Perhaps sitting with a little old lady doesn't seem like a very exciting job. Well, I've got news for you.
You're right.
It isn't.
Some people might prefer baby sitting. Kids are cuter, after all, and there's also the romantic idea of shaping a young child's mind so they turn into the respectable citizen society wants them to be.
And yet, old people are cool too. You're not shaping their lives; they've already lived. They're not dead-end streets; they're bustling highways with hundreds of miles of history behind them. They have thousands of more experiences (if not thousands of more memories) and a full life that we can only imagine. And every once in awhile, if we're lucky, we can peek into their past like a beloved book and get a whiff of what life was really like.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting with my elderly lady friend. It's hard to recall her well-told story perfectly, but I'll do my best.
"I was expecting our baby," she told me, "and I knew it was time. So my hubby took me in the car and we were on our way to the hospital. But after awhile, I knew we weren't going to make it in time. So I said, 'Dear, can you deliver this baby?' And he said, 'I sure can't!'" She laughed heartily.
"So he drove me right up to the hospital door and ran inside. And he came out with six nurses running after him! I laughed when I saw that. They all came running out to the car."
"What happened?" I asked. "Did they all get inside the car?"
"Now, that's a good question," she said. "I can't remember what they did!"
We laughed together.
She went on to tell me how the baby didn't live more than a few days. "And we had them do a--what's that surgery called?"
"An autopsy?"
"That's it, an autopsy. They did an autopsy, and we found out that the baby's lungs and heart had been misplaced. That was why he couldn't breathe properly. Oh, and I was so sad," her sweet wrinkled face clouded. "I felt so bad for my poor baby! But then my dear husband reminded me that the baby was in a better place, and he can breathe well now. I felt much better after that."
Her story was simple. A humorous caricature of a frantic husband refusing to deliver his wife's baby and retrieving a string of harried nurses who trailed outside to all peer into the car. Then, scene two. The painful death, but blessed assurance. No fanfare or hyped up drama, but real. Incredibly real.
Yes, she is rapidly going downhill. She's not as "bad" as my grandmother, who convinced herself that my mom had married a black man (nothing against black men, but in their 30+ years of marriage, my dad has never been and never will be black) and kept asking for her sister who had been in heaven for ten years or more. However, after I left this lady for her nap she came out and started yelling up the stairs for her grandson.
"Dave! Dave!"
"What is it, Mrs. H?" I asked her.
"Oh, I just wanted to ask Dave if this is a good time for me to take a nap."
"Yes, this is a good time."
"It is? Oh good." She went back to her bedroom.
I may not be shaping young minds, wrestling bad guys, or becoming a new sensation, but even in my quiet job, I see my fair share of drama.
I saw it as I helped my lady unpack her box of clothing, pictures, and trinkets that had been mailed to her from her daughter across the States. She oohed over her plastic green beads like they were precious emeralds, and she gasped over her rich purple coat that she had forgotten she possessed. (Perhaps losing your memory can be a fun thing sometimes?) Then she nearly wept over the photographs of her son, who died of cancer in the past few years. She almost lost it again when she saw the picture of her and her deceased husband on their 60th wedding anniversary. My heart went out to her as I gently rubbed her back, sympathizing with her pain even if I couldn't empathize with it.
This lady has seen real joy, and real sorrow. She may never be famous, just like my working life may never be exciting. Yet she has had an adventure all her own, and she has sensed the Lord with her through it all. That is a life worth living.
Seeing bits of her small adventure and her fortitude, I'm encouraged about my own. There is an adventure for all of us; the art of life is to see it.
Life is a highway, so go out and live it.
My job has its fair share of drama.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Something sensational to read in the train
Forgive me, friends. If you read the Times of Restoration, you are about to get a repeat.
