I went to the mall yesterday. Living in the country as I do, a visit to the mall can be a unique experience. Strolling down the pedestrian lane, your senses are constantly bombarded. Glittering lights dazzle your eyes, and a wall of cinnamon roll scent entices your nostrils. Bold signs of flashy models stare you in the face, while a loud beat beckons to you from the shuttered Abercrombie store.
For once in my life, I had reason to visit the mall twice in one week. The first time was fun enough; a little thrill of independence tickled me as I strode through the mall alone, wandering into whatever stores I felt like exploring as I killed time and priced shampoo. As usual I was gently harassed by the salespeople at the Dead Sea kiosk. Oh, those lovably annoying Israelis! They don't seem to understand that us New Englanders prefer to keep to ourselves and ignore one another. However, I respect them for remaining unabashed and themselves.
I remember one particular time (I may have even blogged about it, but it was so long ago that I wouldn't make you go back and read my atrocious fifteen-year-old writing in my archives) I was striding down the mall minding my own business. As I passed a Dead Sea kiosk, I heard one of their salesmen giving his "shpeal" to some potential customers. He was showcasing their once-famous buffing block thingummy--the rectangular object that has various sides that do different things for your fingernails. Anyway, as I passed by, he was waving his buffing block vigorously to emphasize a point, and as he did so he lost his grip and it flew over his shoulder--and bounced off my nose! It was a trifle embarrassing. I think he sort of apologized, but he acted as if he thought it was hilarious. I can't blame him too much.
As I left the shampoo store this time, I was accosted by a couple of these blessed Dead Sea henchmen.
"For you, for you!" An Asian girl called to me, holding a tiny packet of lotion out to me. "It's a gift!"
I was wiser than that. As soon as I accepted it they would want to give me a lengthy sales pitch. I needed to hurry and catch up with my mom just then because she wanted to head home, so I politely declined and strode on.
"You dropped something!"
"You dropped something!" The girl and Middle Eastern guy called after me. I turned around to see them pointing at the ground. I retraced my steps for ten yards, scanning the territory to see what I had misplaced.
They sprung their trap. "You dropped lotion! It's free!" The girl exclaimed.
I was a little bit shocked by their deliberate deception, but it was amusing enough that I wasn't mad.
"How old are you?" the guy asked me. This hardly seemed like an appropriate question for a salesman to ask. However, I felt more comfortable with a girl there, and since I had no reason to suspect I'd see them again, I figured there was no harm in telling him.
When they heard, they seemed duly surprised. For whatever reason, the majority of people I meet these days seem to think I have the doll face of a twelve or fifteen-year-old, even though I've been out of high school for a few years now. I suppose small bones and a sheltered lifestyle don't help me look older either, even though I'm just a little taller than average.
"How many boyfriends do you have?"
Watch it, buster!
"None."
"Where do you live?"
Nice try.
"In New Hampshire."
"Where?"
"Aways away."
"How far?"
"An hour."
"It doesn't matter. Wherever you live, I will come there."
I didn't take him too seriously, but I didn't want to let him think that I would go along with him if he were serious. "That's okay," I told him. It was my kind but firm dismissal.
The girl read my unease instantly. "He's kidding," she assured me. "Let me see your nails . . . I'll do them for you, it will take two seconds!"
Yeah right. "No thanks, I really need to go."
"Two seconds!" She was desperate. But I was more desperate; besides, they had held me up long enough. My mom was disappearing in the distance. I extricated myself, much to their disappointment, and marched away, resolved not to let them trick me again.
A few days later I returned to the mall to print some pictures, and I wandered around again to slay time. I made a point of avoiding the area of my last Dead Sea kiosk encounter, but I still managed to pass another one anyway. If I had been in a chattier mood perhaps I would have engaged them in conversation, but being the New England stickler that I am, I declined all of their offers of lotion or pretended I didn't hear them, even though one of the salesmen was beaming his most gorgeous Middle Eastern smiles at me. Yeah, I truly love Middle Easterners, but sometimes they're a little too friendly for comfort. Especially guys.
