Christmas only makes sense in the context of Advent.
That's what I've been thinking about for the last month. I think it's true. Christmas only makes sense within Advent.
I love the season of Advent. It is one of my favorite seasons of the church calendar. Advent is all about longing and waiting and hoping amid pain and struggle and unknowns and insecurity and uncomfortable situations. I look at Mary and I am amazed by her faith. I look at Simeon and Anna and I am amazed by their perseverance and persistence and patience. I look at Joseph and I am amazed by his loyalty. These are incredible stories. And I think it's because of stories like these that I am drawn to the season... I think it is through these stories that I can understand the celebration of Christmas.
I've never really been a big fan of Christmas..... I mean, parties are great, songs are fun, it's good to see family, but it just didn't feel right. Over the last few years, I think I figured it out: growing up, Christmas was always a big celebration--which is appropriate--but it seemed to be a sort of escape or vacation from "real life." Maybe that's not the best way to describe it, but I think it's close. The thing is, Christmas is a celebration--Christ was born, Jesus is Emmanuel--but Jesus was born into a very real world with very real struggles. Christmas is a celebration, but it is not the final celebration; it's a celebration, but I think it's also, maybe more so, a promise. Maybe that's why I like Advent so much... We're living in a bigger Advent; we're waiting for Jesus to come again. We're waiting and longing and hoping now, but we are also celebrating Christmas. We celebrate Christmas, but our pain and sorrow and struggles and hurts are still there, we're still longing. It's a paradox.
There has been one song on repeat on my iPod this month. I have listened to it hundreds of times because it's an Advent song. And now that we're in the 12 days of Christmas, I hear "Joy to the World" in church, in the car, in stores, at home. The other day I realized that I can sing "Joy to the World" because I can sing "Joy," the Advent song. Look at these lyrics, listen to the songs. The paradox of the first song, with its minor key and hopeful, yet painfully honest, lyrics allows me to sing the second song as a prayer for God to keep his promises. He brought joy to the world in a baby, but I will pray these promises back to him as I wait for their completion.
"Joy"
http://radicaloneofmany.wordpress.com/2012/06/04/an-intriguing-song-joy-page-cxvi/ (with the artist's story behind the song)
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart
down in my heart.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
And I'm so happy,
so happy,
so very happy.
I can't understand
and I can't pretend
that this will be alright in the end.
So I'll try my best
and lift up my chest
to sing about this
joy joy joy.
When peace like a river
attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot,
Thou hast taught me to say,
"It is well, it is well with my soul."
"Joy to the World"
Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing.
Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat the sounding joy.
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as the curse is found.
He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders, wonders of His love.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Thursday, December 20, 2012
theological reflections on being directed.
Someone told me: There are two kinds of people in the world--actors and directors. To which I retorted, more than either of those, I like to be directed.
I have been directed in a number of ways, but, right now, I'm mostly referring to being directed in an orchestra.
-A director pulls something out of you that even you don't believe is there. She calls something that is not, into being.
-She sees the whole picture. No one else can see or hear the whole orchestra, only her. This is why everyone must follow her lead.
-A director is one person among 50ish. She cannot force everyone to pay attention and do as she says. Those being directed need to pay attention. There is a lot going on and a lot one could do on their own, but amid all of that, you have to watch and listen for/to the director. You have to learn a special sort of focus that allows you to both read the music and watch the director, to listen to yourself and to the people around you and to the people across the room. This is a focus that allows you to witness more than what is focused on, but still be focused on one area. This is a focus that allows you to know the director well enough that even when you glance at your music, you can still follow someone you're not watching that moment.
-Having orchestra first thing every morning for four years in a row is a practice that shapes people. Every day for four years, I needed to practice the disciplines of listening, submission, obedience, community, etc. That sets the tone for the day; it does something to a person. I didn't realize it until it wasn't built in to my schedule anymore.
too wonderful.
i don't think the world is going to end tomorrow or at midnight or whatever. but as i lay in bed, i wonder, "what if?" i'm not scared of hell. i don't think i'm even scared of dying. i'm not scared of being with God forever. i'm not scared of the new heaven and the new earth. i am scared of the FOREVER part, though. and what about people who aren't saved? in theory, i understand that God is merciful in saving the elect, because everyone deserves to die, but it doesn't seem to fit with God's character. i just don't understand.
and maybe that's the point.... one of my high school Bible teachers would say: it's too wonderful for me to know.
and maybe that's the point.... one of my high school Bible teachers would say: it's too wonderful for me to know.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
you needed somebody, but you didn't need me.
“You needed somebody, but you didn’t need me.”
That’s what Sarah told me, and she’s right. I needed someone’s help, but it didn’t have
to be her help.
I’ve been thinking about that as I think about graduating
from Calvin. During my time at Calvin,
this community has helped me grow and thrive in so many ways. I needed a community of people to help me
learn this, but I could have found a community somewhere else.
The same is true for the churches I’ve gone to. It’s true for the jobs I’ve had. It’s true for the ensembles I have been a
part of. It’s true for the places I’ve
lived.
The thing is: Sarah was the person who helped me learn about
myself and how to live well. Calvin was
the community that helped me to grow.
Calvin was the community with so many people who taught me and showed me
how to live fully. COS was the church
that provided stability in my life when everything else was chaotic. EGM is the church that is stretching me to use
gifts that I never imagined I would. The
box office has been the best job in the world.
My time in the orchestra and in the gospel choir was important. The trip to China with the orchestra was one
of the first times I felt really grown up.
Living on 3vR taught me that grades aren’t really so important; it
brought specific people into my life.
Living in Eastown challenged my faith and stretched my views of
neighborhood and living in community and living sustainably, among other
things.
Hearing “You needed somebody, but you didn’t need me,” is
freeing because it means that I can still live, even when people leave,
surroundings change, seasons pass. At
the same time, it sends a little stab of pain to my heart; it makes me just a
little sad because I want these people to know how very important they are to
me and how much of a difference they have made in my life.
So, no, I didn’t need you, Sarah, but you were the person I
was given, and in that sense I did need you.
You helped me learn about myself and living well and living fully and so
many other things. What you did was
important. You are important. I am so grateful.