When I got back from my road trip last week, I found a mysterious handwritten letter waiting for me. Illinois? I know only one family from there, and this name certainly wasn't it! Curious, I tore the envelope open and discovered a dear note from a precious elderly lady who told me that she has wanted to write me ever since she read my article. Eh, which article? I thought back. Surely not my yearbook testimony. Aha, that's right; an article by yours truly HAD been published in our church magazine in the Bible school ministry/Monadnock Beacon section. I had written it my first year of Bible school for our student website, and the editor of Times of Restoration had requested it for a spring issue. I polished it a little (I'm constantly trying to self-critique and improve my untrained writing) and turned it in for the the March/April issue.
Interested to read this article from the perspective of this sweet yet complete stranger, I dug it out and read it.
And it blessed me all over again.
Is it weird or arrogant to be blessed by something you've written yourself? I hope not. Because, I confess, I am often blessed when I go back to read my testimonies or many of my journal entries. I feel like Gwendolyn from The Importance of Being Earnest:
"I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train."
I hope I'm not quite so obsessed with myself, but I can still chuckle and relate to her. After all, one should always enjoy your own writing, or nobody else will. Vibes are contagious.
Therefore, because it fit my current situation and blessed me, perhaps God can use this article to bless somebody else. Here goes:
"The Desert Road"
Face it. Life is not always a bed of roses. Sure, we can be cheerful, and we may be able to rejoice in our salvation, but sometimes we need more. Here's the question: Is it possible to be glad in spiritually dry times?
This morning I was reading my Bible as usual. Unfortunately, I'd had a busy week and my quiet times with God had been a bit rushed, but this Sabbath morning I wanted to soak more in God's Word. As I was reading, I came across the account in Acts about Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch. However, it wasn't the story I noticed, but what happened right before the story.
Philip had just come from Samaria where he had blazed a trail for Christianity. The crowds had hung on his words, eating up every syllable. More importantly, they had responded and many were saved. Oh, and don't forget that God had also performed great miracles through him. Basically, Philip was on a spiritual high, ready to evangelize the whole globe if God spoke the word, and perhaps his ear was just itching to hear the command.
What he heard was not what he expected.
An angel of the Lord told him to follow a certain road. That sounded promising. Surely the road would take him to some great city that would soon fall on its knees when its inhabitants heard what Philip had to say. But not this road. We're told quite simply that this was a desert place.
Huh?
If I had been Philip, I would have been protesting, "Hello! Didn't you just see what I've been doing? There are no people in the desert! How am I supposed to spread the good news? If you send me into the desert, I won't be of any use!" Although it may be natural to feel this way, I now realize how inaccurate that outlook really is.
First of all, usefulness isn't dependent on how we think we should be used, but on how the One who designed us chooses to use us. Just because we're a hammer doesn't mean that all we're going to do is drive nails. What if we're called to pull out nails? Or what if, as a gung-ho fork ready to stab any food, you're called instead to have food shoved against you so that the spoon can scoop up the edibles? Has the hammer or fork lost its usefulness just because it's not driving nails or stabbing victuals? Of course not! Each is merely being plugged in to fill a different job. Maybe we are designed to be someone who brings hundreds of people to the Lord; but if the Holy Spirit calls us to a desert place to do one small task for Him, that can be just as effective.
What stood out even more to me is that sometimes the Holy Spirit Himself may send us into the desert. As Christians, we know that spiritually dry times are almost inevitable, but should we be discouraged just because we don't sense God's work in our lives? No, He may be choosing to send us into a wasteland, and if so, He knows exactly what He's doing. After all, how are we supposed to have faith in God's goodness if He's constantly showering us with blessings? In essence, we could be saying, "Yes, God, I know you're good and faithful because I've seen all these wonderful things happening to me, but why aren't you faithful to me now when I need you most?"
Wrong question!
God will never stop His faithfulness, but He can stop His blessings. Let me repeat that. God will never stop His faithfulness, but He can stop His blessings; we just need to recognize the difference. However, what we need to realize even more isn't just that the Holy Spirit sometimes send us into a desert.
He's also right there in the desert with us.
And if that's the case, suddenly the desert doesn't seem quite so desert-like.