As I wandered around the mall for the second time, I became acutely aware of the unique atmosphere of each store. The Dead Sea kiosks weren't the only ones demonstrating a different culture. Christopher and Banks lulled you with soft, classy music that blended well with their classy styles and carpeted floor. Forever 21 played lively pop music that made you feel like a hot movie star ruffling through their bright gaudy styles. Since I do not consider myself to be a hot movie star, I declined the part they thrust upon me and slid out a minute after sliding in.
Bath and Body Works played bouncy melodies that kept you hopping from one scented soap and lip gloss to the next, dodging the attractive hawk-like clerks. I had bounced my way out of the shiny pink store in a matter of seconds--perhaps not what had they intended. If you peered through the slitted shutter eyes of Hollister you could see a sinister room setting off sharp Hollister clothes in wee spotlights. A suave shirtless guy guarded the entrance, even though he was helplessly pasted to the wall. I suppose to the cool it must seem as if his smooth voice is chanting, "Come, come, come, come, come" to the beat of the music, but to me it clearly said, "Keep--out--keep--out--keep--out--keep--out." I hurried past stores like this. I know Hollister and Abercrombie are cool and popular, but a presentation like that gives me nothing but the creeps. Their dark interiors and shuttered windows make me feel as if they've got something to hide, and the watchdog--er, male model at the entrance does a great job of scaring me away.
In Old Navy I feel a little more at ease. The music is peppy but not sensual, and the simpler styles and cement-look floors make me feel like a normal, common American. In JC Penny I felt almost at home. Here at least the music isn't domineering, and there is so much inside that I feel like I can let myself be swallowed by the clothes and not have anyone take notice of me. I am unexposed and at peace. Sure, I wouldn't be caught dead in most of the styles I see flitting about (not sure what's wrong with me), but at least I'm comfortable looking at them.
One mall, but a host of different cultures. One mall representing one country. Call me odd, but I felt as if I were in a foreign world. I saw many sights and sounds that were all American, but I didn't feel at home. Is this just because I'm a country girl? I doubt it.
As I watched the Summer Olympics parade today, I was reminded of the variety in our own world. Even as an ESL teacher trainee living in Boston for four weeks, or as a casual tourist to Europe, Asia, and Australia, I am always excited to see and experience different cultures. There is so much variety in our world, it's stunning!
One world, but a host of different cultures. Call me odd, but no matter how much I love each country I've visited (Norway, Israel, Australia, Sweden, Canada) or love the students I've taught from different countries (Russia, Turkey, Japan, China, Morocco, Brazil, France, Italy, Haiti), I've never felt truly at home in any one of them. Is this because I'm an American? I doubt it. I've walked down the lane of an American mall and I haven't felt at home in my own country. Why is this?
Could it be that this world is not our home? Could it be that we were created for another place beyond this life, a place that is so real and bursting with life that this world is only a shadow in comparison? And every day that we come closer to it, we sense it a little bit more. The sweet smell of the woods or the cheerful color of a little flower remind us that there's more to look forward to. Other things seem vaguely familar, or they stir us for reasons we can't explain.The close heart fellowship of another believer you've just met. The warm smile of a stranger. The blaring majesty of the "Hallelujah Chorus." The inaudible whisper of comfort from One who hears your heart's deepest cries.
All of these are glimpses of Home.
And when we feel like a foreigner in our own country, maybe that can remind us of our Home as well.
In this case, it's good to be Homesick.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
An Invitation
The letter arrived today.
Four simple words. Who would have thought they'd carry such import in my fate?
I had been expecting that letter for over a month. Day after day I scanned the pile of mail eagerly, searching for my name emblazoned on an official-looking envelope. Nothing. Why did I seek this particular missive, you ask? It was only to seal my future; this next year, and perhaps many years after that.
Having graduated high school, I did what the average American Joe Blow does: dreamed of going to college. As I finished up three years of Bible school, I applied to three colleges. I chose the one furthest away, where the atmosphere is clear, truth is pursued, and the Constitution is fanatically studied. Since then, I have plotted and dreamed my heart into a balloon. I wasn't sure I would get in (their academic standard, though not Ivy League, is still rather choosy), so I prayed earnestly that if God DIDN'T want me to go there then I WOULDN'T get accepted. I was thrilled when they let me in.
There was just one problem: money.