Thank you, Sarah. Thank
you, Calvin College, my pastors and professors and bosses and friends. Thank you, COS and EGM. Thank you, for being the person I needed.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
invisible strings
I'm at the beginning of a season of leaving... of others leaving me and of me leaving people and places.
I hate it.
As someone who doesn't particularly like change in the first place, coming to the end of my time at Calvin is daunting, intimidating, terrifying. And I know that this is how life works. I understand that. I know that seasons come to an end and that what has been was good and what is coming will be good, too. And when I tease out all of these worries and anxieties about the future, I become less scared, but I become more sad. I think my worry and my fear keep me from being sad, or at least hide the sorrow. I don't think that's how it should be. I can't stay in the sorrow, I can't wallow in the sadness, but I should and must acknowledge it. It is real. It is legitimate. It is good.
Last week, my counselor read me a story, The Invisible String, by Patrice Karst. It was about love connecting everyone together, no matter how far apart they may be. And when someone misses me, their "love travels all the way along the string until I feel it tug on my heart, and when I tug it back, they feel it in their hearts." At the end of the story, the children, "from deep inside, could now clearly see... no one is ever alone." And this struck me. I hadn't expected the book to end that way, but I think that deep down, it's how I wanted it to end. Because I understand that. I understand the idea of a tugging on my heart, sometimes almost physically. I understand the fear of being alone. I understand feeling alone. And this children's story is probably one of the most helpful things that Sarah and I could have done that day.
So as the good byes begin, I am sad and I am thankful for the time that we shared and the strings that will keep us connected, no matter how far we may be from each other.
I hate it.
As someone who doesn't particularly like change in the first place, coming to the end of my time at Calvin is daunting, intimidating, terrifying. And I know that this is how life works. I understand that. I know that seasons come to an end and that what has been was good and what is coming will be good, too. And when I tease out all of these worries and anxieties about the future, I become less scared, but I become more sad. I think my worry and my fear keep me from being sad, or at least hide the sorrow. I don't think that's how it should be. I can't stay in the sorrow, I can't wallow in the sadness, but I should and must acknowledge it. It is real. It is legitimate. It is good.
Last week, my counselor read me a story, The Invisible String, by Patrice Karst. It was about love connecting everyone together, no matter how far apart they may be. And when someone misses me, their "love travels all the way along the string until I feel it tug on my heart, and when I tug it back, they feel it in their hearts." At the end of the story, the children, "from deep inside, could now clearly see... no one is ever alone." And this struck me. I hadn't expected the book to end that way, but I think that deep down, it's how I wanted it to end. Because I understand that. I understand the idea of a tugging on my heart, sometimes almost physically. I understand the fear of being alone. I understand feeling alone. And this children's story is probably one of the most helpful things that Sarah and I could have done that day.
So as the good byes begin, I am sad and I am thankful for the time that we shared and the strings that will keep us connected, no matter how far we may be from each other.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Pain and Beauty: A Story of Tear Gas Bombs and Mountain Villages
In the afternoon, on August 16, 2010, our
plane successfully landed on one of the world’s most dangerous runways. Minutes later, I, along with 28 classmates,
found my luggage as I was swallowed up by the crowd, pushing me toward the
exit. A woman, who we learned was Jo
Ann, one of our professors, and her two kids showed us to an old school bus. We piled into the bus and rode through the
crowded streets of our new home: Tegucigalpa.
Our first homework assignment in
Honduras was to begin a dictionary of new words. The first entry in my dictionary was bombas lacrimógenas.
Located in the center of Central
America, between Guatemala and Nicaragua, Honduras is a beautiful country, only
slightly larger than the state of Tennessee, with a population of about 8
million people. However, Honduras is rather
unstable.
Honduras has the highest homicide rate
in the world: “86 per 100,000 members of the
population (compare that to 5 in the U.S. and less than 2 in Canada).” (Huyser
Honig) More than that, “only 1% of murders are ever solved.” (VerBeek) Furthermore, in June 2009, there was a coup
d’etat in Honduras.
With many things leading
up to it, on June 28, 2009, former Honduran President, Mel Zelaya, was arrested
in his home and forced at gunpoint to leave the country. He was exiled to Costa Rica. However, a coup d’etat affects not only the
government of a country, but the country as a whole. Curfews were set, protests were held, force
was used. And although the country was
regaining their stability a year later, people were still angry and force was
often still used.
And so, on my third day in
Honduras, I was tear-gassed. The day
began like the one before: my host mama made me coffee and breakfast and I met
up with the other four girls in my neighborhood and we walked the 45 minutes to
the university. After learning a little
about Honduras, its people, and its culture, we left to tour a local
hospital. As we left the university, we
noticed a large crowd of people with very large rocks and megaphones protesting
in the street. As our professor led the
way through the protest, we heard what we assumed were gunshots. Naturally, we froze and started to put our
hands in the air, but as we looked around, every other person was running. Confused, we tried to find the few people we
had already known in our group of 29.
Then the smoke reached us. And we
began to run. This was not ordinary
smoke. Those were not gun shots. They, we later learned, were bombas lacrimógenas, tear gas
bombs. We ran until we were out of the
gas, but only two thirds of our group was there. The gas caught up to us, so we began to run
again. We ran, faces burning, lungs on
fire, tears on our faces. We shared
inhalers to try to breathe again. We got
ahold of a classmate who wasn’t with us; the rest of the the group was together
and they were fine. A kind Honduran
woman heard us outside her home and brought us a bowl of water and a cloth to
wipe the gas residue off our faces. This
was when we learned that water helps on the skin, but burns the eyes. We thanked her and continued, this time,
walking. We made it to the
hospital—tired, overwhelmed, panicked, scared.
Well, I was tired, overwhelmed, panicked, and scared. I remember hearing someone else say that he
had always wondered what tear gas felt like. We never did take a tour of that hospital. We called our host families and my host
sisters came to the hospital to show us the way back to Jacaleapa, our
neighborhood.
We chatted for a while, my
host family and I. We ate dinner late,
as was customary. And we went to
bed. What had terrified me did not seem
extraordinary to my Honduran family. And
so my eyes were opened to the fear, the chaos, the brutality, and to the
kindness, the hospitality, the graciousness of Honduras. I began to see that the chaos and the beauty
went hand in hand.
