I really just don't, do NOT, just don't like the idea of needing people. I wrote a blog about this: if that blog was a flag, we waved the blog flag tonight, that PARTICULAR blog flag. In that blog, I wrote,
"Humans are flawed... Humans, even the best ones, let you down, they LEAVE you, they hurt you, and once you need them, you're doomed. No one, and I mean NO ONE that I had needed... had kept me safe. Only God then. Only ever safe to need Him.
And yet... I look at those words that I've written, and I feel shocked.
Really? IS that the truth? Is it completely wrong and foolish to let yourself need others?
I love people, I've always loved people. I collect warmth from kind interactions with strangers the way other people do in front of a wood-burning fire. Does refusing to need people shut me out from that example of God's love and care-taking?
Or... Is that wisdom?"
Does God call us to need each other? Or does He ask to be our only sustainment? Is it "idol-worship" (to get real "Christiany" on us all) if we feel a need for things other than God?"
As my counselor and I discussed this idea of need, those same questions came up. I drove home still clueless, still wondering, still unsure. Is it right to need others, or does that take us away from God? Is it necessary to need others, or is that an unnecessary risk? Is it foolish to need others, or does avoiding it set us up for permanent loneliness?
Then, under a stoplight, in the rain, to the soundtrack of my wiper blades, watching the world through my blurred non-glasses-wearing vision: the light turned green. And I had a thought.
This is what I wrote in my journal when I got home:
I suppose, the fact that God DOES provide this permanent safety net should give me all the freedom in the world to toss my heart around. After all-- it's not a matter of us holding on to HIM-- HE holds on to US. It's not a matter of us refusing to give our hearts away to anyone else with the attitude that if we DID, we would no longer be connected with God... We ARE His. We just ARE His. That doesn't change. There's nothing we can do to sever that belonging, or to break that hold, or to risk that love, that protection, that closeness, that safety. "Nothing can separate us from the love of God." So, if I let myself need someone: so what? If I do, that doesn't mean God goes AWAY, or that I've swapped Him out for something infinitely less sure. It means I've taken a risk-- I've stepped out in faith. And I think God likes it when we do that. And if the person I've let myself need lets me down-- so what? God is still there. Because HE DOESN'T GO AWAY.
Understanding that God is what makes me whole should, theoretically, give me every reason in the world to offer the pieces to someone else. Because it is Him that swims in the cracks. It is Him that can float the intermingling parts into new formations. It is Him that works in risks and leaps and movements-- not stagnation.
It is HIM that holds on to ME-- no matter how reckless my leaping might be.
I had counseling tonight. Mondays are counseling. I told my counselor that my trip to California to see Beau went well. (My trip to California to see Beau went so well.) I told her that Thanksgiving was hard. (Thanksgiving was hard.) I told her about my reluctant approach to the holidays. (I am reluctantly approaching the holidays.) And then we talked about need.
And we agreed that it seems I really just don't, do NOT, just don't like the idea of needing people. I wrote a blog about this: if that blog was a flag, we waved the blog flag tonight, that PARTICULAR blog flag. In that blog, I wrote,
"Humans are flawed... Humans, even the best ones, let you down, they LEAVE you, they hurt you, and once you need them, you're doomed. No one, and I mean NO ONE that I had needed... had kept me safe. Only God then. Only ever safe to need Him.
And yet... I look at those words that I've written, and I feel shocked.
Really? IS that the truth? Is it completely wrong and foolish to let yourself need others?
I love people, I've always loved people. I collect warmth from kind interactions with strangers the way other people do in front of a wood-burning fire. Does refusing to need people shut me out from that example of God's love and care-taking?
Or... Is that wisdom?"
Does God call us to need each other? Or does He ask to be our only sustainment? Is it "idol-worship" (to get real "Christiany" on us all) if we feel a need for things other than God?"
As my counselor and I discussed this idea of need, those same questions came up. I drove home still clueless, still wondering, still unsure. Is it right to need others, or does that take us away from God? Is it necessary to need others, or is that an unnecessary risk? Is it foolish to need others, or does avoiding it set us up for permanent loneliness?
Then, under a stoplight, in the rain, to the soundtrack of my wiper blades, watching the world through my blurred non-glasses-wearing vision: the light turned green. And I had a thought.