Without going into details, we're very rich, but according to American standards we're also poor. Also, I have a personal conviction about not going into debt. God's Word clearly states that as believers we are to "owe no man anything," and since I know that God is Jehovah Jireh, my God who provides all our needs, we decided that if He didn't provide the money to go to college then He didn't want me to go. Considering the fact that He got all four of my older siblings through college debt-free, I know He's up to the job.
So, much to the surprise of my admissions counselor, I rejected all of the loans offered to me and applied for four scholarships. And I waited. Two of the smaller ones came through, and one didn't. Still, there was a fourth, the one that had successfully thrust most of my siblings through college before me. Could God use this scholarship to send me on my happily ever after in the Constitution Loving Land?
I waited. I surrendered my dreams. I waited. I trusted for God's best. I waited. And, because I hadn't done it enough, I waited some more.
The letter arrived today.
"I'm so nervous for you," my brother Craig told me as I fumbled with the sought-after envelope. I laughed and tore open the seal. The letter began as follows:
"Dear Ms. --------(my last name):
I am pleased to inform you that the Foundation has approved a XXX.00 grant to you . . ."
If I am to seriously plan on going to college, I need about TWENTY times that amount.
I am grateful for every bit of generosity I have experienced, but if it's going to be an amount like that then in some ways it may as well be nothing for all the difference it makes. I also found it ironic that the "little" scholarships I had earned from my tiny town amounted to over three times the amount that this formerly bulbous scholarship was.
My first reaction as I read this was to smile. I was infected with a mixture of irony and "let's see what God has in mind." I told my family and ate dinner cheerfully enough, but as the news sank in, I started shriveling on the inside. Only a good cry and a little talk with my God at His house could make me feel better. And perhaps a good journal scribbling session too.
The cry of my heart is, "Now what, Lord?"
I don't want to give up on God. I could fully believe Him for a miracle to see me through college, whether through a gift from an unexpected source (I've seen it before!) or a rip roaring job and a lot of grace to work my tail off while I throw myself into my studies. On the other hand, I don't want to be foolishly stubborn if He's trying to point me to a different path either. It's okay to believe God to heal a dying horse, but if it's good and dead and He still hasn't raised it, there's little sense in beating it.
In some ways, I've hit a wall. But like the Newsmax article I heard today by Ben Stein, "So what if our backs are against the wall? God is our wall." ("Find Order in the Chaos," Newsmax August 2012, Stein, p. 26)
Another thing Stein said was, "You cannot lose if you surrender to God and ask in humility for him to guide your life. Or, to put it another way, the strongest defensive position is in prayer and surrender. Once you have sincerely surrendered your life to God, you cannot lose."
The words to a favorite Andrew Peterson song came to me, and they instantly became my personal prayer:
"Take me to the mountain, I will follow where You lead,
There I'll lay the body of the boy [dream] You gave to me,
And even though You take him, still I ever will obey,
Maker of this mountain, please
Make another Way."
In the midst of my devastation and disappointment, a ray of hopeful excitement kindled within my deflated heart. Whatever God has in mind is always perfect. This college was one of the best dreams I could have imagined. If God doesn't want me there this year, what else can be concluded but that God has something even better in mind! And since it's hard to imagine something better than attending this college, it must be a pretty amazing plan indeed!
Maybe I'm going to use the TESOL training I received this past summer after all! I had been wondering why God told me to take that course for no apparent good reason. God works in mysterious ways. Suddenly, the sky is the limit--I almost wish the sky were a little lower though so I could narrow down the possibilities. Lucky for me, I'm a dreamer by nature and I love coming up with ideas. Figuring out what ideas are actually God's is what usually proves the challenge, and like most other humans, I hate uncertainty.
Of one thing, however, I am certain. Jesus is holding my hand, and He will never let me go.
As I got up to switch to a better lit chair in God's sanctuary, I caught sight of an envelope lying deserted in the next row. It was from a memorable meeting last fall in which the speaker gave each of us an envelope with a special message inside. It read, "You are invited . . . Watch with Me."
I am privileged to watch with God as He unfolds His purposes in my life. I am re-accepting that invitation.