A few days later, we
visited Nueva Suyapa, a small village in the mountains, just outside
Tegucigalpa. You can imagine it being
like a suburb of Tegucigalpa, because that is how close together they are, but
it is not a suburb. It is a village. People in Nueva Suyapa are generally
poor. Homes are not fancy, or even very
nice, for the most part. I stayed with
one family for a weekend. Their home had
one room, divided in half by a sheet.
Eleven people lived in this home.
The bathroom was an outhouse.
They had very little running water because water only flows to Nueva
Suyapa every two weeks. When it does,
they store it in large tubs, but if they can’t afford to buy a tub, they use
whatever they can to catch the water, typically two-liter bottles. The water that runs to homes in all of
Honduras is not safe to drink.
Jo Ann, the woman who met
us at the airport, lives in Nueva Suyapa with her family. She and her husband Kurt were two of our
professors. They are from the US, but
have lived in Honduras for over 20 years.
How could they live here for so long?
How could they live in a place with so much violence? How could they live in this place where
everywhere they looked, they saw poverty and injustice and hunger and
pain. Through their examples, Kurt and
Jo Ann helped me see the beauty amidst the brokenness, injustice, poverty, and
pain.
During my time in Nueva
Suyapa, I walked through the village with the family I was staying with. Dirt roads that were mostly pot holes,
barefoot kids playing soccer on one street, chickens wandering along on another
street, poverty. Nueva Suyapa is one of
the poorest and one of the most dangerous areas in Tegucigalpa and this village
often witnesses violence. But it was
here that I could finally breathe freely; it was in Nueva Suyapa that I knew: THIS is why I came to Honduras.
I’m not sure why I felt
that way. I’m not sure what the reason I
came to Honduras was. It was in Nueva
Suyapa that I saw some of the worst living conditions, I met a man who had
illegally come to the United States in order to keep his family alive, and it
was here that I felt most vulnerable.
But although the people I met lived in deep poverty, they were
unbelievably generous and hospitable.
Although people I met had next to nothing, they could live in joy. Although it was dangerous, I knew that any
number of people would protect me.
When I lived in
Tegucigalpa, I looked at the mountains, green and beautiful, and I thought of a
little village, full of poverty and injustice and violence, settled on one of
those mountains. And when I looked at
the mountains, I understood one of the deep mysteries of life. I understood that we look for beauty and we
try to get rid of the pain, but that’s not how it is. The mountains remind me that pain is a part
of life and it is only when we learn to see the beauty alongside the pain that
we fully live.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
no turning back now.
"It's too late to turn back now. You're in too deep. You've accomplished to much. You can't stop now. You're in this for the long haul."
That's what our professor told us today.
We Jubilee Fellows have done too much to give up now. We've been given too much to refuse the gifts and opportunities. We've experienced too much. We have gone too far to turn back; the only way is forward.
This is both intimidating and encouraging.
This is a little scary--I'm in this, I can't leave, I can't stop leading and working in and with the church. My gifts are known and now I am expected--and encouraged--to use them. It's not scary in that I won't like it or that it's not my "calling" or that it's not something I should do. It's intimidating because I ask myself: Who am I to lead? Who am I that people look up to me and respect me and ask my opinions and listen to me and ask me to listen? Who am I? I'm not that great. I'm just an ordinary college student. Right? Maybe. But Coop said it well: "It is extraordinary how extraordinary God makes ordinary people." hmm.
And these words are encouraging. They affirm something in me, something I have done, something I do. They say that I am important and my work is important--and it is worth it to continue. I need to continue because I have things to say, to contribute, to give. And they must be said, they must be contributed, they must be given. And, perhaps, only I can do so. And that feels a bit haughty and it could go to my head, but it won't. I'm kept in check.
Coop told our small group today: "When you were commissioned, the congregation laid hands on you. In doing so, we said: We believe in these people. We will follow them. We will stand behind them." Basically, they said: these are my people and I believe in them and believe that they are great and that they have something to say, and they won't always say it perfectly, but it will be okay. We are for them and we stand behind them. And when that many people stand behind me, follow me, believe in me, I have no choice but to continue. It is too late for me to turn back.
But that doesn't mean that we all need to become pastors. Not all of us need to go to seminary and be ordained. Our professor earnestly told us that he would be lying if he said that he didn't want all of us to significant leaders and/or pastors in our churches. We should be. We know more and have experienced more and done more than we think. We are capable of more than we think. But he pointed out that he did not just say that he wanted us to be pastors. And then he gave examples. He looked at me and said, "You came into this year sure that you were going to seminary and now you are sure that you're not. And that is okay. You will bring reconciliation in your work as a counselor/therapist and you're work will be important and you can/will still have an important role in the church. You can/will still be a leader in the church without being a pastor." This meant so much.
Then he continued, "After all, that's what your calling is: to bring about reconciliation. We Christians get it a little wrong when we say that we don't know what our calling is. We do. We are called to reconcile. We don't/may not know what form this calling will take. We Reformed folk like to say: We all have the same function, just different forms."
So there we have it. There's no turning back. I'm not turning back. I'm moving forward in bringing about reconciliation, in whatever form that may take.
That's what our professor told us today.
We Jubilee Fellows have done too much to give up now. We've been given too much to refuse the gifts and opportunities. We've experienced too much. We have gone too far to turn back; the only way is forward.
This is both intimidating and encouraging.
This is a little scary--I'm in this, I can't leave, I can't stop leading and working in and with the church. My gifts are known and now I am expected--and encouraged--to use them. It's not scary in that I won't like it or that it's not my "calling" or that it's not something I should do. It's intimidating because I ask myself: Who am I to lead? Who am I that people look up to me and respect me and ask my opinions and listen to me and ask me to listen? Who am I? I'm not that great. I'm just an ordinary college student. Right? Maybe. But Coop said it well: "It is extraordinary how extraordinary God makes ordinary people." hmm.
And these words are encouraging. They affirm something in me, something I have done, something I do. They say that I am important and my work is important--and it is worth it to continue. I need to continue because I have things to say, to contribute, to give. And they must be said, they must be contributed, they must be given. And, perhaps, only I can do so. And that feels a bit haughty and it could go to my head, but it won't. I'm kept in check.