This is what I wrote in my journal when I got home:
I suppose, the fact that God DOES provide this permanent safety net should give me all the freedom in the world to toss my heart around. After all-- it's not a matter of us holding on to HIM-- HE holds on to US. It's not a matter of us refusing to give our hearts away to anyone else with the attitude that if we DID, we would no longer be connected with God... We ARE His. We just ARE His. That doesn't change. There's nothing we can do to sever that belonging, or to break that hold, or to risk that love, that protection, that closeness, that safety. "Nothing can separate us from the love of God." So, if I let myself need someone: so what? If I do, that doesn't mean God goes AWAY, or that I've swapped Him out for something infinitely less sure. It means I've taken a risk-- I've stepped out in faith. And I think God likes it when we do that. And if the person I've let myself need lets me down-- so what? God is still there. Because HE DOESN'T GO AWAY.
Understanding that God is what makes me whole should, theoretically, give me every reason in the world to offer the pieces to someone else. Because it is Him that swims in the cracks. It is Him that can float the intermingling parts into new formations. It is Him that works in risks and leaps and movements-- not stagnation.
It is HIM that holds on to ME-- no matter how reckless my leaping might be.
Nov 1, 2008
Ben Towne
This blog was written on Aug. 25th, 2007. This last week, Jeff and Carin found out that, after a hellish ordeal of chemotherapy, radiation, and excruciating pain that was endured in the hopes of ultimate healing, their son Ben has four new tumors: three on his brain and one on his liver. On their Caring Bridge blog, they wrote that they were in absolute despair. It makes me wonder what on earth God is doing-- something I've asked lately in reference to my own life. This blog asks that same question.
I found out this week that the two-year-old son of one of my pastors at church has neuroblastoma cancer. The Towne family took Ben to the hospital on Tuesday for tests when he was diagnosed with cancer, and apparently, the family hasn't left the hospital since then. The Sunday before the Townes were to receive this earth-shattering news, Jeff, Ben's dad, gave a sermon in front of our 4,000+ member church. I remember him saying that he wished sometimes that God would do something flashy to get our attention-- that He would perform some incredible work, or do something to scare us into understanding His power. He ended his sermon with saying that we needed to understand, simply, that Jesus is enough.
Two days later, the Townes moved to Children's Hospital, and are now keeping vigil over their two-year-old little boy, who does not yet have the vocabulary to articulate the pain he's in.
My friend Annie was expressing that she doesn't know how people without faith in God get through situations like this. But I have to wonder: is it harder to go through a situation like this without faith-- or with it? I'm trying to put myself in this heart-rending situation, imagining that I am an atheist, and that I don't believe in miracles or directed, predestined paths; that there is no one watching out for me, there is no one battling for my soul, there is no dark spiritual force wreaking havoc on my existence, there are no angels to save me from it. There is simply chance, science, and if you're superstitious, luck. If my little boy were to be diagnosed with cancer, I would have no higher power to turn to, no reassuring father to cry out to, no faith that there might be some greater plan at work, no hope in a miracle. That would be difficult, incredibly so. But there would also be no one to blame.
At the end of the rope, in the most desperate of circumstances, the atheist may at last cry out-- taking the chance that there might be a God who would reward his last ditch effort at hope-- his extended olive branch in the form of a prayer. At the end, the atheist might be able to pronounce a plea: "God, if you exist... help my son." But if the cancer wins, the atheist only received what he expected: nothing. Nothing miraculous. No reward for a faith in what was- must have been- nothing. He is angry at the air, angry at the world for turning, and forcing the sun to go up and down too many times. He is angry at the doctors for not doing enough, angry at the medicine that didn't work, angry at himself perhaps, for hoping that a figment might save his son. But his world remains only devoid of one important presence; the other presence at question was never there to begin with; of that he can now be sure.
Jeff Towne is a pastor, and his wife is involved in the church as well. They have inspired and taught and loved hundreds of middle and high-school students over the years. How does a situation like this rock the faith of a family that has been so devoted to God for so many years? I'm reading Job in my Bible right now-- he's the guy that every terrible thing in the world happened to-- and I haven't gotten very far yet, but at one point, Job asks his wife, "Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?" Is that the logic then, for the Towne family? Do they go along with the will of God and just accept it? Can they hope, expectantly? There are parts of the Bible that say things like, "If you have but faith as small as a mustard seed, you can throw mountains into the sea." Do they ramp up the faith even more then, and hope with all sureness that the stage-4 cancer their son is battling will relinquish its hold by the power of the Mightiest Force of All? Will their faith save him? If they pray enoughenoughenough to their father God, will He listen to their petitions and save their son?
I don't know. I've heard stories of things like that happening before. I've also heard stories where the person did die, even with great faithful prayers being made on their behalf. God knows I prayed for my grandma.
