Today, I stayed a few extra minutes after class to help some girls, who were very worried about their upcoming book presentations, with their PowerPoints . . . But it was my last class of the week, and I was ready for the weekend!!
I made my way to Sprout’s to pick up some ingredients to make lunch. As I parked, I did a double-take at a boy standing outside the store. For a moment, he almost looked like he could have been my youngest brother. Around the same age and build, same coloring, and same East county clothes. But he wasn’t.
I parked my car and began walking quickly into the store, imagining all the things I would buy . . . fresh fruits and vegetables, some fish, and some pasta, bread, cheese, and meats, some yogurt, and almond milk, and eggs . . . I was starving!!
At the entrance, the very same boy, took a step as he spoke up: “Do you have any change so I can get something to eat?” . . . I’ve visited some fairly poor countries, where there was poverty that made me cry . . . and also some fakers that took advantage of American pity. I’ve heard my Russian students exclaim that Americans don’t know what homelessness is. I’ve heard the arguments of enabling bad behavior, and supporting junkies and laziness. . . So, in many cases, I walk right past those who ask for money . . .
But I looked in his eyes. They were my brother’s eyes. Bright, blue, piercing, and partially squinted, from over-exposure to sun . . . or, from my guess today, a sense of shame.
I had come bouncing up to the store’s entrance, still energized from my often-hilarious class, and also looking forward to a fun rest of my day. Wearing a black skirt and nylons, Macy’s shoes, and a bright turtleneck sweater, I felt professional and a part of the producing society. I wasn’t thinking of how to save money in the store, but rather of what might satisfy my appetite and of what I would cook!!
I looked at his tattered shorts and old jacket. I noticed scabs all over his body, and a slight shake when he moved. He wasn’t begging and he wasn’t pushing . . . I don’t think his eyes really wanted to meet mine. But they did. My heart overwhelmed. “Where do you want to eat?” I asked. He spoke up with a type of quickness and politeness that seemed to imply he was talking to someone above him: “Um, Mexican, or anything, would be fine.”
We walked to a nearby café and his story came out. His dad was in jail again, so he was on the streets. “But only for four more months,” he assured me. I could sense his pride in his father and a sense of anticipation when they would be reunited. He was living in a tent near a river I knew was known for drug activity.
“And, your mom?” I probed. “Oh, she’s in a mental institution on the East coast . . . I don’t talk with her.”
“I see,” I said, without expression. But my heart sank.
After he ordered his carne asada burrito, asking to substitute guacamole for salsa, we talked about churches he had visited. I wanted, that moment, to ask him to move into our house. I felt deeply for him.
My compassion and pity can be aroused, but I would say it’s my mom who has the gift of mercy. She ends up being the hands and feet of Christ to the most crazy (literally), needy people. She would have welcomed him with open arms, I’m sure.
But I didn’t. I didn’t even ask his name. Or tell him I would pray for him. I didn’t say a blessing, or that God loves him. I had nothing to give him. I had simply said: “I wish you the best,” when I left him to eat his burrito.
The best??
Could I imagine anything good happening to him? With his family background and addictions, was it likely that he’d ever go to school, or get a job, let alone be a creative, productive, inspiring contribution to society? Was it possible that the light of Christ could transform him and his mind, to a place where he could get out of what seemed a hopeless situation?
If I were honest, I didn’t have much hope for him at all. I couldn’t really imagine the breaking of deep generational bondages. Of compulsions. Of a stuck lifestyle, trying to survive the day.
I had a sense of pity, of compassion, for sure . . . but not a sense of hope.
I deeply want to be a better person.
Spiritually, I seek growing in knowledge and in love. Mentally, I actually intentionally surround myself with things that are beautiful and challenging. I read old books, and listen to classical music, practice instruments and languages, and go to places of beautiful nature or stunning art. I enjoy people that inspire and encourage me to see outside of myself, to think, and to grow.
If I’m honest, I often choose to be around someone whose conversation sparks, who has thought-out ideas and ingenuity, who is competent and involved in making the world a better place . . . rather than with someone who isn’t.
At times, I’ve even considered it mentally and spiritually healthy to be around people that actively pursue growth . . . thinking that those who don’t may somehow bring me down.
But, I don’t know if this is the mind of Christ, or the heart of God.
Certainly, growth and inspiration is good! And sanctification is God’s desire for my life!
But today my heart was broken.
What about the people who are too broken to better themselves? What about the people who don’t know to look for something better?
Perhaps it is none of my business. Perhaps, this is again where I must let go of a Messiah-complex—trying to fix the world . . . taking responsibility for what Jesus alone can do.
But a part of my conscience pricks. Maybe not all the time. But can I . . . sometimes . . . choose to go to that dirty house, of that woman on welfare with all the cats, whose mind is in a fantasy from watching too many TV dramas, whose heart is closed because of past sins she’ll never admit to . . . can I sit on her flee-infested couch, and hear her cranky voice talk about an estranged daughter . . . and can I have hope for her?
Not just pity, or compassion. But hope. Hope, that change is possible. That bondages can break.
Do I believe the Gospel that much?
I do!!
There have been some things in my background, and a specific low in my life, that put me in a place where I had nothing to offer anyone, a time where I was barely able to hope for anything.
But THIS is the Gospel. That there is hope, when there seems to be no hope.
Jesus, Himself, left the pure beauty and delight of relationship with God the Father to come sit among hopeless men.
But HE had hope. He, Himself IS the hope!
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,
Because He has anointed Me
To preach the gospel to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty those who are oppressed” (Luke 4: 18)
Jesus, give me the mind of Christ. Let me understand Your heart for the nations, for the weak, the blind, the brokenhearted, the obsessed, the addicted, the captives, the sinners, the ugly, the stuck.
May I never grow a cold heart.
May I always remember what You have done, and know the power of the Gospel and hope it for others!!! May I have the heart of Jesus Himself!
Friday, November 30, 2012
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Singleness: Passion and Purity
I began praying for my future husband at age thirteen. But romance had been in my blood much before that. I remember reading Disney’s “Cinderella” with a neighborhood boy at five years old (who was supervising us??). At the end of the story, he leaned over to give me a hug and say that that would be us some day. I smiled at the thought. Romance seemed very appealing to me at that age, and the appeal hasn’t changed since.
However, my understanding of love certainly has.
“Do not stir up nor awaken love until it pleases” Song of Solomon 3:5 told me. Okay, I consented, God I give You my love life, and will let You awaken it when You please. Surrender.
I could not have imagined the journey that commitment would take me on. I could not have pictured fifteen years of surrendered singleness. If He had told me, I don’t know that I could have accepted it. If He tells me now to wait another fifteen years, I don’t know if I can accept it. But all He says is “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding” (Prov. 3:5).
Okay, well at least I know where I can place my heart.
Certainly, there have been crushes, some dates, ask-outs and interest, even two pursuers of marriage . . . my love life hasn’t been completely nonexistent or uneventful. I’m still a woman. Attracting and attracted. I still have passions and desires.
Nonetheless, I am called to bring my passion under the reign of purity. Elizabeth Elliot describes this concept in her book “Passion and Purity,” a go-to of mine when the winds of romance blow across my cheek on a warm summer evening.
I admit to times of complaining in my journal, talking about loneliness or shame. I mean, my love life is THE FIRST, or most important, element in my life that friends and family, and friends of family, and families of friends ask about. (And people who aren’t even friends or family.) My school dean, whom I haven’t seen for almost a year saw me in the printing room last week. “So are you married yet?” he boomed loudly. I smiled and laughed. Sometimes, it’s the first question. Sometimes, it’s eased into, but I always know it’s coming. And why not?? It would be for me too! Romance is exciting!
And there have been times I’ve gotten really honest in my quiet times or with close friends. When I’m real with my desires, and these are good times. How do I need to grow? Where am I afraid of vulnerability or rejection? In what ways do I need to learn to appreciate, respect, and love men more? Who should I date? And how do I learn to trust while still guarding my heart? These questions and my contemplations and experiences run through my journals.
Sometimes I think that I try as hard as I can to pursue relationship; other times, I think that I am single simply because of my own fears, and running away.
But. Whether because of my own self and immaturity, or simply because God is asking me to wait, God has let the past fifteen years be a call to singleness. And in that, there is a sort of death. Addison Leitch says, “When the will of God crosses the will of man, somebody has to die.” And I learn to surrender, as I die to what I think my path should be.
Not long ago, I had a specific hope in my world of romance. I entertained this hope for six months to the day. I hadn’t acted on the hope, just simply hoped. But when I mentioned the six month mark to a friend, she looked me in the eyes and said, “Enough… you need to let it go.” In my dramatic personality (!), I wrote out the hope and my surrender of it to God, on several pieces of paper, and burned them with a candle. And from that day, I haven’t thought about it again. If He wants to bring it back, He will. As much as I liked the “pain” of holding on to that hope, it was certainly freeing to let it go!
Elizabeth Elliot says, “Life requires countless ‘little’ deaths—occasions when we are given the chance to say no to self and yes to God. . . . There is a big 'however'. It is this: We are not meant to die merely in order to be dead. God could not want that for the creatures to whom He has given the breath of life. We die in order to live.”
And in that, I agree. I am not living a single life as if it is a cross to bear. No, it can be a calling that is a joy. An invitation to LIFE, to living in the present, and not for the future.
Surely, I have a hope of romance and marriage. But, that, I put up on a shelf. It is there. I know it is there. But it is in His hands. And my life is here and now. So, I will live each day with that joy and exuberance and energy.
“Suppose He should ask me to wait five years? It stuns me to think of it. Yet—could I imagine that the mercy of God which has stretched to me from everlasting to everlasting could be exhausted in five years?” (Elizabeth Elliot).
He has called me to singleness the past 15 years. It has been no mistake. And if He calls me yet another 15, by His strength and patience, let it be. And let me see it, God, by Your goodness, not as martyrdom or altruistic patience in waiting, but rather as my call, my joy, my excitement even, to walk the road specifically designed for me. The one You’ve prepared for me. Laying my heart down, in trust. Knowing this, You are good.
However, my understanding of love certainly has.
“Do not stir up nor awaken love until it pleases” Song of Solomon 3:5 told me. Okay, I consented, God I give You my love life, and will let You awaken it when You please. Surrender.
I could not have imagined the journey that commitment would take me on. I could not have pictured fifteen years of surrendered singleness. If He had told me, I don’t know that I could have accepted it. If He tells me now to wait another fifteen years, I don’t know if I can accept it. But all He says is “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding” (Prov. 3:5).
Okay, well at least I know where I can place my heart.
Certainly, there have been crushes, some dates, ask-outs and interest, even two pursuers of marriage . . . my love life hasn’t been completely nonexistent or uneventful. I’m still a woman. Attracting and attracted. I still have passions and desires.