So it's okay if we experience dry times. Perhaps that is exactly where God wants us to be. His power is not limited by a lack of rain.
A fine example of the wrong approach occurred when Jesus fed the multitudes in the wilderness. In one of the cases, they wanted to make Him king by force, but their motives weren't pure. They loved Jesus not for who He was, but for what He had given them. Are we followers of Christ because we're hungry for the Bread of Life, the only One who can satisfy, or because we're hungry only for the bread of blessings we receive from Him?
When we talked about this in class a little while ago, I felt convicted because I tend to love the blessing (the "bread") rather than the Blesser (the "Bread"). Do I seek Jesus, or the things that He offers? And remember that although the blessings might not follow us into the desert, the Blesser does! So even in a barren land, we can still cling to the heart of God, knowing that we're where we're supposed to be.
One thing I've learned at Bible School is that in the end, almost every spiritual lesson boils down to one thing: Stay connected to Jesus. He is the answer to every problem, every care, and every burden. Nothing lies outside His scope or ability. He can use any situation no matter how bleak. He's with us in the desert. And what He has in store for us is beyond the limit of our imaginations.
So what if we're in a desert? Do we have a fervent longing to see Jesus no matter what it takes? Does a desire for Him burn within us? We need not be discouraged if we're unable to strike the match ourselves. The Holy Spirit can set the blaze burning even in a shriveled wilderness. Fire usually kindles best in the driest of deserts.
When I got back from my road trip last week, I found a mysterious handwritten letter waiting for me. Illinois? I know only one family from there, and this name certainly wasn't it! Curious, I tore the envelope open and discovered a dear note from a precious elderly lady who told me that she has wanted to write me ever since she read my article. Eh, which article? I thought back. Surely not my yearbook testimony. Aha, that's right; an article by yours truly HAD been published in our church magazine in the Bible school ministry/Monadnock Beacon section. I had written it my first year of Bible school for our student website, and the editor of Times of Restoration had requested it for a spring issue. I polished it a little (I'm constantly trying to self-critique and improve my untrained writing) and turned it in for the the March/April issue.
Interested to read this article from the perspective of this sweet yet complete stranger, I dug it out and read it.
And it blessed me all over again.
Is it weird or arrogant to be blessed by something you've written yourself? I hope not. Because, I confess, I am often blessed when I go back to read my testimonies or many of my journal entries. I feel like Gwendolyn from The Importance of Being Earnest:
"I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train."
I hope I'm not quite so obsessed with myself, but I can still chuckle and relate to her. After all, one should always enjoy your own writing, or nobody else will. Vibes are contagious.
Therefore, because it fit my current situation and blessed me, perhaps God can use this article to bless somebody else. Here goes:
"The Desert Road"
Face it. Life is not always a bed of roses. Sure, we can be cheerful, and we may be able to rejoice in our salvation, but sometimes we need more. Here's the question: Is it possible to be glad in spiritually dry times?
This morning I was reading my Bible as usual. Unfortunately, I'd had a busy week and my quiet times with God had been a bit rushed, but this Sabbath morning I wanted to soak more in God's Word. As I was reading, I came across the account in Acts about Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch. However, it wasn't the story I noticed, but what happened right before the story.
Philip had just come from Samaria where he had blazed a trail for Christianity. The crowds had hung on his words, eating up every syllable. More importantly, they had responded and many were saved. Oh, and don't forget that God had also performed great miracles through him. Basically, Philip was on a spiritual high, ready to evangelize the whole globe if God spoke the word, and perhaps his ear was just itching to hear the command.
What he heard was not what he expected.
An angel of the Lord told him to follow a certain road. That sounded promising. Surely the road would take him to some great city that would soon fall on its knees when its inhabitants heard what Philip had to say. But not this road. We're told quite simply that this was a desert place.
Huh?