Then the terrifying logic comes into play, or at least it did with me. You start debating with God, arguing your case; petitions are given up in favor of cold reason. God MUST save this boy; it wouldn't make any sense to do otherwise. You convince yourself of all the good that could happen in God's overall plan were He to grant life. If Ben Towne were to be saved, think of how many people might come to faith through that miracle! Think of the testimony Jeff could tell to all those church members, think of the newspaper readers that would read about how the faithful family experienced a miracle with their son Ben-- how many of those readers would give a mental nod to God? Think, God, think! It makes SENSE for you to save him! Why would you take this boy from us, when you could do so much by SAVING him?
...But what if--after the petitions and the prayers and the debating-- He doesn't?
Is this where the absence of faith is an easier burden to bear? How do we reconcile with a God that allows cancer to take a two-year-old boy? We're back at the end of the rope, but there is no final hope in a prayer offered this time, because prayers have already been uttered countless times, by countless people. At the end, for a man of faith.... There is....
What?
Too many questions.
Where were you? Why? How COULD you?
Are you even there?
What happens to faith in that moment? And how do we manage faith in the mean time? Do the people praying for Ben Towne pray with expectancy, feeling assured that a miracle will occur? And if a miracle doesn't happen, does that mean God isn't there?
Do they pray for God's will, trusting in whatever that is? Even if that means trusting in what seems like senseless cruelty?
Or do they pray in the safe way, like Doubting Thomas-- hoping it works out, but with a degree of skepticism that if the chemo and treatment can't heal him... Well, then God probably won't either. ...What then? Do you just STOP trying to figure out what that says about God?
I am praying for Ben Towne. I don't know how much faith, or hope, or expectancy to invest my prayers with. It scares me. And if it scares me, how much more must it scare the Townes?
There is a famous hymn, written by a man that had lost his home and wealth in a fire, and subsequently lost his daughters in a shipwreck. He wrote the hymn as he sailed across the ocean, over the vast watery grave of his girls. The words of the Psalm go:
"When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.
"Though Satan may buffet, though trails may come,
Let this blest assurance control:
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul."
Those last two lines: Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and hath shed His own blood for my soul-- those words have enabled me to feel comforted by God when I wasn't sure I wanted to be on speaking terms with Him at all. When I mourned my Grandma, people said all kinds of things to me that were meant to be comforting. However, I'm not sure any of them provided the peace that those simple words did: that Jesus knew exactly what was happening, and He knew my pain. He sees it, and understands it, and came to earth to die so that I could be saved from it.
God knows what it is to lose a son. I suppose, if anyone could relate to Jeff and Carin's fear right now, it would be the Heavenly Father. And this is when I return to what Jeff spoke about on Sunday, and hold on to the knowledge that, even in these darkest of times, Jesus is enough. He has to be enough, because He has walked this gauntlet already, and we are already saved.
So I am glad after all, I suppose, to believe in God at a time like this.
Please join me in praying for baby Ben and the Towne family.
I found out this week that the two-year-old son of one of my pastors at church has neuroblastoma cancer. The Towne family took Ben to the hospital on Tuesday for tests when he was diagnosed with cancer, and apparently, the family hasn't left the hospital since then. The Sunday before the Townes were to receive this earth-shattering news, Jeff, Ben's dad, gave a sermon in front of our 4,000+ member church. I remember him saying that he wished sometimes that God would do something flashy to get our attention-- that He would perform some incredible work, or do something to scare us into understanding His power. He ended his sermon with saying that we needed to understand, simply, that Jesus is enough.
Two days later, the Townes moved to Children's Hospital, and are now keeping vigil over their two-year-old little boy, who does not yet have the vocabulary to articulate the pain he's in.
My friend Annie was expressing that she doesn't know how people without faith in God get through situations like this. But I have to wonder: is it harder to go through a situation like this without faith-- or with it? I'm trying to put myself in this heart-rending situation, imagining that I am an atheist, and that I don't believe in miracles or directed, predestined paths; that there is no one watching out for me, there is no one battling for my soul, there is no dark spiritual force wreaking havoc on my existence, there are no angels to save me from it. There is simply chance, science, and if you're superstitious, luck. If my little boy were to be diagnosed with cancer, I would have no higher power to turn to, no reassuring father to cry out to, no faith that there might be some greater plan at work, no hope in a miracle. That would be difficult, incredibly so. But there would also be no one to blame.