Nonetheless, I am called to bring my passion under the reign of purity. Elizabeth Elliot describes this concept in her book “Passion and Purity,” a go-to of mine when the winds of romance blow across my cheek on a warm summer evening.
I admit to times of complaining in my journal, talking about loneliness or shame. I mean, my love life is THE FIRST, or most important, element in my life that friends and family, and friends of family, and families of friends ask about. (And people who aren’t even friends or family.) My school dean, whom I haven’t seen for almost a year saw me in the printing room last week. “So are you married yet?” he boomed loudly. I smiled and laughed. Sometimes, it’s the first question. Sometimes, it’s eased into, but I always know it’s coming. And why not?? It would be for me too! Romance is exciting!
And there have been times I’ve gotten really honest in my quiet times or with close friends. When I’m real with my desires, and these are good times. How do I need to grow? Where am I afraid of vulnerability or rejection? In what ways do I need to learn to appreciate, respect, and love men more? Who should I date? And how do I learn to trust while still guarding my heart? These questions and my contemplations and experiences run through my journals.
Sometimes I think that I try as hard as I can to pursue relationship; other times, I think that I am single simply because of my own fears, and running away.
But. Whether because of my own self and immaturity, or simply because God is asking me to wait, God has let the past fifteen years be a call to singleness. And in that, there is a sort of death. Addison Leitch says, “When the will of God crosses the will of man, somebody has to die.” And I learn to surrender, as I die to what I think my path should be.
Not long ago, I had a specific hope in my world of romance. I entertained this hope for six months to the day. I hadn’t acted on the hope, just simply hoped. But when I mentioned the six month mark to a friend, she looked me in the eyes and said, “Enough… you need to let it go.” In my dramatic personality (!), I wrote out the hope and my surrender of it to God, on several pieces of paper, and burned them with a candle. And from that day, I haven’t thought about it again. If He wants to bring it back, He will. As much as I liked the “pain” of holding on to that hope, it was certainly freeing to let it go!
Elizabeth Elliot says, “Life requires countless ‘little’ deaths—occasions when we are given the chance to say no to self and yes to God. . . . There is a big 'however'. It is this: We are not meant to die merely in order to be dead. God could not want that for the creatures to whom He has given the breath of life. We die in order to live.”
And in that, I agree. I am not living a single life as if it is a cross to bear. No, it can be a calling that is a joy. An invitation to LIFE, to living in the present, and not for the future.
Surely, I have a hope of romance and marriage. But, that, I put up on a shelf. It is there. I know it is there. But it is in His hands. And my life is here and now. So, I will live each day with that joy and exuberance and energy.
“Suppose He should ask me to wait five years? It stuns me to think of it. Yet—could I imagine that the mercy of God which has stretched to me from everlasting to everlasting could be exhausted in five years?” (Elizabeth Elliot).
He has called me to singleness the past 15 years. It has been no mistake. And if He calls me yet another 15, by His strength and patience, let it be. And let me see it, God, by Your goodness, not as martyrdom or altruistic patience in waiting, but rather as my call, my joy, my excitement even, to walk the road specifically designed for me. The one You’ve prepared for me. Laying my heart down, in trust. Knowing this, You are good.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Getting Real
It was one of my most real moments with God, and one of my most daring, bold, I guess. Every emotion of anger and fear and desperation came to the surface. I asked the “if” questions. God, if You are my God, then You must come through for me. It was almost more of a demand than a beg. If I am Your child, then You have to come provide and protect and show me, I continued. Fear did grip me a little, at the thought of my audacity before the greatest King ever living, One ruling the earth and heavens at that moment, One who could smite my existence. But I pulled all my theology to my memory. He is my God. I belong to Him. Nothing can change that, and His promises are sure. Perhaps my audacity was even proof of how much I knew and trusted that He was my God, my provider, my Father. Who would dare to speak to such a God in such a way, but His own child?
I haven’t spoken to Him that way since. That would scare me! He is most holy. And He continually attracts my awe. But at that moment, I put my relationship on the line with Him. I almost felt like a child asking, “Are You my God or not?”
It came at one of the scariest times in my life. I had a form of anxiety grip me almost four weeks earlier. In the middle of class on a Monday evening, I stood at the whiteboard, interacting with students, and explaining a grammar concept. One of my students asked a question. I knew the answer, and even how to explain it, but for some reason, in that moment, my mind drifted. I wondered if I really knew the answer, if I was really qualified to teach. I think it’s typical for teachers to ask those questions, get those doubts, but this time, the question, or rather accusation, was stronger than I had ever felt. I got light headed, dizzy. The room began to spin. I felt myself shaking, and feeling sick to my stomach. Whatever words came out of my mouth didn’t even make sense to me, and I saw myself from a distance acting in automatic responses, rather than with intentional control.
It was unexpected and almost debilitating. And it didn’t end. Classes that were usually easy to teach became dreaded. And the feelings perpetuated, and began to affect more than just my teaching. I feared walking into my small group to lead it. I even feared relationships that were usually my source of comfort, filling, and fun. I wanted to start up a prayer group for the young adults at my church that week, but I put it on hold.
After one full week of this gripping anxiety, on a Friday afternoon, I walked outside of class on the college campus. I sat on a bench and tears flooded my eyes. I can not do this. Are You humbling me God? Do You want me to get a different job? I thought of how the college could find a replacement teacher, and began to visualize myself applying to Starbucks.
Over three years of teaching at the college level. Three years of really enjoying and thriving on it, and suddenly, it was over? I couldn’t understand it.
I saw my counselor. Asked friends for prayer. Began reading up on anxiety. I prayed against every spiritual warfare. I talked through my anxiety with others. Pretended it wasn’t there. I slept as much as I could. Ate the healthiest food I could. I relaxed and did breathing exercises. I started yoga.
Nothing helped.
Fear still gripped me. Constantly. I had moments of relief. But an overwhelming sense that something bad was coming loomed over my head. It stayed with me for another week, and then another. When it entered the fourth week, was when I had it out with God in the car that night. And I asked the question. Do You want me to keep walking through this God, or am I supposed to do something? Am I supposed to have victory over this, or is it a method for me to know I am completely dependent on You? Either way You will provide, I conceded, but please make it clear if I should do something.
Still today, I’m not really sure what the problem was, nor what the solution was. Maybe both were a combination of things. But it ended. Four weeks to the day, the next Monday evening, it was gone. I did begin taking a supplement for my low iron levels (said to be a cause of anxiety) just two days before. But whatever the problem, and whatever the solution, I was free. I could breathe. I could smile, even laugh, in class again. I could bring it to my small group girls, and pursue closeness in my relationships again.
I could be me!
The next day I did two things. First, I put the prayer group back on the calendar. And secondly, I bought a ton of smily face stickers and stuck them all around my room, in my car, on my books. They reminded me of the joy that comes after hard times, and of the joy I wanted to choose even when I didn’t feel it.
That . . . choosing joy even when it wasn’t felt . . . would come not long after.
I soon met disappointment. In the form of dissonance with a family member, unmet expectations during my spring break, deferred hope from a six-month wait, a large tax payment instead of return, and a type of loss in a close friendship. But each time the disappointment came, I grabbed it before it hit the ground as discouragement, laid it in my journal next to the smily face stickers, and looked squarely at the threat it posed.
Perhaps it could be strong enough to take my joy away. But not this time. No, this time I was going to fight for my joy. Bring it on!
I warned one of my friends on the phone that night: be careful, I’m a bad luck charm! I was partially joking, but it seemed that everything around me was falling apart, and that it even touched those I interacted with as well.
Even still, bring it on!
I chose joy.
And I continue to choose it today.
This past week, I actually found myself reacting with emotions that were unfamiliar and unexpected. I generally think of myself as a cool and collected, logical person. But the sanguine part of my personality recently brought out some hyper craziness, and my melancholy my moodiness!! Specific triggers evoked fear, and its wall to hide behind—anger. Hurt, and its wall —over-competency. And a sense of rejection, that I masked with a “I don’t care anyway” face.
At first, I despised the emotions. “Ahh,” I text my friend the next morning, “will you pray that I’m not so emotional!” Sounds tough, my friend validated, but it sounds like processing these things is so beneficial! Alright, I will choose joy in the fighting over the land of my mind!
I came home from my afternoon class yesterday, and cancelled class for the evening (the first of the three times I can for the semester—and of course, to a rejoicing chorus of students!), to process in my journal. And to visit an old small group of good friends!
As much as I wanted to control my emotions, and certainly am responsible for my actions because of them, I realized that they were signs of living . . . with some risk and courage! Rather than with the fear that accompanies a cold and contained environment, completely void of any chance that I would have an unexpected reaction.
And so, at my lack of control over my life, and even my own internal responses at times, I chose joy. At being real, and being okay with it, I choose joy now.
And at my messiness in processing these things . . . I choose to get real.
God, will You help me to evaluate my own heart and mind. Teach me, You always do, where I need to surrender even more to You. Carry me, when I just can’t. Let me not fear to be real, but have a peace as You bring these things out . . . and do Your work. Let me keep walking with You, and trusting You, when I cannot see where all this is going.
I haven’t spoken to Him that way since. That would scare me! He is most holy. And He continually attracts my awe. But at that moment, I put my relationship on the line with Him. I almost felt like a child asking, “Are You my God or not?”
It came at one of the scariest times in my life. I had a form of anxiety grip me almost four weeks earlier. In the middle of class on a Monday evening, I stood at the whiteboard, interacting with students, and explaining a grammar concept. One of my students asked a question. I knew the answer, and even how to explain it, but for some reason, in that moment, my mind drifted. I wondered if I really knew the answer, if I was really qualified to teach. I think it’s typical for teachers to ask those questions, get those doubts, but this time, the question, or rather accusation, was stronger than I had ever felt. I got light headed, dizzy. The room began to spin. I felt myself shaking, and feeling sick to my stomach. Whatever words came out of my mouth didn’t even make sense to me, and I saw myself from a distance acting in automatic responses, rather than with intentional control.
It was unexpected and almost debilitating. And it didn’t end. Classes that were usually easy to teach became dreaded. And the feelings perpetuated, and began to affect more than just my teaching. I feared walking into my small group to lead it. I even feared relationships that were usually my source of comfort, filling, and fun. I wanted to start up a prayer group for the young adults at my church that week, but I put it on hold.
After one full week of this gripping anxiety, on a Friday afternoon, I walked outside of class on the college campus. I sat on a bench and tears flooded my eyes. I can not do this. Are You humbling me God? Do You want me to get a different job? I thought of how the college could find a replacement teacher, and began to visualize myself applying to Starbucks.