Coop told our small group today: "When you were commissioned, the congregation laid hands on you. In doing so, we said: We believe in these people. We will follow them. We will stand behind them." Basically, they said: these are my people and I believe in them and believe that they are great and that they have something to say, and they won't always say it perfectly, but it will be okay. We are for them and we stand behind them. And when that many people stand behind me, follow me, believe in me, I have no choice but to continue. It is too late for me to turn back.
But that doesn't mean that we all need to become pastors. Not all of us need to go to seminary and be ordained. Our professor earnestly told us that he would be lying if he said that he didn't want all of us to significant leaders and/or pastors in our churches. We should be. We know more and have experienced more and done more than we think. We are capable of more than we think. But he pointed out that he did not just say that he wanted us to be pastors. And then he gave examples. He looked at me and said, "You came into this year sure that you were going to seminary and now you are sure that you're not. And that is okay. You will bring reconciliation in your work as a counselor/therapist and you're work will be important and you can/will still have an important role in the church. You can/will still be a leader in the church without being a pastor." This meant so much.
Then he continued, "After all, that's what your calling is: to bring about reconciliation. We Christians get it a little wrong when we say that we don't know what our calling is. We do. We are called to reconcile. We don't/may not know what form this calling will take. We Reformed folk like to say: We all have the same function, just different forms."
So there we have it. There's no turning back. I'm not turning back. I'm moving forward in bringing about reconciliation, in whatever form that may take.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
"the mourners are aching visionaries"
"What is suffering? When something prized or loved is ripped away or never granted--work, someone loved, recognition of one's dignity, life without physical pain--that is suffering. Or rather, that's when suffering happens. What it is, I do not know. For many days I had been reflecting on it. Then suddenly, as I watched the flicker of orange-pink evening lights on almost still water, the thought overwhelmed me: I understand nothing of it. Of pain, yes: cut fingers, broken bones. Of sorrow and suffering, nothing at all. Suffering is a mystery as deep as any in our existence. It is not of course a mystery whose reality some doubt. Suffering keeps its face hid from each while making itself known to all. We are one in suffering. Some are wealthy, some bright; some athletic, some admired. But we all suffer. For we all prize and love; and in this present existence of ours, prizing and loving yield suffering. Love in our world is suffering love. Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much. Suffering is for the loving....In commanding us to love, God invites us to suffer." --Nick Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son
This week I read Nick Wolterstorff's book, Lament for a Son. What a profound book, so honest and raw. So many sections spoke to me, and still are, so I'm not going to be able to process them all tonight.
Like many good books do, this one brought up more questions than it gave answers. Perhaps the questions are more important than the answers, or even more helpful.
"'Blessed are those who mourn.' What can it mean? One can understand why Jesus hails those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, why he hails the merciful, why he hails the pure in heart, why he hails the peacemakers, why he hails those who endure under persecution. These are qualities of character which belong to the life of the kingdom. But why does he hail the mourners of the world? Why cheer tears? It must be that mourning is also a quality of character that belongs to the life of his realm. Who then are the mourners? The mourners are those who have caught a glimpse of God’s new day, who ache with all their being for that day’s coming, and who break out into tears when confronted with its absence. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm of peace there is no one blind and who ache whenever they see someone unseeing. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one hungry and who ache whenever they see someone starving. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one falsely accused and who ache whenever they see someone imprisoned unjustly. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one who fails to see God and who ache whenever they see someone unbelieving. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one who suffers oppression and who ache whenever they see someone beat down. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one without dignity and who ache whenever they see someone treated with indignity. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm of peace there is neither death nor tears and who ache whenever they see someone crying tears over death. The mourners are aching visionaries. Such people Jesus blesses; he hails them, he praises them, he salutes them. And he gives them the promise that the new day for whose absence they ache will come. They will be comforted. The Stoics of antiquity said: Be calm. Disengage yourself. Neither laugh nor weep. Jesus says: Be open to the wounds of the world. Mourn humanity’s weeping, be wounded by humanity’s wounds, be in agony over humanity’s agony. But do so in the good cheer that a day of peace is coming." --Wolterstorff
Blessed are those who mourn.... I've always liked that beatitude, but I never realized how different is is from the others. I never realized that mourning is part of God's kingdom. When I think of mourning, I think of women covered in heavy, black dresses, wailing as they follow a casket to a cemetery. This view is a little bit different, a little less dramatic. This is mourning that I do. This is the mourning that I feel when I think about Honduras and my time there. If this is what mourning is, I am one who mourns. And yet, that is not all I do. My identity is deeper than that. I can find joy in those same places and situations. That lament does not exclude other feelings, even though it may feel like it does. I'm learning that I tend to try to get rid of negative emotions and feelings. I try to take away any reason for lament. I try to overcome instead of coping. Perhaps, that isn't as it should be.
"The mourners are aching visionaries." That resonates in my soul so deeply. That is who I want to be. Perhaps, that is who I am, to an extent. Mourners see how things should be while seeing what should not be. Mourners have hope for a future when everything screams that it has no hope.
"And I know now about helplessness—of what to do when there is nothing to do. I have learned coping. We live in a time and place where, over and over, when confronted with something unpleasant we pursue not coping but overcoming. Often we succeed. Most of humanity has not enjoyed and does not enjoy such luxury. Death shatters our illusion that we can make do without coping. When we have overcome absence with phone calls, winglessness with airplanes, summer heat with air-conditioning—when we have overcome all these and much more besides, then there will abide two things with which we must cope: the evil in our hearts and death. There are those who vainly think that some technology will even enable us to overcome the former. Everyone knows that there is no technology for overcoming death. Death is left for God’s overcoming." --Wolterstorff
I think that Wolterstorff is learning to believe that lament and joy can coexist. This is the definition of bittersweet. It is hard to live this way. I don't want to live like that, because it hurts. It is painful. It feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe it is better to feel a jumble of emotions rather than just one, because I am formed and refined this way. It's harder, but it's more worthwhile. When I take the long road to process something, rather than a quick fix, the wound heals better; it's more than just a band aid. And although I feel like something of a sad soul, this slow and painful processing leads to learning rather than guilt. And in this process, I'm not solely morose. I will still laugh. I will still be awed. Life will be bittersweet.