If I had been Philip, I would have been protesting, "Hello! Didn't you just see what I've been doing? There are no people in the desert! How am I supposed to spread the good news? If you send me into the desert, I won't be of any use!" Although it may be natural to feel this way, I now realize how inaccurate that outlook really is.
First of all, usefulness isn't dependent on how we think we should be used, but on how the One who designed us chooses to use us. Just because we're a hammer doesn't mean that all we're going to do is drive nails. What if we're called to pull out nails? Or what if, as a gung-ho fork ready to stab any food, you're called instead to have food shoved against you so that the spoon can scoop up the edibles? Has the hammer or fork lost its usefulness just because it's not driving nails or stabbing victuals? Of course not! Each is merely being plugged in to fill a different job. Maybe we are designed to be someone who brings hundreds of people to the Lord; but if the Holy Spirit calls us to a desert place to do one small task for Him, that can be just as effective.
What stood out even more to me is that sometimes the Holy Spirit Himself may send us into the desert. As Christians, we know that spiritually dry times are almost inevitable, but should we be discouraged just because we don't sense God's work in our lives? No, He may be choosing to send us into a wasteland, and if so, He knows exactly what He's doing. After all, how are we supposed to have faith in God's goodness if He's constantly showering us with blessings? In essence, we could be saying, "Yes, God, I know you're good and faithful because I've seen all these wonderful things happening to me, but why aren't you faithful to me now when I need you most?"
Wrong question!
God will never stop His faithfulness, but He can stop His blessings. Let me repeat that. God will never stop His faithfulness, but He can stop His blessings; we just need to recognize the difference. However, what we need to realize even more isn't just that the Holy Spirit sometimes send us into a desert.
He's also right there in the desert with us.
And if that's the case, suddenly the desert doesn't seem quite so desert-like.
So it's okay if we experience dry times. Perhaps that is exactly where God wants us to be. His power is not limited by a lack of rain.
A fine example of the wrong approach occurred when Jesus fed the multitudes in the wilderness. In one of the cases, they wanted to make Him king by force, but their motives weren't pure. They loved Jesus not for who He was, but for what He had given them. Are we followers of Christ because we're hungry for the Bread of Life, the only One who can satisfy, or because we're hungry only for the bread of blessings we receive from Him?
When we talked about this in class a little while ago, I felt convicted because I tend to love the blessing (the "bread") rather than the Blesser (the "Bread"). Do I seek Jesus, or the things that He offers? And remember that although the blessings might not follow us into the desert, the Blesser does! So even in a barren land, we can still cling to the heart of God, knowing that we're where we're supposed to be.
One thing I've learned at Bible School is that in the end, almost every spiritual lesson boils down to one thing: Stay connected to Jesus. He is the answer to every problem, every care, and every burden. Nothing lies outside His scope or ability. He can use any situation no matter how bleak. He's with us in the desert. And what He has in store for us is beyond the limit of our imaginations.
So what if we're in a desert? Do we have a fervent longing to see Jesus no matter what it takes? Does a desire for Him burn within us? We need not be discouraged if we're unable to strike the match ourselves. The Holy Spirit can set the blaze burning even in a shriveled wilderness. Fire usually kindles best in the driest of deserts.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Northern stars
The day had arrived.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about the letter. Once I broke its seal, I saw that its seal on my fate was unbreakable. My world was rocked that day, but I took solace in the One who holds tomorrow. Although I started exploring other options, my dad didn't want us to make any final decisions until a few weeks had gone by. Three days before my college bill was due, we would decide.
The day had arrived.
On that day I actually drove back from Pennsylvania by myself. I did not put on sack cloth and ashes. I had no spiritual revelations. Just peace. Peace that it would all work out.
That evening, my parents and I set a time and gathered in our living room. We prayed and we talked. Then we made our decision.
I'm not going to my dream college this year.
Although I felt that we were making the right decision, that didn't keep the disappointment from seeping in. No friend-making in the clean atmosphere of a classy college. No great sculpting of my intellect over the Constitution and truths that really matter. No playing volleyball with my cousin. No rooming with my best friend.