Over three years of teaching at the college level. Three years of really enjoying and thriving on it, and suddenly, it was over? I couldn’t understand it.
I saw my counselor. Asked friends for prayer. Began reading up on anxiety. I prayed against every spiritual warfare. I talked through my anxiety with others. Pretended it wasn’t there. I slept as much as I could. Ate the healthiest food I could. I relaxed and did breathing exercises. I started yoga.
Nothing helped.
Fear still gripped me. Constantly. I had moments of relief. But an overwhelming sense that something bad was coming loomed over my head. It stayed with me for another week, and then another. When it entered the fourth week, was when I had it out with God in the car that night. And I asked the question. Do You want me to keep walking through this God, or am I supposed to do something? Am I supposed to have victory over this, or is it a method for me to know I am completely dependent on You? Either way You will provide, I conceded, but please make it clear if I should do something.
Still today, I’m not really sure what the problem was, nor what the solution was. Maybe both were a combination of things. But it ended. Four weeks to the day, the next Monday evening, it was gone. I did begin taking a supplement for my low iron levels (said to be a cause of anxiety) just two days before. But whatever the problem, and whatever the solution, I was free. I could breathe. I could smile, even laugh, in class again. I could bring it to my small group girls, and pursue closeness in my relationships again.
I could be me!
The next day I did two things. First, I put the prayer group back on the calendar. And secondly, I bought a ton of smily face stickers and stuck them all around my room, in my car, on my books. They reminded me of the joy that comes after hard times, and of the joy I wanted to choose even when I didn’t feel it.
That . . . choosing joy even when it wasn’t felt . . . would come not long after.
I soon met disappointment. In the form of dissonance with a family member, unmet expectations during my spring break, deferred hope from a six-month wait, a large tax payment instead of return, and a type of loss in a close friendship. But each time the disappointment came, I grabbed it before it hit the ground as discouragement, laid it in my journal next to the smily face stickers, and looked squarely at the threat it posed.
Perhaps it could be strong enough to take my joy away. But not this time. No, this time I was going to fight for my joy. Bring it on!
I warned one of my friends on the phone that night: be careful, I’m a bad luck charm! I was partially joking, but it seemed that everything around me was falling apart, and that it even touched those I interacted with as well.
Even still, bring it on!
I chose joy.
And I continue to choose it today.
This past week, I actually found myself reacting with emotions that were unfamiliar and unexpected. I generally think of myself as a cool and collected, logical person. But the sanguine part of my personality recently brought out some hyper craziness, and my melancholy my moodiness!! Specific triggers evoked fear, and its wall to hide behind—anger. Hurt, and its wall —over-competency. And a sense of rejection, that I masked with a “I don’t care anyway” face.
At first, I despised the emotions. “Ahh,” I text my friend the next morning, “will you pray that I’m not so emotional!” Sounds tough, my friend validated, but it sounds like processing these things is so beneficial! Alright, I will choose joy in the fighting over the land of my mind!
I came home from my afternoon class yesterday, and cancelled class for the evening (the first of the three times I can for the semester—and of course, to a rejoicing chorus of students!), to process in my journal. And to visit an old small group of good friends!
As much as I wanted to control my emotions, and certainly am responsible for my actions because of them, I realized that they were signs of living . . . with some risk and courage! Rather than with the fear that accompanies a cold and contained environment, completely void of any chance that I would have an unexpected reaction.
And so, at my lack of control over my life, and even my own internal responses at times, I chose joy. At being real, and being okay with it, I choose joy now.
And at my messiness in processing these things . . . I choose to get real.
God, will You help me to evaluate my own heart and mind. Teach me, You always do, where I need to surrender even more to You. Carry me, when I just can’t. Let me not fear to be real, but have a peace as You bring these things out . . . and do Your work. Let me keep walking with You, and trusting You, when I cannot see where all this is going.
Not of me . . .
I was far up, at one of the pinnacles of San Diego, sitting near a lighthouse, overlooking a peninsula of land, navy ships, flora, and ocean as far as my eyes could see. It was mid-afternoon, but not a sunny day in San Diego. No, it was cloudy, windy, and the air chilled. I pulled the hood of my jacket a little tighter over my head. Partly because of the cold, partly signifying a person not yet ready to reveal or be revealed. I looked down at my ballpoint pen as I snapped the cap on. Click. That was it. I slowly pulled the ribbon over the last written page of my journal to bookmark it, taking one more glance, and closing the book carefully.
I put my hand over the cover, feeling the flower print engraved in the leather. Written. There, lay the secrets of a dream, partially traveled, and partially to come. There, written. Secrets of the heart, and mind, and soul. I lifted my head to look down over waves crashing along the rocky coast far down beneath me. Those dreams and secrets, seeming as wide as the ocean in front of me, and as far away, were somehow captured, at least a little bit, in the letters I wrote on those pages. There, in stories that would bring both pensive smiles and unstopped tears. There, in thoughts no one knew, nor could understand. There, where a heart felt its own sadness, and knew its own joy. There, where hope dared to rise, again, and again. And again.
I shut my eyes. The battlefield. I played it in my mind again. I think back to the beginning of the battle . . . and shake my head in mixed disbelief and confusion at its end. Like those who study their opponents in martial arts, I carefully reviewed the plays . . . in slow motion. Except, my battle was not confined to a ring. Nor was it as obvious.
Happy hobbit music hummed in my head as I saw myself joyfully enjoying the friends around me; enchanting, distant, melodic notes gained heartfelt volume as I watched myself gracefully rise to the calls of love and honor. But chords turned minor and eerie, and darkly crescendoed, as scenes played in my mind of enemies sneaking up near me, unnoticed. Of black, formless creatures reaching out to envelope me into a nothingness. Of feelings . . . a mixture of utter terror with paralyzed passivity . . . determination that fought against a desire to fall into the darkness. To give up. And of a mind grown weary with deferred hope, exhausted fighting, and feared defeat.
But at this moment, the very emotions I despised, fear and anger, channeled into energy and determination. Hurt, into compassion for another’s hurt. Shame, into hope of a day wrong would be made right. Light was born. And, I believed.
And, that moment, I vowed: when memories begin to become fuzzy and hope begs to let go, I will hope still. I will imagine the stillness of the quiet rivers, and green slopes, sitting with friends, and laughter. I will trust that the battle will soon be over. And though another will come, it always does, I will see peace in the land, and I will rest. And so, I will remember that time is a tool, rather than measurement, to the wielding of patience. And hope is a very hidden, yet powerful, strength.
And, so I fought on. With grace, with strength, with hope.
But at this part, my mind stopped in its memory of the battle. This part I payed close attention to, for I became confused.
The battle did not end. Nor, did I see my strength. Nor, did the object of my hope, green slopes and peace in the land, come. From the top of that pinnacle over San Diego, I opened my eyes and imagined the ocean to be the vast battlefield that I fought in at that time. I saw, with great anguish, and sadness, as I fell. Slowly. My hair unraveled and caught some of the tears on my face from my pain. My white and brown colored horse, of hoped-in glory, fell at my side. I saw her eyes begging forgiveness as she saw me lie beside her. Those around me continued in the heat of the battle, but the sounds slowly dimmed, as I realized reality. No strength in battle, no hope in glory. It was over. I was over. There was no hope.
Slowly, my eyes closed. Soft thoughts of all I held dear came to my memory. I did not entertain disbelief in the fall, but began to reconcile with the loss . . . and I gave up. I gave in.
A hand touched my shoulder. I saw him for a brief moment. But I don’t remember much. I couldn’t really remember what he looked like. But two things exuded from him: great strength . . . and great kindness.
I think I rode on his horse. I think he took me far from the battle. Even now, I’m not quite sure where the battle was, or how it fares. But I’ve recently woken up . . . back here. And I am rescued from the battle, though it may wage on.
And though my hope gave up, and I did not see the valor and courage that I desired to be, there was a peace that rested over me that I couldn’t explain.
But one thing I knew. I no longer cared about the battle. I did not care about the glory or the strength to be grown in my own soul. Of trying so hard on my own, and for my own. I cared only of one thing. I wanted to know him more.
And so, as I sit here on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, and as I close that book to the battle traveled, I do leave a bookmark . . . for the story will continue. I will know him. I will love him. And I will be ever in awe of his great strength . . . and indebted to his great kindness.
I put my hand over the cover, feeling the flower print engraved in the leather. Written. There, lay the secrets of a dream, partially traveled, and partially to come. There, written. Secrets of the heart, and mind, and soul. I lifted my head to look down over waves crashing along the rocky coast far down beneath me. Those dreams and secrets, seeming as wide as the ocean in front of me, and as far away, were somehow captured, at least a little bit, in the letters I wrote on those pages. There, in stories that would bring both pensive smiles and unstopped tears. There, in thoughts no one knew, nor could understand. There, where a heart felt its own sadness, and knew its own joy. There, where hope dared to rise, again, and again. And again.
I shut my eyes. The battlefield. I played it in my mind again. I think back to the beginning of the battle . . . and shake my head in mixed disbelief and confusion at its end. Like those who study their opponents in martial arts, I carefully reviewed the plays . . . in slow motion. Except, my battle was not confined to a ring. Nor was it as obvious.
Happy hobbit music hummed in my head as I saw myself joyfully enjoying the friends around me; enchanting, distant, melodic notes gained heartfelt volume as I watched myself gracefully rise to the calls of love and honor. But chords turned minor and eerie, and darkly crescendoed, as scenes played in my mind of enemies sneaking up near me, unnoticed. Of black, formless creatures reaching out to envelope me into a nothingness. Of feelings . . . a mixture of utter terror with paralyzed passivity . . . determination that fought against a desire to fall into the darkness. To give up. And of a mind grown weary with deferred hope, exhausted fighting, and feared defeat.
But at this moment, the very emotions I despised, fear and anger, channeled into energy and determination. Hurt, into compassion for another’s hurt. Shame, into hope of a day wrong would be made right. Light was born. And, I believed.
And, that moment, I vowed: when memories begin to become fuzzy and hope begs to let go, I will hope still. I will imagine the stillness of the quiet rivers, and green slopes, sitting with friends, and laughter. I will trust that the battle will soon be over. And though another will come, it always does, I will see peace in the land, and I will rest. And so, I will remember that time is a tool, rather than measurement, to the wielding of patience. And hope is a very hidden, yet powerful, strength.
And, so I fought on. With grace, with strength, with hope.
But at this part, my mind stopped in its memory of the battle. This part I payed close attention to, for I became confused.