Finally, Nick says: "'By his wounds we are healed.' In the wounds of Christ is humanity's healing. Do our wounds also heal? This gaping wound in my chest--does it heal? What before I did not see, I now see; what before I did not feel, I now feel. But this raw bleeding cavity which needs no much healing, does it heal while waiting for healing? We are the body of Christ on earth. Does that mean that some of our wounds are his wounds, and that some of our wounds heal? Is our suffering ever redemptive? I suppose the blood of the martyrs sometimes was. It was an instrument of God's peace. But my suffering over my son, which I did not choose and would never choose: does that bring peace? How? To whom? Is there something more to say than that death is the mortal enemy of peace? Can suffering over death--not living at peace with death but suffering in the face of death--bring peace?"
Those are my questions. And I think--I hope--the answer is that our wounds do heal. I wouldn't be who I am without my sufferings. Would I be able to help people in the ways that I do without being shaped by those sufferings? I don't think so. And so when I ask why something happened or is happening, perhaps there will be an answer someday. Maybe there won't be a reason, but I can hope in the redemption of my suffering.
This week I read Nick Wolterstorff's book, Lament for a Son. What a profound book, so honest and raw. So many sections spoke to me, and still are, so I'm not going to be able to process them all tonight.
Like many good books do, this one brought up more questions than it gave answers. Perhaps the questions are more important than the answers, or even more helpful.
"'Blessed are those who mourn.' What can it mean? One can understand why Jesus hails those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, why he hails the merciful, why he hails the pure in heart, why he hails the peacemakers, why he hails those who endure under persecution. These are qualities of character which belong to the life of the kingdom. But why does he hail the mourners of the world? Why cheer tears? It must be that mourning is also a quality of character that belongs to the life of his realm. Who then are the mourners? The mourners are those who have caught a glimpse of God’s new day, who ache with all their being for that day’s coming, and who break out into tears when confronted with its absence. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm of peace there is no one blind and who ache whenever they see someone unseeing. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one hungry and who ache whenever they see someone starving. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one falsely accused and who ache whenever they see someone imprisoned unjustly. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one who fails to see God and who ache whenever they see someone unbelieving. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one who suffers oppression and who ache whenever they see someone beat down. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm there is no one without dignity and who ache whenever they see someone treated with indignity. They are the ones who realize that in God’s realm of peace there is neither death nor tears and who ache whenever they see someone crying tears over death. The mourners are aching visionaries. Such people Jesus blesses; he hails them, he praises them, he salutes them. And he gives them the promise that the new day for whose absence they ache will come. They will be comforted. The Stoics of antiquity said: Be calm. Disengage yourself. Neither laugh nor weep. Jesus says: Be open to the wounds of the world. Mourn humanity’s weeping, be wounded by humanity’s wounds, be in agony over humanity’s agony. But do so in the good cheer that a day of peace is coming." --Wolterstorff
Blessed are those who mourn.... I've always liked that beatitude, but I never realized how different is is from the others. I never realized that mourning is part of God's kingdom. When I think of mourning, I think of women covered in heavy, black dresses, wailing as they follow a casket to a cemetery. This view is a little bit different, a little less dramatic. This is mourning that I do. This is the mourning that I feel when I think about Honduras and my time there. If this is what mourning is, I am one who mourns. And yet, that is not all I do. My identity is deeper than that. I can find joy in those same places and situations. That lament does not exclude other feelings, even though it may feel like it does. I'm learning that I tend to try to get rid of negative emotions and feelings. I try to take away any reason for lament. I try to overcome instead of coping. Perhaps, that isn't as it should be.
"The mourners are aching visionaries." That resonates in my soul so deeply. That is who I want to be. Perhaps, that is who I am, to an extent. Mourners see how things should be while seeing what should not be. Mourners have hope for a future when everything screams that it has no hope.
"And I know now about helplessness—of what to do when there is nothing to do. I have learned coping. We live in a time and place where, over and over, when confronted with something unpleasant we pursue not coping but overcoming. Often we succeed. Most of humanity has not enjoyed and does not enjoy such luxury. Death shatters our illusion that we can make do without coping. When we have overcome absence with phone calls, winglessness with airplanes, summer heat with air-conditioning—when we have overcome all these and much more besides, then there will abide two things with which we must cope: the evil in our hearts and death. There are those who vainly think that some technology will even enable us to overcome the former. Everyone knows that there is no technology for overcoming death. Death is left for God’s overcoming." --Wolterstorff
I think that Wolterstorff is learning to believe that lament and joy can coexist. This is the definition of bittersweet. It is hard to live this way. I don't want to live like that, because it hurts. It is painful. It feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe it is better to feel a jumble of emotions rather than just one, because I am formed and refined this way. It's harder, but it's more worthwhile. When I take the long road to process something, rather than a quick fix, the wound heals better; it's more than just a band aid. And although I feel like something of a sad soul, this slow and painful processing leads to learning rather than guilt. And in this process, I'm not solely morose. I will still laugh. I will still be awed. Life will be bittersweet.
Finally, Nick says: "'By his wounds we are healed.' In the wounds of Christ is humanity's healing. Do our wounds also heal? This gaping wound in my chest--does it heal? What before I did not see, I now see; what before I did not feel, I now feel. But this raw bleeding cavity which needs no much healing, does it heal while waiting for healing? We are the body of Christ on earth. Does that mean that some of our wounds are his wounds, and that some of our wounds heal? Is our suffering ever redemptive? I suppose the blood of the martyrs sometimes was. It was an instrument of God's peace. But my suffering over my son, which I did not choose and would never choose: does that bring peace? How? To whom? Is there something more to say than that death is the mortal enemy of peace? Can suffering over death--not living at peace with death but suffering in the face of death--bring peace?"
Those are my questions. And I think--I hope--the answer is that our wounds do heal. I wouldn't be who I am without my sufferings. Would I be able to help people in the ways that I do without being shaped by those sufferings? I don't think so. And so when I ask why something happened or is happening, perhaps there will be an answer someday. Maybe there won't be a reason, but I can hope in the redemption of my suffering.
Friday, August 3, 2012
you.make.me.new..you.are.making.me.new.