You're invited to watch with us, but I'd encourage you to accept your own invitation as well. God has one for each of us, and it's better than anything we can dream up on our own.
Four simple words. Who would have thought they'd carry such import in my fate?
I had been expecting that letter for over a month. Day after day I scanned the pile of mail eagerly, searching for my name emblazoned on an official-looking envelope. Nothing. Why did I seek this particular missive, you ask? It was only to seal my future; this next year, and perhaps many years after that.
Having graduated high school, I did what the average American Joe Blow does: dreamed of going to college. As I finished up three years of Bible school, I applied to three colleges. I chose the one furthest away, where the atmosphere is clear, truth is pursued, and the Constitution is fanatically studied. Since then, I have plotted and dreamed my heart into a balloon. I wasn't sure I would get in (their academic standard, though not Ivy League, is still rather choosy), so I prayed earnestly that if God DIDN'T want me to go there then I WOULDN'T get accepted. I was thrilled when they let me in.
There was just one problem: money.
Without going into details, we're very rich, but according to American standards we're also poor. Also, I have a personal conviction about not going into debt. God's Word clearly states that as believers we are to "owe no man anything," and since I know that God is Jehovah Jireh, my God who provides all our needs, we decided that if He didn't provide the money to go to college then He didn't want me to go. Considering the fact that He got all four of my older siblings through college debt-free, I know He's up to the job.
So, much to the surprise of my admissions counselor, I rejected all of the loans offered to me and applied for four scholarships. And I waited. Two of the smaller ones came through, and one didn't. Still, there was a fourth, the one that had successfully thrust most of my siblings through college before me. Could God use this scholarship to send me on my happily ever after in the Constitution Loving Land?
I waited. I surrendered my dreams. I waited. I trusted for God's best. I waited. And, because I hadn't done it enough, I waited some more.
The letter arrived today.
"I'm so nervous for you," my brother Craig told me as I fumbled with the sought-after envelope. I laughed and tore open the seal. The letter began as follows:
"Dear Ms. --------(my last name):
I am pleased to inform you that the Foundation has approved a XXX.00 grant to you . . ."
If I am to seriously plan on going to college, I need about TWENTY times that amount.
I am grateful for every bit of generosity I have experienced, but if it's going to be an amount like that then in some ways it may as well be nothing for all the difference it makes. I also found it ironic that the "little" scholarships I had earned from my tiny town amounted to over three times the amount that this formerly bulbous scholarship was.
My first reaction as I read this was to smile. I was infected with a mixture of irony and "let's see what God has in mind." I told my family and ate dinner cheerfully enough, but as the news sank in, I started shriveling on the inside. Only a good cry and a little talk with my God at His house could make me feel better. And perhaps a good journal scribbling session too.
The cry of my heart is, "Now what, Lord?"
I don't want to give up on God. I could fully believe Him for a miracle to see me through college, whether through a gift from an unexpected source (I've seen it before!) or a rip roaring job and a lot of grace to work my tail off while I throw myself into my studies. On the other hand, I don't want to be foolishly stubborn if He's trying to point me to a different path either. It's okay to believe God to heal a dying horse, but if it's good and dead and He still hasn't raised it, there's little sense in beating it.
In some ways, I've hit a wall. But like the Newsmax article I heard today by Ben Stein, "So what if our backs are against the wall? God is our wall." ("Find Order in the Chaos," Newsmax August 2012, Stein, p. 26)
Another thing Stein said was, "You cannot lose if you surrender to God and ask in humility for him to guide your life. Or, to put it another way, the strongest defensive position is in prayer and surrender. Once you have sincerely surrendered your life to God, you cannot lose."
The words to a favorite Andrew Peterson song came to me, and they instantly became my personal prayer:
"Take me to the mountain, I will follow where You lead,
There I'll lay the body of the boy [dream] You gave to me,
And even though You take him, still I ever will obey,
Maker of this mountain, please
Make another Way."
In the midst of my devastation and disappointment, a ray of hopeful excitement kindled within my deflated heart. Whatever God has in mind is always perfect. This college was one of the best dreams I could have imagined. If God doesn't want me there this year, what else can be concluded but that God has something even better in mind! And since it's hard to imagine something better than attending this college, it must be a pretty amazing plan indeed!