The battle did not end. Nor, did I see my strength. Nor, did the object of my hope, green slopes and peace in the land, come. From the top of that pinnacle over San Diego, I opened my eyes and imagined the ocean to be the vast battlefield that I fought in at that time. I saw, with great anguish, and sadness, as I fell. Slowly. My hair unraveled and caught some of the tears on my face from my pain. My white and brown colored horse, of hoped-in glory, fell at my side. I saw her eyes begging forgiveness as she saw me lie beside her. Those around me continued in the heat of the battle, but the sounds slowly dimmed, as I realized reality. No strength in battle, no hope in glory. It was over. I was over. There was no hope.
Slowly, my eyes closed. Soft thoughts of all I held dear came to my memory. I did not entertain disbelief in the fall, but began to reconcile with the loss . . . and I gave up. I gave in.
A hand touched my shoulder. I saw him for a brief moment. But I don’t remember much. I couldn’t really remember what he looked like. But two things exuded from him: great strength . . . and great kindness.
I think I rode on his horse. I think he took me far from the battle. Even now, I’m not quite sure where the battle was, or how it fares. But I’ve recently woken up . . . back here. And I am rescued from the battle, though it may wage on.
And though my hope gave up, and I did not see the valor and courage that I desired to be, there was a peace that rested over me that I couldn’t explain.
But one thing I knew. I no longer cared about the battle. I did not care about the glory or the strength to be grown in my own soul. Of trying so hard on my own, and for my own. I cared only of one thing. I wanted to know him more.
And so, as I sit here on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, and as I close that book to the battle traveled, I do leave a bookmark . . . for the story will continue. I will know him. I will love him. And I will be ever in awe of his great strength . . . and indebted to his great kindness.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Hospitality
When I got home this afternoon, I maneuvered my way around SDG&E guys working their way up a ladder into our attic, younger siblings with their friends off early because of testing this week, and my mom encouraging our dog to go through his new “doggy door.” And I love it! I love the energy!
I remember loving having “company” over when I was younger. I would run to turn on music or ask what they wanted to drink. If I could have done a Beauty and the Beast "Be Our Guest, Be Our Guest" dance, I would have! And I still love it today!
One of my favorite comedies is My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I can probably quote most of the movie, and I identify with feeling that my family is just a little bit “crazy” compared to most others! One of my favorite lines is when the mother asks the new “boyfriend” in the house if he’s hungry, to which he responds, “no,” and she says, “Okay, then I’ll make you something.” Love it!!
One of my friends, that drops in without notice, often remembers that quote with me. I may have just gotten off work, and she just come back from a dinner, but I have to make her something to eat. I mean, I can’t let her come over and not eat something . . . even if she says she’s not hungry!! I really do love having people over, making some tea or coffee, and snacks, and sitting down to talk and eat. Really, that is one of my favorite things to do!
In my Hebrews class, we’ve reached chapter 13, and have parked on verse 2 this week: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.”
I think back to some fun parties I’ve hosted recently—Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s, a Worship Night. Loved being a part of so many friends getting together!
But I’ve wondered recently if there’s more to this verse than merely getting together with friends.
Easter Sunday, my same friend (who invites herself over!), mentioned that an unsaved guy friend had recently watched the Passion of the Christ and had questions. “Come on over!” I invited them that night for coffee, dessert, and a late night convo. I also invited another guy friend whom I knew would be great at sharing the Gospel with this particular guy. As I began making our drinks, cutting cake, turning on worship music, I became excited for friends to come over to talk.
In my excitement I wasn’t prepared for a conflict with a family member to come up, and my mood to go sour (spiritual warfare?). What in the world??? I have three friends coming over to do what I love to do most, eat and talk, and share the Gospel, and I was in a bad mood!
Thankfully, God doesn’t depend on me for sharing of the Gospel! He did what He had planned that night, and my unsaved friend heard a clear presentation. I did get to pray silently while it was happening. But I also got to pray through my “things” with God, as He asked me to repent and give over everything to Him. I guess me surrendering over control of my life was what was important to Him that night. And I am always impressed at God’s multitasking abilities. He’s working the Gospel into the guy next to me, while He’s telling me to sit still, let go of my desire to control, and let Him do the work. If I learned anything that night, it was that He is certainly in control, not any other person, and not me! And I did get to find joy in the fact that my home was opened up to the preaching of Jesus!!
Hospitality.
What is it? I don’t know if there is a clear definition. From the context, I am assuming that it may even be broad.
In Genesis 18, Abraham saw three men come to his house. He made them an elaborate meal, washed their feet, and let them rest under a big tree in his front yard. Abraham gave of himself, to take care of, and make his guests comfortable. Two turned out to be angels, and one is believed to be a Christophony, Jesus Himself!
Jesus says in Matthew 25, that in the future He will separate the goats from the sheep. The sheep will have given water and clothes and shelter to others, helping the sick and those in prison, in the name of Jesus, and in so doing, they did this to Jesus Himself!
Wow! Hospitality is actually giving to Jesus!!! What an awesome, but terrifying, thought!
The verse just after the hospitality verse in Hebrews says this: “Remember the prisoners, as though in prison with them, and those who are ill-treated, since you yourselves also are in the body” (Heb 13:3).
In this part of our study, we looked up verses on the body, and our care for and devotion to each other. And, again, I was convicted!! Do I really care for others as I do myself??
We also watched a video on a former prisoner in Ethiopia. He had shared his new found faith with much courage to those in his country, but at that time, Ethiopia was communist and forbade it. Yet, this man refused to denounce Jesus, and was sent to prison to be tortured. I almost felt sick hearing of what happened to him. Though it was hard to think of what happened to this man, Heb 13:3 tells me to remember them. This man is in the Body with me. I am to think of him, pray for him, because Christ cherishes His body, and wants me to too! And, I can also rejoice in the work he is doing in Ethiopia (which is now free to the Gospel, and one of the most open countries in Africa!), as if I’m a part of it, because we are of the same body!!
So, hospitality.
Serving others through dinner, or inviting them over to eat, sit and talk. Providing shelter or food for those who need it. Acts of kindness and giving, even outside of my home, in visiting homeless and shut-in’s, and prisoners, and serving those in the body of Christ. Perhaps these can fall under this category too!
But in my hospitality, especially from that Easter Sunday, I’ve learned that it’s not about me! A bit back, I was the “snacks” girl for my young adults community for over a year. I loved thinking of what snacks to bring, and setting them out. At first, I really enjoyed serving in that way. But I also started to identify with that niche. I found more joy in identifying with the position than I found joy in seeing others blessed. . . thankfully, it was time to move on and let others step up to that position. I’m learning that I cannot see serving as merely relying on the comfort of a position, title, or being noticed or needed. I certainly feel a sense of belonging knowing that I have a gift, just like everyone else in the body does, but I am reminded that my gifts are not just for identifying with the body, but for SERVING the body!!
So, Lord, please help me to have a bigger picture. To see the Body as You do. To love the Body as You do. And as I am a part of YOUR Body, Your bride, and You cherish us. . . so let me cherish You by cherishing others in hospitality, serving, and love!
I remember loving having “company” over when I was younger. I would run to turn on music or ask what they wanted to drink. If I could have done a Beauty and the Beast "Be Our Guest, Be Our Guest" dance, I would have! And I still love it today!
One of my favorite comedies is My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I can probably quote most of the movie, and I identify with feeling that my family is just a little bit “crazy” compared to most others! One of my favorite lines is when the mother asks the new “boyfriend” in the house if he’s hungry, to which he responds, “no,” and she says, “Okay, then I’ll make you something.” Love it!!
One of my friends, that drops in without notice, often remembers that quote with me. I may have just gotten off work, and she just come back from a dinner, but I have to make her something to eat. I mean, I can’t let her come over and not eat something . . . even if she says she’s not hungry!! I really do love having people over, making some tea or coffee, and snacks, and sitting down to talk and eat. Really, that is one of my favorite things to do!
In my Hebrews class, we’ve reached chapter 13, and have parked on verse 2 this week: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.”
I think back to some fun parties I’ve hosted recently—Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s, a Worship Night. Loved being a part of so many friends getting together!
But I’ve wondered recently if there’s more to this verse than merely getting together with friends.
Easter Sunday, my same friend (who invites herself over!), mentioned that an unsaved guy friend had recently watched the Passion of the Christ and had questions. “Come on over!” I invited them that night for coffee, dessert, and a late night convo. I also invited another guy friend whom I knew would be great at sharing the Gospel with this particular guy. As I began making our drinks, cutting cake, turning on worship music, I became excited for friends to come over to talk.
In my excitement I wasn’t prepared for a conflict with a family member to come up, and my mood to go sour (spiritual warfare?). What in the world??? I have three friends coming over to do what I love to do most, eat and talk, and share the Gospel, and I was in a bad mood!
Thankfully, God doesn’t depend on me for sharing of the Gospel! He did what He had planned that night, and my unsaved friend heard a clear presentation. I did get to pray silently while it was happening. But I also got to pray through my “things” with God, as He asked me to repent and give over everything to Him. I guess me surrendering over control of my life was what was important to Him that night. And I am always impressed at God’s multitasking abilities. He’s working the Gospel into the guy next to me, while He’s telling me to sit still, let go of my desire to control, and let Him do the work. If I learned anything that night, it was that He is certainly in control, not any other person, and not me! And I did get to find joy in the fact that my home was opened up to the preaching of Jesus!!
Hospitality.
What is it? I don’t know if there is a clear definition. From the context, I am assuming that it may even be broad.
In Genesis 18, Abraham saw three men come to his house. He made them an elaborate meal, washed their feet, and let them rest under a big tree in his front yard. Abraham gave of himself, to take care of, and make his guests comfortable. Two turned out to be angels, and one is believed to be a Christophony, Jesus Himself!
Jesus says in Matthew 25, that in the future He will separate the goats from the sheep. The sheep will have given water and clothes and shelter to others, helping the sick and those in prison, in the name of Jesus, and in so doing, they did this to Jesus Himself!
Wow! Hospitality is actually giving to Jesus!!! What an awesome, but terrifying, thought!
The verse just after the hospitality verse in Hebrews says this: “Remember the prisoners, as though in prison with them, and those who are ill-treated, since you yourselves also are in the body” (Heb 13:3).
In this part of our study, we looked up verses on the body, and our care for and devotion to each other. And, again, I was convicted!! Do I really care for others as I do myself??
We also watched a video on a former prisoner in Ethiopia. He had shared his new found faith with much courage to those in his country, but at that time, Ethiopia was communist and forbade it. Yet, this man refused to denounce Jesus, and was sent to prison to be tortured. I almost felt sick hearing of what happened to him. Though it was hard to think of what happened to this man, Heb 13:3 tells me to remember them. This man is in the Body with me. I am to think of him, pray for him, because Christ cherishes His body, and wants me to too! And, I can also rejoice in the work he is doing in Ethiopia (which is now free to the Gospel, and one of the most open countries in Africa!), as if I’m a part of it, because we are of the same body!!