"beautiful things"--gungor
All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
I have heard this song hundreds of times. I have always liked it, but it was never one of my favorite songs by Gungor. It seemed so cliche. It seemed like something I already knew.
This week at Arts Camp, I heard this song at least twice every day. At first I was just surprised that they were using a Gungor song as a "congregational" song. Then it got stuck in my head. Seriously. It has been repeating nonstop for the last 6 days. I can't stop humming or singing it, even when I'm at the store or teaching at camp or anywhere. It has become like a promise we find in the prophets... It's like a promise that we have been waiting to be kept for so long. More than being like one of those promises, it is a promise, put into the lyrics of a song, but God's promise, nonetheless. and this week, I have been clinging to this promise with all that I am. I need it to be kept. I need God to be faithful again. And he will be. I know that.
--you.make.me.new. you.are.making.me.new--
These two lines and the verses are what I have been clinging to most tightly. They have become my hope. At camp this week, I learned that in sign language, there is one sign for "hope" that really means "hope" as in "I hope I can have ice cream today or I hope I can go on vacation" and there is another sign that means "hope" as in hoping for something that we know will happen. It's the difference between the subjunctive tense (hoping for something that may not happen) and the indicative tense (hoping/waiting for something we know to be true or to be coming). It's this second hope that we use to talk about hoping for Jesus' second coming. It's with this second hope that I am waiting for God to keep this promise to make me new.
All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us
You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
I have heard this song hundreds of times. I have always liked it, but it was never one of my favorite songs by Gungor. It seemed so cliche. It seemed like something I already knew.
This week at Arts Camp, I heard this song at least twice every day. At first I was just surprised that they were using a Gungor song as a "congregational" song. Then it got stuck in my head. Seriously. It has been repeating nonstop for the last 6 days. I can't stop humming or singing it, even when I'm at the store or teaching at camp or anywhere. It has become like a promise we find in the prophets... It's like a promise that we have been waiting to be kept for so long. More than being like one of those promises, it is a promise, put into the lyrics of a song, but God's promise, nonetheless. and this week, I have been clinging to this promise with all that I am. I need it to be kept. I need God to be faithful again. And he will be. I know that.
--you.make.me.new. you.are.making.me.new--
These two lines and the verses are what I have been clinging to most tightly. They have become my hope. At camp this week, I learned that in sign language, there is one sign for "hope" that really means "hope" as in "I hope I can have ice cream today or I hope I can go on vacation" and there is another sign that means "hope" as in hoping for something that we know will happen. It's the difference between the subjunctive tense (hoping for something that may not happen) and the indicative tense (hoping/waiting for something we know to be true or to be coming). It's this second hope that we use to talk about hoping for Jesus' second coming. It's with this second hope that I am waiting for God to keep this promise to make me new.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
desiderata
- Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
- Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
Max Ehrmann, 1927.
de.sid.er.a.ta
plural noun
"things wanted or needed"
from stem of desiderare--"to long for; to desire"
plural noun
"things wanted or needed"
from stem of desiderare--"to long for; to desire"
Yes. This is true. This is good. [I'm not sure I agree with the last line--strive to be happy--because I think that other emotions are valuable, too, but nonetheless, this is beautiful.] These are things needed or desired. I need them. I want them in my life.
Side note: It is interesting that this was written 85 years ago. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who feels a certain way or the only one who fails in certain things or the only one who...fill in the blank. Tonight I am reminded that that is not true. And I am reminded that I am surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses from whom I can learn and by whom I am encouraged.
These words were healing for me tonight... and I think that they will continue to be as I ponder them in the days to come.
"But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.Beyond a wholesome discipline,be gentle with yourself."
Sunday, July 8, 2012
h.
My friend is moving to Ontario.
My friend and I rarely see each other, and actually don't even communicate via internet often.
We run into each other every once in awhile and sometimes I send her a message with some question about life or death or heaven or faith.
That's probably not going to change.
I'll probably still run into her, even if it's less frequent. And I'm sure I'll still have burning questions that I'll come to her with.
So, it's a little odd to me how sad I am about her move. But it's true. I am sad and I'm going to miss her. Not like the people of her church. Not like her neighbors or dear friends or family. My sadness is much less profound because I am not losing so much--our interactions will look almost identical to when she lived right here, except for our recent meetings at JP's... Nevertheless, this sadness is real. And I think it's a sign of a healthy relationship, that I will miss her.
But as I wander around the bittersweet feelings in my heart, I feel the pangs of sadness and goodbye and the heartache that comes with those, and I feel anticipation and excitement and hope for what lies ahead, but, most of all, I feel grateful.
H, I am so grateful for you. Thank you for your wisdom and encouragement, for answering--or trying to answer--all of my questions. Thank you for your hugs and your conversations and your prayers. Thank you for letting yourself be used by God in so many ways in my life. You have been instrumental in many ways. You have been a role model, perhaps without knowing so. And although I'm saying goodbye to the chances of running into you at our third place, I'm so grateful that I don't need to say goodbye to you.
I don't know why I feel such a need to write this to you, or why I'm not just sending it to you in a message, but this is for you. It's not much, but it is genuine, as are the prayers I am continually praying for you, your family, and all the goodbyes and hellos in the days ahead. Peace, my friend, and much love.
My friend and I rarely see each other, and actually don't even communicate via internet often.
We run into each other every once in awhile and sometimes I send her a message with some question about life or death or heaven or faith.
That's probably not going to change.
I'll probably still run into her, even if it's less frequent. And I'm sure I'll still have burning questions that I'll come to her with.
So, it's a little odd to me how sad I am about her move. But it's true. I am sad and I'm going to miss her. Not like the people of her church. Not like her neighbors or dear friends or family. My sadness is much less profound because I am not losing so much--our interactions will look almost identical to when she lived right here, except for our recent meetings at JP's... Nevertheless, this sadness is real. And I think it's a sign of a healthy relationship, that I will miss her.
But as I wander around the bittersweet feelings in my heart, I feel the pangs of sadness and goodbye and the heartache that comes with those, and I feel anticipation and excitement and hope for what lies ahead, but, most of all, I feel grateful.