I felt like I was watching my "Isaac" being tied to the altar.
Death to that vision.
(John and Stasi Eldridge, Captivating, pp. 95-99)
It's okay if God calls you to go to college. The danger is when you unconsciously try to make your dreams of college fill the void in your heart that only God is supposed to fill. I'm afraid I was close to doing that.
But it's okay, because now I can't. Not having my happy visions to pillow my head, I'm forced to pillow my head on the shoulder of the One who is holding me.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about the letter. Once I broke its seal, I saw that its seal on my fate was unbreakable. My world was rocked that day, but I took solace in the One who holds tomorrow. Although I started exploring other options, my dad didn't want us to make any final decisions until a few weeks had gone by. Three days before my college bill was due, we would decide.
The day had arrived.
On that day I actually drove back from Pennsylvania by myself. I did not put on sack cloth and ashes. I had no spiritual revelations. Just peace. Peace that it would all work out.
That evening, my parents and I set a time and gathered in our living room. We prayed and we talked. Then we made our decision.
I'm not going to my dream college this year.
Although I felt that we were making the right decision, that didn't keep the disappointment from seeping in. No friend-making in the clean atmosphere of a classy college. No great sculpting of my intellect over the Constitution and truths that really matter. No playing volleyball with my cousin. No rooming with my best friend.
I felt like I was watching my "Isaac" being tied to the altar.
Death to that vision.
Problems at my job,
Wondering what to do,
I know I should be working but I'm thinking of You.
Just when I feel this crazy world is going to bring me down
That's when Your smile comes around.
I love the way You hold me
By my side You'll always be
You take each and every day
Make it special in some way
I love the way You hold me
In Your arms I'll always be
You take each and every day
Make it special in some way
I love you more than the words in my brain can express
I can't imagine even loving You less
Lord, I love the way You hold me.
(Jamie Grace, "Hold Me")
Recently I've been reading a book called Captivating by John and Stasi Eldridge. It digs deep into a woman's heart, how God treasures it, and how it can be healed and soar the way it was designed. Although I have had a wonderful upbringing with zero complaints, Eve's choice before the Fall has had its repurcussions in my own heart like any girl's. The timing of this book really couldn't be any better. Here's something I read this past week:
"You are the glorious Image Bearer of the Lord Jesus Christ--the crown of his creation. You have been assaulted. You have fallen to your own resources. Your Enemy has seized upon your wounds and your sins to pin your heart down. Now the Son of God has come to ransom you, and to heal your broken, wounded, bleeding heart, and to set you free from bondage. He came for the brokenhearted captives. That's me. That's you. He came to restore the glorious creation that you are. And then set you free . . . to be yourself.
". . . Why did God curse Eve with loneliness and heartache, an emptiness that nothing would be able to fill? Wasn't her life going to be hard enough out there in the world, banished from the Garden that was her true home, her only home, never able to return? It seems unkind. Cruel, even.
"He did it to save her. For as we all know personally, something in Eve's heart shifted at the Fall. Something sent its roots down deep into her soul--and ours--that mistrust of God's heart, that resolution to find life on our own terms. So God had to thwart her. In love, he has to block her attempts until, wounded and aching, she turns to him and him alone for her rescue.
'Therefore I will block her path with thornbushes;
I will wall her in so she cannot find her way.
She will chase after her lovers but not catch them;
she will look for them but not find them.' (Hosea 2:6-7)
"Jesus had to thwart us too--thwart our self-redemptive plans, our controlling and hiding, thwart the ways we are seeking to fill the ache within us. Otherwise, we would never fully turn to him for our rescue. Oh, we might turn to him for our 'salvation,' for a ticket to heaven when we die. We might turn to him even in the form of Christian service, regular church attendance, a moral life. But inside, our hearts remain broken and captive and far from the One who can help us.