So, hospitality.
Serving others through dinner, or inviting them over to eat, sit and talk. Providing shelter or food for those who need it. Acts of kindness and giving, even outside of my home, in visiting homeless and shut-in’s, and prisoners, and serving those in the body of Christ. Perhaps these can fall under this category too!
But in my hospitality, especially from that Easter Sunday, I’ve learned that it’s not about me! A bit back, I was the “snacks” girl for my young adults community for over a year. I loved thinking of what snacks to bring, and setting them out. At first, I really enjoyed serving in that way. But I also started to identify with that niche. I found more joy in identifying with the position than I found joy in seeing others blessed. . . thankfully, it was time to move on and let others step up to that position. I’m learning that I cannot see serving as merely relying on the comfort of a position, title, or being noticed or needed. I certainly feel a sense of belonging knowing that I have a gift, just like everyone else in the body does, but I am reminded that my gifts are not just for identifying with the body, but for SERVING the body!!
So, Lord, please help me to have a bigger picture. To see the Body as You do. To love the Body as You do. And as I am a part of YOUR Body, Your bride, and You cherish us. . . so let me cherish You by cherishing others in hospitality, serving, and love!
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
How I Learn
I learned a concept in graduate school that intrigued me immensely. It was simple, and yet profound. It was on the concept of how we learn. The formula went like this: if the letter “i” stands for the Information we know or level we are at, and “1” is just one step beyond what we know, we learn best, or the most, at i + 1. I don’t learn at my greatest potential at i + 10, ten levels higher than where I am at, or even i + 2, two levels higher than where I am at. I learn best, absorb the most, make the most connections in my mind, at simply i + 1.
I loved this concept, and so decided to center my graduate thesis on it! One question I had, in my Action Research I did while teaching overseas, was: Well, what is “i” for my students?? How can I know my students the best, where they are in their level of knowledge, where they are culturally, where they are in their learning styles? How do I pursue knowing my students so well . . . so that I know how to best impact them? I learned so much while doing this research! And the concept has stuck with me to this day!
At the beginning of every semester I teach, I have students do a short writing, so that I can take their short essays home to examine. Hmmm . . . where are they at? What are their strengths and weaknesses in grammar, in structure, in formality, in organization . . . all the things I want to teach them. Also, I begin to get to know them for WHO they are. This is sooo important to me. Where do they come from, what’s their first language, what do they think about learning English, and what are their learning styles? What’s their family background, what’s going on in their lives right now? Once a week, I take 10 minutes of class to have students journal about themselves in a small notebook . . . my questions range from “What were your expectations when you first came to America?” to “What two things do you value most in life?” I often have them share briefly in class, but I also love reading their answers. Seeing their writing, but also seeing how they think, is where I get to know them. And getting to know them is where I become a better teacher.
I’ve applied this idea of going one step beyond my current level to other areas in my life. At the gym, I am careful to do a number of reps, or a weight level, or a stretching level, or a cardio length or intensity, at just one level beyond what I am comfortable at. I don’t go all crazy and go way beyond my capability! But my levels do steadily increase as I get better!
I’m learning this even in a financial class I am taking right now! I’ve learned that healthy money management occurs when we begin to integrate “principles”—saving just a little bit more than I’m already saving each month, spending just a little less than I’m spending—I begin to learn a trend, a principle, a habit, of going just a little bit beyond where I’m at, rather than focus on a certain dollar amount.
But the greatest area that I’ve tried to apply this concept is in my spiritual life. Hmmm . . . and to this moment, I’m not sure what or how to think about this. I feel immensely confused. It’s such a struggle for me, and I often want to be at i + 1,000! My main question is: Who pursues MY learning in my spiritual life, me, or God? Or both?
I think of verses like “Work out your own salvation” . . . and I wonder what part I play in my salvation. A pastor recently related to me that this means to perform good works out of, and because of, my salvation. Okay, that helps! I also think of Hebrews 12: 14—“Pursue peace, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord” . . . and I think: does that make ME responsible to become a better person?? But then I see verse 15 right after it—“looking carefully lest anyone fall short of the grace of God” . . . and with the whole book of Hebrews, that I’m studying right now, I see that my salvation is based on grace. God’s work.
And then, I came across Lev. 20:7-8 the other day: “Consecrate yourselves, therefore, and be holy, for I am the Lord your God. Keep my statutes and do them; I am the Lord who sanctifies you.” HUH???? It’s not the “be holy” part that confuses me, it’s the “I’m the Lord who sanctifies you” that does! Where do I rest? Where do I let Him lead? And where do I actively pursue my sanctification?? My getting better as a person?
Practically speaking, when I see that I lack patience, do I manipulate something in my life that will cause me to have to wait . . . or do I let Him do that in His time? I think I fear that if I try so hard to keep being a better person that I might idolize my sanctification, love my sanctification, MY goodness, rather than love God Himself.
And even this question makes me wonder at my pride. Do I think that I want my sanctification even more than God does?? Isn’t it He who put the desire in me to pursue Him, and also to pursue holiness, because I know that’s what pleases Him.
I think of friends or mentors that I respect. Though sometimes I battle against trying to gain their approval or acceptance, I also DO want to please them. I know what would impress them or make them say “well done” and I seek for those things because a “well done” from them would really mean something. But I wonder—does God want me to seek holiness, obedience, so I can hear Him say “well done”? I want it so bad from Him. Is that what He wants?
Hebrews 11 says several times that men and women gained approval from God by their faith— approval!! I want that! -- and all of their faith was acted on by what they DID, by their obedience, though they couldn’t see how their obedience would play out to gain anything. And yet Hebrews 11 says that their faith did gain something—it gained the promises.
Do I continue to try to seek approval from God, or do I joyfully accept the fact that I am already completely approved by God because of the work of His Son, the precious God-blood of Jesus? How do my works compare to His??? Why would I even try?
And yet . . . I am called to obedience. There is no doubt in my mind that I am called to obedience. Perhaps it is both—I am completely accepted. The work is finished. The sin is covered. I am not atoning for sin, nor in fear that God will take away my salvation, His love, or His approval. But I also continue to seek His approval by LIVING in faith, because I know that’s what pleases Him.
Is it complicated or simple? My mind often wants to know—so, what’s the final answer? But perhaps I cannot know this completely right now. Perhaps I will simply trust His Word. It IS finished. And yet, walk in obedience. Perhaps I will go back to the i + 1 principle. This is where I am. This is what I know and believe. And as I study His Word, walk with Him, I can tuck one more principle into a belt of truth… waiting for more to come . . . one at a time. And just be satisfied with that.
And just as I’m applying certain learning principles to my students that they are unaware of, perhaps He, my great Teacher, is applying even greater learning principles to my life . . . and I am unaware.
Jesus, let me keep my eyes on You. If You want me to think about this, help me. If I need to simplify and simply focus on You, trust You, let go of control, direct me. Be my Teacher! And help me to see that You already are.
I loved this concept, and so decided to center my graduate thesis on it! One question I had, in my Action Research I did while teaching overseas, was: Well, what is “i” for my students?? How can I know my students the best, where they are in their level of knowledge, where they are culturally, where they are in their learning styles? How do I pursue knowing my students so well . . . so that I know how to best impact them? I learned so much while doing this research! And the concept has stuck with me to this day!
At the beginning of every semester I teach, I have students do a short writing, so that I can take their short essays home to examine. Hmmm . . . where are they at? What are their strengths and weaknesses in grammar, in structure, in formality, in organization . . . all the things I want to teach them. Also, I begin to get to know them for WHO they are. This is sooo important to me. Where do they come from, what’s their first language, what do they think about learning English, and what are their learning styles? What’s their family background, what’s going on in their lives right now? Once a week, I take 10 minutes of class to have students journal about themselves in a small notebook . . . my questions range from “What were your expectations when you first came to America?” to “What two things do you value most in life?” I often have them share briefly in class, but I also love reading their answers. Seeing their writing, but also seeing how they think, is where I get to know them. And getting to know them is where I become a better teacher.
I’ve applied this idea of going one step beyond my current level to other areas in my life. At the gym, I am careful to do a number of reps, or a weight level, or a stretching level, or a cardio length or intensity, at just one level beyond what I am comfortable at. I don’t go all crazy and go way beyond my capability! But my levels do steadily increase as I get better!
I’m learning this even in a financial class I am taking right now! I’ve learned that healthy money management occurs when we begin to integrate “principles”—saving just a little bit more than I’m already saving each month, spending just a little less than I’m spending—I begin to learn a trend, a principle, a habit, of going just a little bit beyond where I’m at, rather than focus on a certain dollar amount.
But the greatest area that I’ve tried to apply this concept is in my spiritual life. Hmmm . . . and to this moment, I’m not sure what or how to think about this. I feel immensely confused. It’s such a struggle for me, and I often want to be at i + 1,000! My main question is: Who pursues MY learning in my spiritual life, me, or God? Or both?
I think of verses like “Work out your own salvation” . . . and I wonder what part I play in my salvation. A pastor recently related to me that this means to perform good works out of, and because of, my salvation. Okay, that helps! I also think of Hebrews 12: 14—“Pursue peace, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord” . . . and I think: does that make ME responsible to become a better person?? But then I see verse 15 right after it—“looking carefully lest anyone fall short of the grace of God” . . . and with the whole book of Hebrews, that I’m studying right now, I see that my salvation is based on grace. God’s work.
And then, I came across Lev. 20:7-8 the other day: “Consecrate yourselves, therefore, and be holy, for I am the Lord your God. Keep my statutes and do them; I am the Lord who sanctifies you.” HUH???? It’s not the “be holy” part that confuses me, it’s the “I’m the Lord who sanctifies you” that does! Where do I rest? Where do I let Him lead? And where do I actively pursue my sanctification?? My getting better as a person?
Practically speaking, when I see that I lack patience, do I manipulate something in my life that will cause me to have to wait . . . or do I let Him do that in His time? I think I fear that if I try so hard to keep being a better person that I might idolize my sanctification, love my sanctification, MY goodness, rather than love God Himself.
And even this question makes me wonder at my pride. Do I think that I want my sanctification even more than God does?? Isn’t it He who put the desire in me to pursue Him, and also to pursue holiness, because I know that’s what pleases Him.
I think of friends or mentors that I respect. Though sometimes I battle against trying to gain their approval or acceptance, I also DO want to please them. I know what would impress them or make them say “well done” and I seek for those things because a “well done” from them would really mean something. But I wonder—does God want me to seek holiness, obedience, so I can hear Him say “well done”? I want it so bad from Him. Is that what He wants?