H, I am so grateful for you. Thank you for your wisdom and encouragement, for answering--or trying to answer--all of my questions. Thank you for your hugs and your conversations and your prayers. Thank you for letting yourself be used by God in so many ways in my life. You have been instrumental in many ways. You have been a role model, perhaps without knowing so. And although I'm saying goodbye to the chances of running into you at our third place, I'm so grateful that I don't need to say goodbye to you.
I don't know why I feel such a need to write this to you, or why I'm not just sending it to you in a message, but this is for you. It's not much, but it is genuine, as are the prayers I am continually praying for you, your family, and all the goodbyes and hellos in the days ahead. Peace, my friend, and much love.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
scar stories
One day in middle school, we were waiting for something and so we had a few minutes with nothing to do. The teacher asked if anyone had a scar story that they wanted to share. Students proceeded to share the stories of how they got the scars that they have.
I have two scar stories:
On my left hand, I have a scar on my thumb and a scar on my pointer finger. Freshman year of college, we were learning how to carve wood. I was doing so well, and then the knife slipped... That was the end of that hobby. :)
On the top of my right foot, I have a scar from a rug burn. It was a pretty intense rug burn that I got last year at camp. We were on our way to Nature. Obviously, we needed to pretend to be on a safari on our way from the classroom to Nature. I was leading the way and all the sudden, we saw a LION and had to hide behind something so that he didn't eat us. As I dove under the table, I got a rug burn, but that's better than getting eaten by a lion, right? So worth it.
The other day, and again this morning, I heard this song on the radio:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhVDhUlUX88&feature=related
She holds for dear life to the ends of the sleeves in her hands,
Covering up lies that she wrote with a razor sharp pen,
And the sting of the blade is no match for the pain of the loneliness she's going through,
But we've all been there too.
Praise God we don't have to hide scars
They just strengthen our wounds, and they soften our hearts.
They remind us of where we have been, but not who we are
So praise God, praise God we don't have to hide scars
You can still see the mark on his hand where there once was a ring
He watched decades of history dissolve when she wanted to leave
And the hole that it left there inside of his chest
Is a canyon a thousand miles deep
We all know how that feels.
Praise God we don't have to hide scars
They just strengthen our wounds, and soften our hearts.
They remind us of where we have been, but not who we are
So praise God, praise God we don't have to hide scars
There once was a King who so burdened with grief
Walked into death so that we could find peace
He rose up with scars on his hands and his feet
By them we are healed, by them we are healed.
So praise God we don't have to hide scars
Yeah we know his are covering ours
Praise God we don't have to hide scars
They just strengthen our wounds and they soften our hearts
They remind us of who we have been, but not who we are
So Praise God we don't have to hide scars.
And as I listened to the words, I was reminded of that day in middle school when we shared scar stories. And it reminded me of the importance of stories and the importance of sharing our stories with each other. This summer, I'm realizing this again--as I have been for the past couple of years--as I meet so many new people. I'm meeting people with incredible stories. And they share them with me! I love listening to them and learning from them.
Scars aren't always physical, although some are. Scars are also emotional or spiritual or mental. And those are the scars that are so much easier to hide.
Scars aren't always sad or hurtful. I mean, I was having a great time when I got those scars and I would do it all over again. And now, whenever I see these scars, I have these great memories.
I think that I resonate so deeply with this song because people have shared their "scar stories" with me--both physical scars and emotional scars. And when they share, I learn from them about life and about God and about faith and hope and grace. So, my friends, thank you for your courage in sharing your scar stories. Thank you for sharing your life, in its joy and its pain. And I'll sing with the song: Praise God we don't have to hide scars.
I have two scar stories:
On my left hand, I have a scar on my thumb and a scar on my pointer finger. Freshman year of college, we were learning how to carve wood. I was doing so well, and then the knife slipped... That was the end of that hobby. :)
On the top of my right foot, I have a scar from a rug burn. It was a pretty intense rug burn that I got last year at camp. We were on our way to Nature. Obviously, we needed to pretend to be on a safari on our way from the classroom to Nature. I was leading the way and all the sudden, we saw a LION and had to hide behind something so that he didn't eat us. As I dove under the table, I got a rug burn, but that's better than getting eaten by a lion, right? So worth it.
The other day, and again this morning, I heard this song on the radio:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhVDhUlUX88&feature=related
She holds for dear life to the ends of the sleeves in her hands,
Covering up lies that she wrote with a razor sharp pen,
And the sting of the blade is no match for the pain of the loneliness she's going through,
But we've all been there too.
Praise God we don't have to hide scars
They just strengthen our wounds, and they soften our hearts.
They remind us of where we have been, but not who we are
So praise God, praise God we don't have to hide scars
You can still see the mark on his hand where there once was a ring
He watched decades of history dissolve when she wanted to leave
And the hole that it left there inside of his chest
Is a canyon a thousand miles deep
We all know how that feels.
Praise God we don't have to hide scars
They just strengthen our wounds, and soften our hearts.
They remind us of where we have been, but not who we are
So praise God, praise God we don't have to hide scars
There once was a King who so burdened with grief
Walked into death so that we could find peace
He rose up with scars on his hands and his feet
By them we are healed, by them we are healed.
So praise God we don't have to hide scars
Yeah we know his are covering ours
Praise God we don't have to hide scars
They just strengthen our wounds and they soften our hearts
They remind us of who we have been, but not who we are
So Praise God we don't have to hide scars.
And as I listened to the words, I was reminded of that day in middle school when we shared scar stories. And it reminded me of the importance of stories and the importance of sharing our stories with each other. This summer, I'm realizing this again--as I have been for the past couple of years--as I meet so many new people. I'm meeting people with incredible stories. And they share them with me! I love listening to them and learning from them.
Scars aren't always physical, although some are. Scars are also emotional or spiritual or mental. And those are the scars that are so much easier to hide.
Scars aren't always sad or hurtful. I mean, I was having a great time when I got those scars and I would do it all over again. And now, whenever I see these scars, I have these great memories.
I think that I resonate so deeply with this song because people have shared their "scar stories" with me--both physical scars and emotional scars. And when they share, I learn from them about life and about God and about faith and hope and grace. So, my friends, thank you for your courage in sharing your scar stories. Thank you for sharing your life, in its joy and its pain. And I'll sing with the song: Praise God we don't have to hide scars.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
what am i going to do with my life?
be an agent of renewal. that's what.