Maybe I'm going to use the TESOL training I received this past summer after all! I had been wondering why God told me to take that course for no apparent good reason. God works in mysterious ways. Suddenly, the sky is the limit--I almost wish the sky were a little lower though so I could narrow down the possibilities. Lucky for me, I'm a dreamer by nature and I love coming up with ideas. Figuring out what ideas are actually God's is what usually proves the challenge, and like most other humans, I hate uncertainty.
Of one thing, however, I am certain. Jesus is holding my hand, and He will never let me go.
As I got up to switch to a better lit chair in God's sanctuary, I caught sight of an envelope lying deserted in the next row. It was from a memorable meeting last fall in which the speaker gave each of us an envelope with a special message inside. It read, "You are invited . . . Watch with Me."
I am privileged to watch with God as He unfolds His purposes in my life. I am re-accepting that invitation.
You're invited to watch with us, but I'd encourage you to accept your own invitation as well. God has one for each of us, and it's better than anything we can dream up on our own.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
From Abyss to Abyss
It has been over six months since my last post. Six months. Dare I project my voice from this abyss into the abyss of this deaf world? Dare I put my muddled thoughts on the screen for anyone to read? Dare I let this mute tongue sing once again?
I dare.
I dare because if I don't start writing sooner or later, I will never be able to puncture the invisible membrane that would like nothing better than to bind my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I dare because if one doesn't practice putting muddled thoughts on a screen then one will never successfully put clear thoughts on a screen. And I dare because when I write--when I truly write--a thrill infuses my marrow with one conviction: I was born to write.
I have learned much since I wrote last. I'm not talking about what I discovered about King Josiah or Fisher Ames or the best way to teach ESL students modal verbs. Of course I have learned a little more about God, but then don't we all learn a little more about Him every day? No, since I wrote last I have learned a little more about Kayla--myself.
I have learned--
(Are you listening? You might want to lean closer and brace yourself--this could come as quite a shocker!)
--that I like to communicate. What's more, I have learned that not only do I like to communicate, but in order to remain a healthy, sane human being, I absolutely MUST communicate!
This may come as no surprise to those who know me well, but the import of this realization only dawned on me this year and it came as a huge relief. You will see why. But first, I must go back in time just a little.
To begin with, I was home schooled. What does this have to do with it? Nothing, and absolutely everything. Not only was I home schooled, but my nearest sibling is five years older than I, which means that I went all through high school without any different colored Popsicles to compare myself to. Dangerous? Hardly. I was extremely self-motivated in my studies and I still had a social life, so really the lack of comparison was good for me.
After I graduated high school, I started attending a non accredited Bible institute (sibs, friends, etc., bear with me, I have to at least pretend that someone who doesn't know me is reading). To say it was a small school would be an understatement; still, going from a class of one to twenty-six was a phenomenal percentage increase. Now I had peers in school with me, and it wasn't long before I could pick out those who liked to write a lot and those who didn't. Still, I was pretty blissful yet, and really didn't bother comparing myself very much. Sure, I liked to talk in class and give long testimonies and write long papers, but so did a lot of other people. I was nobody unusual, and I was happy that way.
In my second year of Bible school, the class size dropped from twenty-four to nine or ten. In my third year, we dropped to eight. With a class that size, there is no hiding. Your strengths and weaknesses are exposed for all to see. What's more, it seemed as if each class was progressively less . . . loquacious. Now, I have a high respect for those who can use two words to say what I would say in twenty, and I definitely believe there is value in silence. However, while the class tendencies changed, I didn't. If anything, I talked more to make up for the absence of all the other testimonies and goofy stories. I did my best to improve my writing by cutting out unnecessary words, but still my papers were invariably the longest.
Of course, in a class that small, we all earned our own reputations. The funny one. The quiet one. The "weather is always beautiful" one. My reputation became obvious when one of our teachers was assigning a short story to write and he emphasized that we didn't have to write a novel.
Everyone was looking at me. Or so it seemed.