Hebrews 11 says several times that men and women gained approval from God by their faith— approval!! I want that! -- and all of their faith was acted on by what they DID, by their obedience, though they couldn’t see how their obedience would play out to gain anything. And yet Hebrews 11 says that their faith did gain something—it gained the promises.
Do I continue to try to seek approval from God, or do I joyfully accept the fact that I am already completely approved by God because of the work of His Son, the precious God-blood of Jesus? How do my works compare to His??? Why would I even try?
And yet . . . I am called to obedience. There is no doubt in my mind that I am called to obedience. Perhaps it is both—I am completely accepted. The work is finished. The sin is covered. I am not atoning for sin, nor in fear that God will take away my salvation, His love, or His approval. But I also continue to seek His approval by LIVING in faith, because I know that’s what pleases Him.
Is it complicated or simple? My mind often wants to know—so, what’s the final answer? But perhaps I cannot know this completely right now. Perhaps I will simply trust His Word. It IS finished. And yet, walk in obedience. Perhaps I will go back to the i + 1 principle. This is where I am. This is what I know and believe. And as I study His Word, walk with Him, I can tuck one more principle into a belt of truth… waiting for more to come . . . one at a time. And just be satisfied with that.
And just as I’m applying certain learning principles to my students that they are unaware of, perhaps He, my great Teacher, is applying even greater learning principles to my life . . . and I am unaware.
Jesus, let me keep my eyes on You. If You want me to think about this, help me. If I need to simplify and simply focus on You, trust You, let go of control, direct me. Be my Teacher! And help me to see that You already are.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Dare I be bold ...
It's all Him. Really. If I should do this, He'll equip me... If I should move on, He'll provide too... I cannot do it on my own, no one else can do it for me... God, I come boldly to Your throne. It's gonna be You or nothing. It's on the line, and I know You let me put it there. I'm Your daughter. The daughter of a God in charge of all things. You've got the resources. You ask me to ask. You say to not shrink back, but come to You with confidence. If You're all I am in what I live for, then You're all I've got in Who I can ask. But I'm not scared to ask. I didn't deserve this place, this intimacy, with You, but You gave it to me. I have an inheritance. You said, God, You said. Teach me, humble me, if I'm wrong. I know You will. But for right now, I'm waiting. You said. And have a feeling You are delighting at my boldness with You. What father wouldn't want His daughter to ask for the very things He has promised? Thank You Jesus. Gifts, attention, provision, I don't deserve. And yet You give.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Battle
I recently watched the Lord of the Rings series. It was sooo good! So inspiring.
I drew comparisons to my own life. Every time someone stood up in courage, I thought of the events in my life that required courage. I watched those who stepped out in the face of utter terror. Whether the elves, or men, dwarfs, or hobits. Whether small or strong. Whether fighting in a literal battle field, or fighting the thoughts of the mind and heart, again and again, the screen splashed of those painfully stepping out to do what they knew was right, in the face of all odds against them.
In the third of the trilogy, Aragon must go into the haunted mountain to call the dead to help him. As horses and men shook in fear just outside the passageway to the mountain, Aragon states with slow force, “I do not fear death,” and marches through into the darkness. His faithful few follow. The King of the Dead with his legions surrounds Aragon, mocking in defiance: “I do not suffer the living to pass.” Though fear shows in his eyes, Aragon does not miss a beat, “you will suffer me.” He pulls out the sword he knows has strength . . . and the dead submit to this king of man.
Later, Aragon lines up his men outside of the evil Mordor. The all-seeing Eye has been focused on the hobbits sent within its gates to be rid of the evil ring of power. Aragon knew that a distraction, a diversion, would take the Eye’s attention off of the hobbits, so he lines his men up to fight against Mordor. The numbers are against him: one to hundreds. But at this moment Aragon does not see his life or the lives around him as the greatest value. He sees purpose. He sees good and evil. He foresees. He sees legacy. Generations to come. He sees that if most good men die in order to let a few good men rule, it is worth it. If he dies, in order that Frodo destroy the evil, he has fought a battle worth fighting. “Today we fight!” he declares to his troops. And at the face of death, he rushes ahead of all the rest . . . his sword drawn straight out toward the enemy.
His courage makes me ask what I am willing to suffer for, to sacrifice. And I think of the times that I have endured. The bravest moments that I have fought the voice of evil that plays in my head: “you are mine.” I have fought it, refused to identify with it. I have stood in the face of evil, and though shaking in my own weakness and fear, declared with authority that good will win, that a King does reign, and that evil will bow its knee. I look back to those moments with reverence. I think of the fellowship of the few that stood by me, not able to carry my load, but able to cry with me and then look me in the eyes and say that I will make it. I think of the King that fought ahead of me.
But then I also remember the times I have not been so brave. I have seen the battle and it overwhelmed me. I went part of the way, but not all. I listened to the truth of those close to me, but then I stopped. In the weakest moment . . . the moment of tears and exhaustion . . . the moment I’m so tired of fighting . . . the moment I start to wonder . . . the moment the other side begins to look more attractive than this battlefield . . . no. No, I shake my head. I am afraid. That is way too much. And I am way too little. No . . . I don’t need to fight for something greater than myself. The moments I’ve turned inward to fear or the ugliness of wanting power for myself. I think of the friends that stood by me, even while I gave in to self-pleasing desires . . .
At the same time Aragon is fighting for Frodo, the hobbit Frodo is taking the evil ring of power to the top of Mordor to throw it into the lava-flowing river below. To be rid of both its evil effects and power. He has traveled hundreds of miles. He has fought a multitude of evil forces. He has gone without sleep and food. He has been stabbed by sword, thrown about, strangled, poisoned and spun into a web by a giant spider. He has climbed mountains and hid from and outrun screeching Orks on giant flying birds. And here he is now. On the edge of the cliff. About to throw the evil ring of power into the lava . . . about to be finished with his mission. But he stops. He looks at the ring and turns inward. While others fight for this greater good just outside of Mordor, while his best friend Sam is fighting off the evil Gollum, Frodo has the opportunity to be rid of the evil ring forever . . . and yet, he decides at that moment that the ring is his. That his desire for power, that his love of self, that the voice calling out to him, are all greater than his courage to do what must be done. He gives in. He gives up. He does not fight the battle.
I look back at those moments with sadness. With shame. While so many are fighting the battle around me, I decide to turn inward. I take my eyes off of the King calling us to courage. The One with His outdrawn sword, and I look at the gold glittering in front of me. I listen to the voice that seems sometimes enchanting, yet other times terrifying. It is easier to give in. I lose my courage.
But . . . I am not alone.
I cannot count how many times each of the characters in The Lord of the Rings was rescued by another fighting alongside them. It was never any one person that was a picture of strength on their own, and none of them could ever do it alone. When one character was in the very hands of death, no hope around him, another somehow manages to be at the scene at that pivotal moment of rescue. When the hobbits return to the Shire they were from, no one knew of the heroes they were, of the kingdoms of men that bowed down to them. No one knew of the battles they had fought, the death they had encountered. And yet, they four, as they sat at a table surrounded by friends and family laughing and dancing around them, they four knew. They knew the fellowship of those who fought one alongside the other. They knew the greater purpose. They knew the battle. I think of friends of whom I have that deep fellowship with. Often, words cannot tell of closeness found in fighting the battle together.
But The Lord of the Rings can only be a shadow of reality . . . really, only a type, of sorts. One great message it misses. Yes, my king fights ahead of me. But my King also fights for me. And His victory is sure. I fight too. But oh, that great battle is not mine to win. How relieving it is to know that in those darkest moments, He is there fighting. Not merely alongside me, but for me.
But this time . . . this time . . . let me fight too! Let me take up that Sword. Let me be brave. Let me have courage!
But Lord God, in the darkest moment, be my King of the battle. Rescue me. Take me up on Your horse when death has me gripped in its hands. Be gentle with me in my weakness, but teach me courage.
I drew comparisons to my own life. Every time someone stood up in courage, I thought of the events in my life that required courage. I watched those who stepped out in the face of utter terror. Whether the elves, or men, dwarfs, or hobits. Whether small or strong. Whether fighting in a literal battle field, or fighting the thoughts of the mind and heart, again and again, the screen splashed of those painfully stepping out to do what they knew was right, in the face of all odds against them.
In the third of the trilogy, Aragon must go into the haunted mountain to call the dead to help him. As horses and men shook in fear just outside the passageway to the mountain, Aragon states with slow force, “I do not fear death,” and marches through into the darkness. His faithful few follow. The King of the Dead with his legions surrounds Aragon, mocking in defiance: “I do not suffer the living to pass.” Though fear shows in his eyes, Aragon does not miss a beat, “you will suffer me.” He pulls out the sword he knows has strength . . . and the dead submit to this king of man.
Later, Aragon lines up his men outside of the evil Mordor. The all-seeing Eye has been focused on the hobbits sent within its gates to be rid of the evil ring of power. Aragon knew that a distraction, a diversion, would take the Eye’s attention off of the hobbits, so he lines his men up to fight against Mordor. The numbers are against him: one to hundreds. But at this moment Aragon does not see his life or the lives around him as the greatest value. He sees purpose. He sees good and evil. He foresees. He sees legacy. Generations to come. He sees that if most good men die in order to let a few good men rule, it is worth it. If he dies, in order that Frodo destroy the evil, he has fought a battle worth fighting. “Today we fight!” he declares to his troops. And at the face of death, he rushes ahead of all the rest . . . his sword drawn straight out toward the enemy.
His courage makes me ask what I am willing to suffer for, to sacrifice. And I think of the times that I have endured. The bravest moments that I have fought the voice of evil that plays in my head: “you are mine.” I have fought it, refused to identify with it. I have stood in the face of evil, and though shaking in my own weakness and fear, declared with authority that good will win, that a King does reign, and that evil will bow its knee. I look back to those moments with reverence. I think of the fellowship of the few that stood by me, not able to carry my load, but able to cry with me and then look me in the eyes and say that I will make it. I think of the King that fought ahead of me.
But then I also remember the times I have not been so brave. I have seen the battle and it overwhelmed me. I went part of the way, but not all. I listened to the truth of those close to me, but then I stopped. In the weakest moment . . . the moment of tears and exhaustion . . . the moment I’m so tired of fighting . . . the moment I start to wonder . . . the moment the other side begins to look more attractive than this battlefield . . . no. No, I shake my head. I am afraid. That is way too much. And I am way too little. No . . . I don’t need to fight for something greater than myself. The moments I’ve turned inward to fear or the ugliness of wanting power for myself. I think of the friends that stood by me, even while I gave in to self-pleasing desires . . .