"And so you will see the gentle, firm hand of God in a woman's life hemming her in. He'll make what once was a great job miserable, if it was in her career that she found shelter. He'll bring hardship into her marriage, even to the breaking point, if it was in marriage that she sought her salvation. Wherever it is we have sought life apart from him, he disrupts our plans, our 'way of life' which is not life at all . . ."
". . . We construct a life of safety (I will not be vulnerable there) and find some place to get a taste of being enjoyed or at least of being 'needed.' Our journey toward healing begins when we repent of those ways, lay them down, let them go. They've been a royal disaster anyway . . ."
". . . Not only does he thwart, but at the same time he calls to us . . . 'Set it down. Set it down. Turn from your ways to Me. I want to come for you."
"Therefore I am now going to allure her;
I will lead her into the desert
and speak tenderly to her."
(Hosea 2:14)
(John and Stasi Eldridge, Captivating, pp. 95-99)
It's okay if God calls you to go to college. The danger is when you unconsciously try to make your dreams of college fill the void in your heart that only God is supposed to fill. I'm afraid I was close to doing that.
But it's okay, because now I can't. Not having my happy visions to pillow my head, I'm forced to pillow my head on the shoulder of the One who is holding me.
"Every long lost dream
Led me to where You are
Others who broke my heart
They were like Northern stars
Pointing me on my way
Into Your loving arms
This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to You."
(Nitty Gritty Dirt Band/Rascal Flatts, "Bless the Broken Road")
And when I'm there, I'm truly Home.
"And I got my heart set on what happens next
I got my eyes wide it's not over yet
We are miracles and we're not alone
This is home
Now I'm finally where I belong
Where I Belong
Yeah, this is home
I've been searching for a place of my own
Now I've found it
Maybe this is home
This is home
I got my eyes wide it's not over yet
We are miracles and we're not alone
This is home
Now I'm finally where I belong
Where I Belong
Yeah, this is home
I've been searching for a place of my own
Now I've found it
Maybe this is home
This is home
And now after all my searching
After all my questions
I'm gonna call it home
I've got a brand new mindset
I can finally see the sunset
I'm gonna call it home."
After all my questions
I'm gonna call it home
I've got a brand new mindset
I can finally see the sunset
I'm gonna call it home."
(Switchfoot, "This is Home")
When all is said and done, I'm very excited. I'm still uncertain what God has in mind for me exactly, but the silver linings to what seemed like a thunderhead are endless. I get to go to my friend's wedding. I get to be here when Bible school starts. I'm going to be at the Fall Convention. I might get to travel.
Best of all, I get to follow the Lamb whithersoever He goest.
And I get to share this journey of trust with you. It's true that I nearly allowed blogging to creep into that aching void. Expression gives me such a sense of fulfillment that I almost forgot Who is my fulfillment. However, one comment about my writing turned out to be a Northern star. I hate the idea of being a disappointment to anybody. However, as I had a little talk with Jesus He assured me that I wasn't a disappointment to Him.
And when I realized that His opinion was the only one that really mattered, I was at peace. Knowing who you are in Him can free you more than you think possible.
If I live to be a hundred
And never see the seven wonders
That'll be all right
If I don't make it to the big leagues
If I never win a Grammy
I'm gonna be just fine
'Cause I know exactly who I am
And never see the seven wonders
That'll be all right
If I don't make it to the big leagues
If I never win a Grammy
I'm gonna be just fine
'Cause I know exactly who I am
So when I make big mistake
When I fall flat on my face
I know I'll be all right
Should my tender heart be broken
I will cry those teardrops knowin'
I will be just fine
'Cause nothin' changes who I am
When I fall flat on my face
I know I'll be all right
Should my tender heart be broken
I will cry those teardrops knowin'
I will be just fine
'Cause nothin' changes who I am
(Jessica Andrews, "Who I Am")
I'm thankful that I know who I am in Christ and that everything is going to be just fine.
Even if it took a few Northern stars to see it.