I didn't mind at first. Somebody had to write the longest papers, and since I love to write, it may as well have been me. But after awhile it started to color my perception like a drippy sink spreading a rust stain. A knowing look thrown at me with a grin. A fake bet on the longest testimony. An observation on the value of conciseness. As much as I laughed and agreed with each loving implication, little by little a feeling of inferiority crept in. For some reason, the fact that I couldn't express a thousand thoughts in twenty words or that I couldn't limit my thankful list of thirty things down to two made me feel like an outsider. Not that I thought so in so many words, but the idea was there under the surface.
But, after several moments, that started to change. Perhaps the prologue was written when I tossed my fears to a Higher Power and shared things with my mom that I had never dared share before then. Perhaps a chapter was written as I had a conversation in the dark with a friend, or as I lay at night, reflecting and pouring out my heart to One who was listening. However it happened, it happened.
I realized that I liked to communicate--that I HAD to communicate. And that God had made me this way. It was no accident.
Suddenly, it all started making sense. Why else do I have to skip to my next door dorm neighbor and burst upon them with some random funny thought I'd just had? Why else do I increasingly scribble in that journal of mine? Why else do I have to write down everything I think of in reflection papers? Why do I have to tell my mom or someone almost everything I've done that day? Why do I have to talk out my frustrations before I can let them go for good? Why else do I have to tell everyone in meeting everything I'm thankful for or I will feel absolutely unfulfilled and like I've cheated God of glory? Why else do I not mind sharing the very personal workings of my heart for dozens to read or hear? Why else do I constantly restrain myself from posting Facebook statuses three times a day because I'm always thinking of something I wish the world could hear? Why else has God given me the dream of becoming a writer?
When a student graduates from my Bible school, the pastor (who happens to be my dad) gives each student a blessing. This blessing is not given lightly, but it takes into careful consideration each graduate's strengths, character, and calling. When it came turn for my blessing last of all, my dad chose these words:
"Kayla, God has given you a gift in communication. May you use it to turn this world upside down for Jesus."
With tears in both our eyes, he handed me my certificate.
You see, the Enemy made me think for a long time that what I have is not a gift, but a curse. I know better now, and I credit that to the work of the Almighty in my own rust-stained heart. Although old habits die hard, I gave my graduation speech (longest, as predicted) without feeling too apologetic. I practiced by at least not apologizing out loud. "If you owe Him any glory, better start that debt to pay," a hymn writer penned long ago. I pay best with the currency that God has given me.
They say it's possible to waste words. This is true, but I also believe that some words never written or spoken can be equally wasted.
And so, I return to my blog. My newest employer told me today that if I wanted to write, blogging was one of the best things I could do to start. You'll start nowhere if you don't start somewhere, I've decided. Besides, I am tingling to write more than a Facebook status, and procrastination is stifling. Hence, this mute tongue sings once again from this abyss into the abysmal world.
I hope it's ready to be turned upside down.
I dare.
I dare because if I don't start writing sooner or later, I will never be able to puncture the invisible membrane that would like nothing better than to bind my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I dare because if one doesn't practice putting muddled thoughts on a screen then one will never successfully put clear thoughts on a screen. And I dare because when I write--when I truly write--a thrill infuses my marrow with one conviction: I was born to write.
I have learned much since I wrote last. I'm not talking about what I discovered about King Josiah or Fisher Ames or the best way to teach ESL students modal verbs. Of course I have learned a little more about God, but then don't we all learn a little more about Him every day? No, since I wrote last I have learned a little more about Kayla--myself.
I have learned--
(Are you listening? You might want to lean closer and brace yourself--this could come as quite a shocker!)
--that I like to communicate. What's more, I have learned that not only do I like to communicate, but in order to remain a healthy, sane human being, I absolutely MUST communicate!
This may come as no surprise to those who know me well, but the import of this realization only dawned on me this year and it came as a huge relief. You will see why. But first, I must go back in time just a little.
To begin with, I was home schooled. What does this have to do with it? Nothing, and absolutely everything. Not only was I home schooled, but my nearest sibling is five years older than I, which means that I went all through high school without any different colored Popsicles to compare myself to. Dangerous? Hardly. I was extremely self-motivated in my studies and I still had a social life, so really the lack of comparison was good for me.