At the same time Aragon is fighting for Frodo, the hobbit Frodo is taking the evil ring of power to the top of Mordor to throw it into the lava-flowing river below. To be rid of both its evil effects and power. He has traveled hundreds of miles. He has fought a multitude of evil forces. He has gone without sleep and food. He has been stabbed by sword, thrown about, strangled, poisoned and spun into a web by a giant spider. He has climbed mountains and hid from and outrun screeching Orks on giant flying birds. And here he is now. On the edge of the cliff. About to throw the evil ring of power into the lava . . . about to be finished with his mission. But he stops. He looks at the ring and turns inward. While others fight for this greater good just outside of Mordor, while his best friend Sam is fighting off the evil Gollum, Frodo has the opportunity to be rid of the evil ring forever . . . and yet, he decides at that moment that the ring is his. That his desire for power, that his love of self, that the voice calling out to him, are all greater than his courage to do what must be done. He gives in. He gives up. He does not fight the battle.
I look back at those moments with sadness. With shame. While so many are fighting the battle around me, I decide to turn inward. I take my eyes off of the King calling us to courage. The One with His outdrawn sword, and I look at the gold glittering in front of me. I listen to the voice that seems sometimes enchanting, yet other times terrifying. It is easier to give in. I lose my courage.
But . . . I am not alone.
I cannot count how many times each of the characters in The Lord of the Rings was rescued by another fighting alongside them. It was never any one person that was a picture of strength on their own, and none of them could ever do it alone. When one character was in the very hands of death, no hope around him, another somehow manages to be at the scene at that pivotal moment of rescue. When the hobbits return to the Shire they were from, no one knew of the heroes they were, of the kingdoms of men that bowed down to them. No one knew of the battles they had fought, the death they had encountered. And yet, they four, as they sat at a table surrounded by friends and family laughing and dancing around them, they four knew. They knew the fellowship of those who fought one alongside the other. They knew the greater purpose. They knew the battle. I think of friends of whom I have that deep fellowship with. Often, words cannot tell of closeness found in fighting the battle together.
But The Lord of the Rings can only be a shadow of reality . . . really, only a type, of sorts. One great message it misses. Yes, my king fights ahead of me. But my King also fights for me. And His victory is sure. I fight too. But oh, that great battle is not mine to win. How relieving it is to know that in those darkest moments, He is there fighting. Not merely alongside me, but for me.
But this time . . . this time . . . let me fight too! Let me take up that Sword. Let me be brave. Let me have courage!
But Lord God, in the darkest moment, be my King of the battle. Rescue me. Take me up on Your horse when death has me gripped in its hands. Be gentle with me in my weakness, but teach me courage.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Not Always a Tragedy . . .It May Be Redeemed Yet
I heard a woman sing tonight. It was beautiful. But more than her singing style, I was drawn to her story. She gave her testimony of sweet redemption. Of being her pregnant mother’s “almost-choice” . . . she was born, though almost not. Her mother chose life, though I believe Another really chose it for her. And, though life itself was such a gift, He also chose a purpose for her . . . to proclaim the saving news of Jesus Christ through music.
Later on, the congregation and I stood with our Pastor as he led us in an acapella song – “Jesus, Jesus, there’s just something about that name.” I looked around me at the Christians, fellow-believers standing with me, beside me. I imagined some day, far, far in the future. Oh, that we will no longer imagine, but that we will be WITH Him. Together, standing in His presence, singing the greatness of our God. I felt that joy, that hope, that eager expectation around me!
But I also felt humanity. A type of groaning in me, in us, waiting, for a deeper redeeming of so many tragedies. Knowing my own life’s tragedies, being “let in” on the ones around me, sometimes my heart weighs heavy. I see us. Some with painted faces, just like my own. Some more willing to pull down the mask, and let others in. But all of us, needing grace. Needing hope. Needing to know there is redemption. There is a place where our story is read with great delight . . . a place that we hope for, sometimes with pain inside of us too deep to put into words.
But then I knew. Yes, He is not only looking from above, merely anticipating our coming to Him, but He is here! He is painting each story on a canvas as a precious, beautiful telling of His greatness, His love, His mercy, His redeeming power.
Oh, that I could be an artist to tell the story. But, then I realize . . . I am the art. Yes, I am the art! I am the moving, breathing art of God’s story.
Yes, those tears are certainly not the ending. Look, look, oh beautiful art to your Artist. How He smiles. How He delights in creating your story. Now, now, soul, relax. Let be. For it will be beautiful. It will. Tragedy does not have the last word . . . it may be redeemed yet.
Later on, the congregation and I stood with our Pastor as he led us in an acapella song – “Jesus, Jesus, there’s just something about that name.” I looked around me at the Christians, fellow-believers standing with me, beside me. I imagined some day, far, far in the future. Oh, that we will no longer imagine, but that we will be WITH Him. Together, standing in His presence, singing the greatness of our God. I felt that joy, that hope, that eager expectation around me!
But I also felt humanity. A type of groaning in me, in us, waiting, for a deeper redeeming of so many tragedies. Knowing my own life’s tragedies, being “let in” on the ones around me, sometimes my heart weighs heavy. I see us. Some with painted faces, just like my own. Some more willing to pull down the mask, and let others in. But all of us, needing grace. Needing hope. Needing to know there is redemption. There is a place where our story is read with great delight . . . a place that we hope for, sometimes with pain inside of us too deep to put into words.
But then I knew. Yes, He is not only looking from above, merely anticipating our coming to Him, but He is here! He is painting each story on a canvas as a precious, beautiful telling of His greatness, His love, His mercy, His redeeming power.
Oh, that I could be an artist to tell the story. But, then I realize . . . I am the art. Yes, I am the art! I am the moving, breathing art of God’s story.
Yes, those tears are certainly not the ending. Look, look, oh beautiful art to your Artist. How He smiles. How He delights in creating your story. Now, now, soul, relax. Let be. For it will be beautiful. It will. Tragedy does not have the last word . . . it may be redeemed yet.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Missions
I saw a young family on the stage of my church. We prayed for them and their work in Missions. People applauded. “Awe, so cute,” the women around me smiled as they looked at the two beautiful daughters on stage. A crowd of 2,000 clapped, smiled, thought of them. The Pastor explained their work. It was an honor to be up there, appreciated, for sure! Perhaps it showed their lives to be a little glamorous, a little adventurous . . . maybe it was even a little guilt-producing or inspiring as we thought about what WE were giving in our own lives. But it was nice. Yes, nice.
Well . . . I don’t really know what anyone was thinking, or if they would think about it much more than the two minutes the young family stood on the stage. But whatever my eyes showed, or however politely I clapped, I knew I felt more than just a little bit amused, or encouraged. It was too reverent of a moment to cry . . . tears could not express my emotion . . . I held my face still, foggy memories becoming clear. I wondered if anyone knew what I knew of this young family . . .
I met that couple my freshman year in college. The girl and I fast became friends. Our personalities were different . . . me thoughtful . . . her as bubbly of a girl you ever met. But we both loved the Lord, felt a call towards Missions, and loved being with people. Our last year in college, we had each been praying, unknown to each other, about taking a particular trip to Thailand, and then decided to share it with the other on the very same day, a day we met for accountability. The chances of us both praying about the same trip were . . . unlikely. It didn’t necessarily confirm that it was meant to be, but with my excitement and all of the logistics working out, I knew we were to go!
Another girl joined us, and our team of three went for a month in the summer. My friend’s boyfriend, travelling around the area at the time, came to welcome us when we first arrived in Thailand. He took us to restaurants and taught me my first Thai words. I practiced them as I volunteered at the school and as we made our way around the crowded city every afternoon and evening. Both of their hearts for Southeast Asia were contagious. I saw His love for the people in their lives, hearts, words, and even their eyes as they talked!
I cannot explain my feelings or thoughts towards Thailand . . . as much as I journal, I have never been able to really put them to words. Perhaps words can never express them. But there was a tug, almost an aching pull, in my heart, which, I didn’t know at the time, I would never be able to lose. My three friends left, as was planned, at the end of the month. But . . . I decided to stay, unplanned, for another month. Another year . . . another 3 years . . .
I came back for a couple months to be in their wedding. I cried when I watched her walk down. When I saw the hearts of two people I respected and loved so much come together, to make a commitment of forever to each other.
However, during my two months back home, I encountered reverse culture-shock, a feeling of being out of place back in the States. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but it felt lonely. They invited me over to their new home, cooked a Thai dinner for me, and we sat around a mat on their floor, Thai-style! We talked about our hearts again for the people, mixing in Thai with our English! They asked about my feelings with being back in America, and explained reverse-culture shock to me-- the concept of returning to a familiar place, but feeling so different. I felt for the first time of coming back to the States that I could be real with someone. I had so many things to say, to share with everyone, but many people did not know the questions to ask me. I started to close in, to feel so alone. With so much compassion, my friend’s husband explained that people only know what they’ve been experienced to, and it is not something they can be judged for. His compassion for people in general inspired me, and I too felt grace towards those who didn’t have the same burning desire for, or knowledge about, seeing the world evangelized . . . but I was so glad to talk with two people who did!
They raised their support, sure now that they were called to full-time work overseas, and moved to Southeast Asia my last year in Thailand.
They came to visit me in the small town I lived in. I heard again their heart for the people, the stories of what they were doing. While they were with me, we went into the city for my friend to get a sonogram of her first little baby on the way! I knew the city well, and led the way on our motorcycles down side streets. Road laws in Thailand are not always, or even often, followed, and as I had done for the past year, we went the wrong direction on a one-way only street. A motorcycle cop waved me down. I knew more Thai than those two, at the time, and explained our “mishap” . . . we rode away without a ticket . . . um, not my proudest moment . . . but I did enjoy the smiles of my friends behind me at my finesse in Thai ways.
I hated to see them leave, as I felt so lonely in that town by myself. But I knew we each had work we were called to. Hugs were brief . . . till next time . . . till we see each other next time . . . I kept telling myself. Goodbye was just too hard.
I finished my year . . . they’ve been there for four years . . . but have recently just come back for a sabbatical. I had dinner the other night at the home they are living in . . . met their second daughter for the first time. We started with superficialities, laughing, what’s new with me, what I’ve been up to, what their plans for the ministry are, cute things the kids do . . . I was almost afraid to let it go deep . . . but I did. “Are you lonely,” I asked her. She looked at me. Sometimes it’s hard to go deep . . .
We got to talk a little bit that night, but knew we still had much more to talk about. Knowing that they are here for this time, I feel so glad . . . and I wonder . . . what things might my heart be stirred to . . . again . . .
Well . . . I don’t really know what anyone was thinking, or if they would think about it much more than the two minutes the young family stood on the stage. But whatever my eyes showed, or however politely I clapped, I knew I felt more than just a little bit amused, or encouraged. It was too reverent of a moment to cry . . . tears could not express my emotion . . . I held my face still, foggy memories becoming clear. I wondered if anyone knew what I knew of this young family . . .