You are not alone
I will always be with you
Even to the end
You don't have to work so hard
You can rest easy
You don't have to prove yourself
You're already mine
You don't have to hide your heart
I already love you
I hold it in mine
So you can rest easy
Do not be afraid
Nothing, nothing in the world
Can come between us now
I will always be with you
Even to the end
You don't have to work so hard
You can rest easy
You don't have to prove yourself
You're already mine
You don't have to hide your heart
I already love you
I hold it in mine
So you can rest easy
Do not be afraid
Nothing, nothing in the world
Can come between us now
(Andrew Peterson, "Rest Easy")
It was very good
GOD IS SO FAITHFUL!!!
If you like, you can fore go reading the rest of this post now that you've gotten the summary. It may be that you will tire of reading about God, my life, and my gratefulness. But if you want to risk it, I invite you to read further...
*********************************************************************************
The step creaked in protest beneath my tired tread. Winding up the wood stairs to the third floor bedroom, I set the rinsed out trash can by the desk and collapsed on the bed where my sister sat working. I had taught my first lesson that day. I had only started learning how to teach yesterday and already I'd been tossed into the deep end of the swimming pool. Trying to swim had thrown me into a whirl pool of headache, sobs, and vomit. Just that afternoon I had been washing my hands in a restroom in Faneuil Hall, looking at my tear stained face and sighing, "I feel so weak."
Then in it flashed.
I say flashed. When God whispers to my heart it is more like a loving impression, too random and perfect to be any thought of my own.
"My power is made perfect in weakness."
Now I lay on my bed. It was about 8:30 p.m. and all I wanted to do was sleep off my headache and exhaustion. I didn't feel capable of doing anything at all, and yet I knew I had a mountain to swallow before 9:00 a.m. the next morning: my first forty-minute lesson to plan. I knew there was no way I could accomplish such a feat with a passing grade in the condition I was in.
"My power is made PERFECT in weakness."
I had God's power and there was nothing I could do to make it any more or less perfect. Now was the time to "ride out" with God and see Him work. Now was the time to see the rubber hit the road. I knew I couldn't do it as I was. The Holy Spirit would have to take over and plan the lesson through me.
So I sat up and set to work, tapping into that perfect power. I finished four hours later.
The next day I taught my first forty-minute lesson. That is, I asked the Holy Spirit to teach through me, and He ended up getting the best grade that I would receive for the entire course. That week I read about how "nevertheless, David took the stronghold." A note I made in my margin during Bible class blessed me: "The Davidic spirit is one that overcomes the impossible. This comes from faith in God's ability."
God had taken one more tiny stronghold through me.
I've neglected to recount God's goodness to me over the summer so far. I wish to do so now. After all, my purpose here is not just to sing of my woes or selfish concerns, but to sing of the faithfulness of the One who has loosed my tongue. The Bible reference in my blog heading includes the following words: "Say to those who have an anxious heart, "Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you."5 Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped;6 then shall the lame man leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute sing for joy. For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert."
My summer was kicked off in early May with my Bible school graduation. Three years of intense feeding on God's Word--over. I didn't have much time to mope about it though, because I spent the next week packing, cleaning out, throwing stuff away, signing yearbooks, and completing pre-course homework for the following week.
And then It began.
To put it in an egg shell, for some strange reason, my dad and I felt that God wanted me to take a Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages course with my sister. So, knowing that spending a couple thousand isn't really the most logical thing to do when you're saving for college, we took the plunge of faith and signed me up for the CELTA course (Certified English Language Teaching to Adults). What is the CELTA? Only the Cadillac of TESOL courses, certified by Cambridge across the Pond. Known for its communicative approach and hands on practice built into the course, the four-week version of the CELTA course places an emphasis on the word "intense."
It wasn't long before I learned that they weren't joking. Not. One. Bit.
Honestly, going into the course in the middle of Boston, I was terrified and I was at peace. I was terrified because I knew it would probably be the most challenging task I'd ever undertaken and I had no idea what it would look like. I was at peace because I knew that since God had called me to take it, He would back me up and see me through it.