At the end of the rope, in the most desperate of circumstances, the atheist may at last cry out-- taking the chance that there might be a God who would reward his last ditch effort at hope-- his extended olive branch in the form of a prayer. At the end, the atheist might be able to pronounce a plea: "God, if you exist... help my son." But if the cancer wins, the atheist only received what he expected: nothing. Nothing miraculous. No reward for a faith in what was- must have been- nothing. He is angry at the air, angry at the world for turning, and forcing the sun to go up and down too many times. He is angry at the doctors for not doing enough, angry at the medicine that didn't work, angry at himself perhaps, for hoping that a figment might save his son. But his world remains only devoid of one important presence; the other presence at question was never there to begin with; of that he can now be sure.
Jeff Towne is a pastor, and his wife is involved in the church as well. They have inspired and taught and loved hundreds of middle and high-school students over the years. How does a situation like this rock the faith of a family that has been so devoted to God for so many years? I'm reading Job in my Bible right now-- he's the guy that every terrible thing in the world happened to-- and I haven't gotten very far yet, but at one point, Job asks his wife, "Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?" Is that the logic then, for the Towne family? Do they go along with the will of God and just accept it? Can they hope, expectantly? There are parts of the Bible that say things like, "If you have but faith as small as a mustard seed, you can throw mountains into the sea." Do they ramp up the faith even more then, and hope with all sureness that the stage-4 cancer their son is battling will relinquish its hold by the power of the Mightiest Force of All? Will their faith save him? If they pray enoughenoughenough to their father God, will He listen to their petitions and save their son?
I don't know. I've heard stories of things like that happening before. I've also heard stories where the person did die, even with great faithful prayers being made on their behalf. God knows I prayed for my grandma.
Then the terrifying logic comes into play, or at least it did with me. You start debating with God, arguing your case; petitions are given up in favor of cold reason. God MUST save this boy; it wouldn't make any sense to do otherwise. You convince yourself of all the good that could happen in God's overall plan were He to grant life. If Ben Towne were to be saved, think of how many people might come to faith through that miracle! Think of the testimony Jeff could tell to all those church members, think of the newspaper readers that would read about how the faithful family experienced a miracle with their son Ben-- how many of those readers would give a mental nod to God? Think, God, think! It makes SENSE for you to save him! Why would you take this boy from us, when you could do so much by SAVING him?
...But what if--after the petitions and the prayers and the debating-- He doesn't?
Is this where the absence of faith is an easier burden to bear? How do we reconcile with a God that allows cancer to take a two-year-old boy? We're back at the end of the rope, but there is no final hope in a prayer offered this time, because prayers have already been uttered countless times, by countless people. At the end, for a man of faith.... There is....
What?
Too many questions.
Where were you? Why? How COULD you?
Are you even there?
What happens to faith in that moment? And how do we manage faith in the mean time? Do the people praying for Ben Towne pray with expectancy, feeling assured that a miracle will occur? And if a miracle doesn't happen, does that mean God isn't there?
Do they pray for God's will, trusting in whatever that is? Even if that means trusting in what seems like senseless cruelty?
Or do they pray in the safe way, like Doubting Thomas-- hoping it works out, but with a degree of skepticism that if the chemo and treatment can't heal him... Well, then God probably won't either. ...What then? Do you just STOP trying to figure out what that says about God?
I am praying for Ben Towne. I don't know how much faith, or hope, or expectancy to invest my prayers with. It scares me. And if it scares me, how much more must it scare the Townes?
There is a famous hymn, written by a man that had lost his home and wealth in a fire, and subsequently lost his daughters in a shipwreck. He wrote the hymn as he sailed across the ocean, over the vast watery grave of his girls. The words of the Psalm go:
"When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.
"Though Satan may buffet, though trails may come,
Let this blest assurance control:
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul."
Those last two lines: Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and hath shed His own blood for my soul-- those words have enabled me to feel comforted by God when I wasn't sure I wanted to be on speaking terms with Him at all. When I mourned my Grandma, people said all kinds of things to me that were meant to be comforting. However, I'm not sure any of them provided the peace that those simple words did: that Jesus knew exactly what was happening, and He knew my pain. He sees it, and understands it, and came to earth to die so that I could be saved from it.
God knows what it is to lose a son. I suppose, if anyone could relate to Jeff and Carin's fear right now, it would be the Heavenly Father. And this is when I return to what Jeff spoke about on Sunday, and hold on to the knowledge that, even in these darkest of times, Jesus is enough. He has to be enough, because He has walked this gauntlet already, and we are already saved.
So I am glad after all, I suppose, to believe in God at a time like this.
Please join me in praying for baby Ben and the Towne family.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)