After I graduated high school, I started attending a non accredited Bible institute (sibs, friends, etc., bear with me, I have to at least pretend that someone who doesn't know me is reading). To say it was a small school would be an understatement; still, going from a class of one to twenty-six was a phenomenal percentage increase. Now I had peers in school with me, and it wasn't long before I could pick out those who liked to write a lot and those who didn't. Still, I was pretty blissful yet, and really didn't bother comparing myself very much. Sure, I liked to talk in class and give long testimonies and write long papers, but so did a lot of other people. I was nobody unusual, and I was happy that way.
In my second year of Bible school, the class size dropped from twenty-four to nine or ten. In my third year, we dropped to eight. With a class that size, there is no hiding. Your strengths and weaknesses are exposed for all to see. What's more, it seemed as if each class was progressively less . . . loquacious. Now, I have a high respect for those who can use two words to say what I would say in twenty, and I definitely believe there is value in silence. However, while the class tendencies changed, I didn't. If anything, I talked more to make up for the absence of all the other testimonies and goofy stories. I did my best to improve my writing by cutting out unnecessary words, but still my papers were invariably the longest.
Of course, in a class that small, we all earned our own reputations. The funny one. The quiet one. The "weather is always beautiful" one. My reputation became obvious when one of our teachers was assigning a short story to write and he emphasized that we didn't have to write a novel.
Everyone was looking at me. Or so it seemed.
I didn't mind at first. Somebody had to write the longest papers, and since I love to write, it may as well have been me. But after awhile it started to color my perception like a drippy sink spreading a rust stain. A knowing look thrown at me with a grin. A fake bet on the longest testimony. An observation on the value of conciseness. As much as I laughed and agreed with each loving implication, little by little a feeling of inferiority crept in. For some reason, the fact that I couldn't express a thousand thoughts in twenty words or that I couldn't limit my thankful list of thirty things down to two made me feel like an outsider. Not that I thought so in so many words, but the idea was there under the surface.
But, after several moments, that started to change. Perhaps the prologue was written when I tossed my fears to a Higher Power and shared things with my mom that I had never dared share before then. Perhaps a chapter was written as I had a conversation in the dark with a friend, or as I lay at night, reflecting and pouring out my heart to One who was listening. However it happened, it happened.
I realized that I liked to communicate--that I HAD to communicate. And that God had made me this way. It was no accident.
Suddenly, it all started making sense. Why else do I have to skip to my next door dorm neighbor and burst upon them with some random funny thought I'd just had? Why else do I increasingly scribble in that journal of mine? Why else do I have to write down everything I think of in reflection papers? Why do I have to tell my mom or someone almost everything I've done that day? Why do I have to talk out my frustrations before I can let them go for good? Why else do I have to tell everyone in meeting everything I'm thankful for or I will feel absolutely unfulfilled and like I've cheated God of glory? Why else do I not mind sharing the very personal workings of my heart for dozens to read or hear? Why else do I constantly restrain myself from posting Facebook statuses three times a day because I'm always thinking of something I wish the world could hear? Why else has God given me the dream of becoming a writer?
When a student graduates from my Bible school, the pastor (who happens to be my dad) gives each student a blessing. This blessing is not given lightly, but it takes into careful consideration each graduate's strengths, character, and calling. When it came turn for my blessing last of all, my dad chose these words:
"Kayla, God has given you a gift in communication. May you use it to turn this world upside down for Jesus."
With tears in both our eyes, he handed me my certificate.
You see, the Enemy made me think for a long time that what I have is not a gift, but a curse. I know better now, and I credit that to the work of the Almighty in my own rust-stained heart. Although old habits die hard, I gave my graduation speech (longest, as predicted) without feeling too apologetic. I practiced by at least not apologizing out loud. "If you owe Him any glory, better start that debt to pay," a hymn writer penned long ago. I pay best with the currency that God has given me.
They say it's possible to waste words. This is true, but I also believe that some words never written or spoken can be equally wasted.
And so, I return to my blog. My newest employer told me today that if I wanted to write, blogging was one of the best things I could do to start. You'll start nowhere if you don't start somewhere, I've decided. Besides, I am tingling to write more than a Facebook status, and procrastination is stifling. Hence, this mute tongue sings once again from this abyss into the abysmal world.
I hope it's ready to be turned upside down.
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