[thanks for the reminder, Pastor Mary]
[thanks for the reminder, Pastor Mary]
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
silence is the frost heave of the soul.
That's what Pastor Dan shared with me today. He is the pastor of Montello Park CRC, where La Casa meets. He took me out for lunch today so that we could get to know the person working in the office on the other side of the wall. He also went to Calvin and spent a summer in Honduras and was also an FYFer its first year. One thing we talked about is what Calvin does NOT teach students about vocation: we may be allowed to make a choice and BOTH options would be equally fulfilling and either one could/would be our vocation. We talked about my love for planning and order. But it was this statement that caught my heart.
At times in my life, I have been very good at being silent. And I would almost always rather listen than speak when I'm with a friend or a group or in class. But there are also times in my life when I keep myself very busy--too busy, even--and that does not allow times for silence. At those times, that is okay with me! I was convicted today, though, as I have been before, that those are the times that I should probably take time for silence. It's in the silence that the boulders in my soul are lifted to the surface--joys, sorrows, memories, you name it. Just like in a field where the frost brings the rocks to the surface, making the soil better to plant, the silence brings the rocks of my soul to the surface, making my heart a more fertile ground to be planted.
And so, I sit at the counter, coffee in hand, heart laid bare. I sit and I am. I'm not doing. I'm just being. Just for an hour or two. And I haven't quite worked up the courage to be in the silence yet... I'm sitting in a coffee shop with chatter and jazzy piano music in the background. But it's a step, you know? It's intimidating now, but as Pastor Dan and I also talked about, spiritual disciplines also tend to have a liberating effect on a person--usually liberating us from ourselves. It will come.
frost heave
noun Geology .
At times in my life, I have been very good at being silent. And I would almost always rather listen than speak when I'm with a friend or a group or in class. But there are also times in my life when I keep myself very busy--too busy, even--and that does not allow times for silence. At those times, that is okay with me! I was convicted today, though, as I have been before, that those are the times that I should probably take time for silence. It's in the silence that the boulders in my soul are lifted to the surface--joys, sorrows, memories, you name it. Just like in a field where the frost brings the rocks to the surface, making the soil better to plant, the silence brings the rocks of my soul to the surface, making my heart a more fertile ground to be planted.
And so, I sit at the counter, coffee in hand, heart laid bare. I sit and I am. I'm not doing. I'm just being. Just for an hour or two. And I haven't quite worked up the courage to be in the silence yet... I'm sitting in a coffee shop with chatter and jazzy piano music in the background. But it's a step, you know? It's intimidating now, but as Pastor Dan and I also talked about, spiritual disciplines also tend to have a liberating effect on a person--usually liberating us from ourselves. It will come.
frost heave
noun Geology .
an uplift in soil caused by the freezing of internal moisture.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frost_heave
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frost_heave
Friday, June 1, 2012
What's the point?
Lately--like for the past few months--I have been wondering what the point of counseling is. Why do I go? How does it help? Is it actually helpful?
I have also been wondering what on earth I'm going to do with my life. I had been so sure about teaching--then I switched. I had been so sure about being a pastor--now I'm not so sure; still thinking about it, but not as confident as before. Maybe I should be a psychologist. Maybe I should be a social worker. What if it's none of these things?
Anyway, I just finished reading Proverbs 19-21 and Romans 13. These chapters are filled with recommendations to live life well. The Proverbs chapters talk a lot about "a man planning his steps, but the Lord determining his path." I have no idea what to do with my life. I don't know how to plan my steps without knowing my path. I really don't know what to do. And I like to have a plan. At least tell me what I should be looking into for after college, ya know? Maybe that's where Proverbs 20:5 comes in--"The purpose in a woman's heart is like deep water, but a woman of understanding will draw it out." Maybe this is why I go to counseling and why I have this need for good, deep conversations, the need to be known. And maybe as I draw out the deep waters of my heart and begin to understand my passions and my past and God's gifts and plans in and for my life, I'll begin to see God's path for me. I have a feeling that this will take awhile, and I don't really like that feeling, but I guess that's why we have faith.... as hard as that may be for me to grasp.
I have also been wondering what on earth I'm going to do with my life. I had been so sure about teaching--then I switched. I had been so sure about being a pastor--now I'm not so sure; still thinking about it, but not as confident as before. Maybe I should be a psychologist. Maybe I should be a social worker. What if it's none of these things?
Anyway, I just finished reading Proverbs 19-21 and Romans 13. These chapters are filled with recommendations to live life well. The Proverbs chapters talk a lot about "a man planning his steps, but the Lord determining his path." I have no idea what to do with my life. I don't know how to plan my steps without knowing my path. I really don't know what to do. And I like to have a plan. At least tell me what I should be looking into for after college, ya know? Maybe that's where Proverbs 20:5 comes in--"The purpose in a woman's heart is like deep water, but a woman of understanding will draw it out." Maybe this is why I go to counseling and why I have this need for good, deep conversations, the need to be known. And maybe as I draw out the deep waters of my heart and begin to understand my passions and my past and God's gifts and plans in and for my life, I'll begin to see God's path for me. I have a feeling that this will take awhile, and I don't really like that feeling, but I guess that's why we have faith.... as hard as that may be for me to grasp.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Church work: It's Steady, Get it Done, Faithfulness.
The internship is going well. I've been doing a LOT of translating, mostly written rather than verbally. I've been doing a lot of administrative stuff. It's not super exciting yet. But I also helped lead worship and I'll keep doing that. And I introduced myself--in Spanish!-- to the congregation on Sunday. And I work in their clothing room--they collect clothes and household items and then give them away for free to the people who come in. We went to Tunnel Park on Saturday to fellowship. It's all a little overwhelming, but that will get better as the weeks go by. It's also a little lonely, but that will get better too.
To this, my pastor-friend responded: Great! Sounds like normal church work! It's not super exciting most of the time. It's steady, get it done, faithfulness. You're already learning that.
To this, my pastor-friend responded: Great! Sounds like normal church work! It's not super exciting most of the time. It's steady, get it done, faithfulness. You're already learning that.
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