I met that couple my freshman year in college. The girl and I fast became friends. Our personalities were different . . . me thoughtful . . . her as bubbly of a girl you ever met. But we both loved the Lord, felt a call towards Missions, and loved being with people. Our last year in college, we had each been praying, unknown to each other, about taking a particular trip to Thailand, and then decided to share it with the other on the very same day, a day we met for accountability. The chances of us both praying about the same trip were . . . unlikely. It didn’t necessarily confirm that it was meant to be, but with my excitement and all of the logistics working out, I knew we were to go!
Another girl joined us, and our team of three went for a month in the summer. My friend’s boyfriend, travelling around the area at the time, came to welcome us when we first arrived in Thailand. He took us to restaurants and taught me my first Thai words. I practiced them as I volunteered at the school and as we made our way around the crowded city every afternoon and evening. Both of their hearts for Southeast Asia were contagious. I saw His love for the people in their lives, hearts, words, and even their eyes as they talked!
I cannot explain my feelings or thoughts towards Thailand . . . as much as I journal, I have never been able to really put them to words. Perhaps words can never express them. But there was a tug, almost an aching pull, in my heart, which, I didn’t know at the time, I would never be able to lose. My three friends left, as was planned, at the end of the month. But . . . I decided to stay, unplanned, for another month. Another year . . . another 3 years . . .
I came back for a couple months to be in their wedding. I cried when I watched her walk down. When I saw the hearts of two people I respected and loved so much come together, to make a commitment of forever to each other.
However, during my two months back home, I encountered reverse culture-shock, a feeling of being out of place back in the States. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but it felt lonely. They invited me over to their new home, cooked a Thai dinner for me, and we sat around a mat on their floor, Thai-style! We talked about our hearts again for the people, mixing in Thai with our English! They asked about my feelings with being back in America, and explained reverse-culture shock to me-- the concept of returning to a familiar place, but feeling so different. I felt for the first time of coming back to the States that I could be real with someone. I had so many things to say, to share with everyone, but many people did not know the questions to ask me. I started to close in, to feel so alone. With so much compassion, my friend’s husband explained that people only know what they’ve been experienced to, and it is not something they can be judged for. His compassion for people in general inspired me, and I too felt grace towards those who didn’t have the same burning desire for, or knowledge about, seeing the world evangelized . . . but I was so glad to talk with two people who did!
They raised their support, sure now that they were called to full-time work overseas, and moved to Southeast Asia my last year in Thailand.
They came to visit me in the small town I lived in. I heard again their heart for the people, the stories of what they were doing. While they were with me, we went into the city for my friend to get a sonogram of her first little baby on the way! I knew the city well, and led the way on our motorcycles down side streets. Road laws in Thailand are not always, or even often, followed, and as I had done for the past year, we went the wrong direction on a one-way only street. A motorcycle cop waved me down. I knew more Thai than those two, at the time, and explained our “mishap” . . . we rode away without a ticket . . . um, not my proudest moment . . . but I did enjoy the smiles of my friends behind me at my finesse in Thai ways.
I hated to see them leave, as I felt so lonely in that town by myself. But I knew we each had work we were called to. Hugs were brief . . . till next time . . . till we see each other next time . . . I kept telling myself. Goodbye was just too hard.
I finished my year . . . they’ve been there for four years . . . but have recently just come back for a sabbatical. I had dinner the other night at the home they are living in . . . met their second daughter for the first time. We started with superficialities, laughing, what’s new with me, what I’ve been up to, what their plans for the ministry are, cute things the kids do . . . I was almost afraid to let it go deep . . . but I did. “Are you lonely,” I asked her. She looked at me. Sometimes it’s hard to go deep . . .
We got to talk a little bit that night, but knew we still had much more to talk about. Knowing that they are here for this time, I feel so glad . . . and I wonder . . . what things might my heart be stirred to . . . again . . .
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Better Than Most
I recently watched the movie Warrior, about two estranged brothers who both entered professional mixed martial arts competitions. Each made their way through each of their components to the top of the competition. Each were talented, yet each were driven by something greater than themself.
They had grown up with an abusive, alcoholic father, and each had to reconcile their feelings towards that. The younger adopted bitterness and rage, hating the world and everyone in it. He abandoned the military in the heat of war, and lived in guilt of that too. Filled with bitterness and guilt, the younger took out his aggression in the ring against any opponent. More than strength itself, rage drove him. Nothing kept him from brutally beating up each man he encountered. His attitude seemed to say, "No one, and no thing, can ever break me" ... Though you almost sense a defiance, a desperation, that someone would.
The older didn't talk with his father, but still had forgiven him, and raised a family of his own. Financial hardship in paying his mortgage and daughter's medical bills made him desperate for money and he entered the fighting ring too. The need to care for his family drove him. Though far behind all of his competitors, he managed to find the strength to beat each one of them.
In the end, the two brothers faced each other in the ring. The older looked in compassion at his younger brother, the younger exuded a mix of cold contempt with hateful rage. The younger could care less what damage he did to the older, could care less about anything. The older could not bear to hurt his brother, but knew that only strength could break him.
As the two fought, the audience is drawn into every emotion felt by either brother. At the end of the last determining round, the older brother held the younger in an excruciating, painful lock. The younger brother's shoulder was broken, yet he would not give up. His emotional guilt pained him more than any physical hurt. Though the older brother was near tears to hurt his younger brother so much, he would not give up. "I love you," he yelled above the noise, as he held even harder. In the dramatic scene, the younger brother taps the ground three times to indicate defeat, surrender.
The better man won. The weaker, masquerading in a wall of bitterness, was broken. And yet, the younger looked in awe at his older brother. There was someone better than him. And his soul had secretly hoped there was. Amidst the sweat and blood, an unspoken love and admiration was felt. There was a better man.
Even from a female perspective, that movie moved me. So that I can be a good wife and mother someday, I love learning about how God created each men and women in their unique ways.
Sometimes I meet men that have so much confidence, and in the past, have interpreted that as condescending, rude, and even prideful. But lately, I've wondered at how I've been so wrong.
Maybe the man I've accused of thinking himself so much better than other men, IS better than many. Maybe I have masqueraded a self-degrading denial of being good at anything as humility and eagerness to grow... maybe because I am female, or had many interactions with proud Christians, or have experienced faulty teaching on humility. But I now find myself corrected. Perhaps this man's self-assessment is more accurate than mine, and it is really pride in me that condemns those who assess themselves positively. It is embarrassing to admit, but I think true.
Maybe I can conclude, with authority, that those who seek God with all their heart are better off than those who don't. That those who work hard are better, in some sense, than those who don't. That those who choose right, choose better, are better, than those who choose wrong. That the man who protects and loves is better than the man who cheats, uses, and abuses.
Have I perhaps been unknowingly influenced by a certain worldview into believing that we are all essentially the same, and all of our works mean nothing? I don't know.
Certainly, my works don't contribute to salvation, but can works mean something? Perhaps. Maybe more than perhaps. I stand corrected.
And it is kinda nice to be corrected. Though slightly humbling, I think my soul really wants to know I don't know it all. I, too, would like to know there is strength and wisdom beyond what I can grasp. I like knowing that I can be mistaken, broken. And ... I kinda like knowing that there is a person, a man, who is quite good. Not perfectly, not inherently, but certainly better than most.
They had grown up with an abusive, alcoholic father, and each had to reconcile their feelings towards that. The younger adopted bitterness and rage, hating the world and everyone in it. He abandoned the military in the heat of war, and lived in guilt of that too. Filled with bitterness and guilt, the younger took out his aggression in the ring against any opponent. More than strength itself, rage drove him. Nothing kept him from brutally beating up each man he encountered. His attitude seemed to say, "No one, and no thing, can ever break me" ... Though you almost sense a defiance, a desperation, that someone would.
The older didn't talk with his father, but still had forgiven him, and raised a family of his own. Financial hardship in paying his mortgage and daughter's medical bills made him desperate for money and he entered the fighting ring too. The need to care for his family drove him. Though far behind all of his competitors, he managed to find the strength to beat each one of them.
In the end, the two brothers faced each other in the ring. The older looked in compassion at his younger brother, the younger exuded a mix of cold contempt with hateful rage. The younger could care less what damage he did to the older, could care less about anything. The older could not bear to hurt his brother, but knew that only strength could break him.
As the two fought, the audience is drawn into every emotion felt by either brother. At the end of the last determining round, the older brother held the younger in an excruciating, painful lock. The younger brother's shoulder was broken, yet he would not give up. His emotional guilt pained him more than any physical hurt. Though the older brother was near tears to hurt his younger brother so much, he would not give up. "I love you," he yelled above the noise, as he held even harder. In the dramatic scene, the younger brother taps the ground three times to indicate defeat, surrender.
The better man won. The weaker, masquerading in a wall of bitterness, was broken. And yet, the younger looked in awe at his older brother. There was someone better than him. And his soul had secretly hoped there was. Amidst the sweat and blood, an unspoken love and admiration was felt. There was a better man.
Even from a female perspective, that movie moved me. So that I can be a good wife and mother someday, I love learning about how God created each men and women in their unique ways.
Sometimes I meet men that have so much confidence, and in the past, have interpreted that as condescending, rude, and even prideful. But lately, I've wondered at how I've been so wrong.
Maybe the man I've accused of thinking himself so much better than other men, IS better than many. Maybe I have masqueraded a self-degrading denial of being good at anything as humility and eagerness to grow... maybe because I am female, or had many interactions with proud Christians, or have experienced faulty teaching on humility. But I now find myself corrected. Perhaps this man's self-assessment is more accurate than mine, and it is really pride in me that condemns those who assess themselves positively. It is embarrassing to admit, but I think true.
Maybe I can conclude, with authority, that those who seek God with all their heart are better off than those who don't. That those who work hard are better, in some sense, than those who don't. That those who choose right, choose better, are better, than those who choose wrong. That the man who protects and loves is better than the man who cheats, uses, and abuses.
Have I perhaps been unknowingly influenced by a certain worldview into believing that we are all essentially the same, and all of our works mean nothing? I don't know.
Certainly, my works don't contribute to salvation, but can works mean something? Perhaps. Maybe more than perhaps. I stand corrected.
And it is kinda nice to be corrected. Though slightly humbling, I think my soul really wants to know I don't know it all. I, too, would like to know there is strength and wisdom beyond what I can grasp. I like knowing that I can be mistaken, broken. And ... I kinda like knowing that there is a person, a man, who is quite good. Not perfectly, not inherently, but certainly better than most.
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