And so, as I read on the first morning before taking my first bus and train ride into the city, I put my devotions from that morning into practice. "But David strengthened himself in the LORD his God." (1 Samuel 30:6)
I had a lot of "impossibles" to face.
Over the next four weeks, I got to know and like my twelve classmates, who soon became eleven. Half of them were recent college graduates, with majors including Russian, Chinese, English, and Spanish. Another was a Muslim girl from the Midwest who has her degree in nursing ("This course is harder than nursing school," she confided in me. I wasn't sure I believed her, but it did help justify some of the stress I was feeling). My sister and I had opportunities to show her love. Once, after our class had been plotting on going bar hopping, I conspiratorially told her that I didn't want to go.
"I don't want to go bar hopping either," she said. "I don't drink."
"Neither do I."
In her ecstasy, she high fived me, and I was delighted to share such a bonding moment with her. I've heard that some Muslims tend to think of Christians as hypocrites who dress like Hollywood, eat pork, and drink alcohol, and I felt like I was able to show her that we're not all that way. As followers of Christ, we do have convictions about certain things; Muslims aren't the only ones who know how to make a stand in personal areas. I'm not saying you can't be a perfectly good Christian and drink alcohol. What I am saying is that if I didn't have that one small conviction in my life then I would never have been able to share such a bonding moment with my Muslim friend. By the end of the course, she told us that she used to think she would never like Christians if she ever met one, but getting to know us had changed her mind. We are not so very different. Different, yes, but not so very.
.
Besides my Muslim classmate, we also had a chic lady who informed us that she "works for the government." My sister had fun speculating that this meant the F.B.I or something, but I wouldn't make any claims here. Another was a tall, balding 40ish guy who kept calling his new German wife his "girlfriend." People got after him for it but he persisted. He often said some awkward things, but we loved him anyway (or some of us did).
"Hey, nice kids' pants," he smiled at the government lady.
"They're capris, Jim," our put-together ex-Catholic classmate told him, "they're quite stylish."
"It's okay if she wants to wear a ten-year-old's pants," Jim chuckled. "It doesn't bother me."
Yes, our class was very interesting. Whether bound for China, Sweden, Georgia, Spain, Brazil, South Korea, or the Middle East, we somehow made it to one place, sweat blood and tears side by side, and got along splendidly.
Except when swearing at each other in Arabic.
Which brings me to my group. In order to practice teaching, we taught live international students. They were divided into three levels on the intermediate scale, and our teacher class of twelve were divided into three groups so we could take turns teaching each level. We watched each other teach every day, took notes, gave feedback, and received feedback. Basically we were brothers and sisters for four weeks. My group began with five, but after the first week our lawyer lady dropped out. She was extremely distraught on her last day, and I had a chance to offer to pray for her and build her up before she dropped off the face of the earth and we heard no more of her. Another member of our group included a beautiful, stylish lass with a brilliant white smile, an ebullient personality, and an independent spirit. I felt a little bit like I was hanging out with my cousin Cara. Secondly, I got to know a guy who just graduated from college, can wiggle his scalp, knows all there is to know about linguistics and Russian, and flirts with the girls at the desk. He seemed smart and kind enough toward me, but he took a mischievous delight in tormenting the other ladies in our small group. Which brings me to the last character of our foursome, debatably my favorite.
I'll call her Marie.
When I first saw Marie, I thought she looked like a woman who had just stepped out of Whoville. A long, slightly snubbed nose, tall, and short white hair swooped back in the way a Dr. Seuss character might keep it. On the first day of class, we played a little icebreaker game where we had to go around with a sheet of unique facts and ask three questions of each person to determine which unique fact belonged to whom. When she was free, I stepped straight up to Marie and immediately asked, "Have you been engaged five times?"
Yes.
She promptly responded with, "Do you play the guitar, violin, and piano?"
Yes.
Thus we began our friendship understanding each other perfectly.
We were about as different as two people could be. She opened her mouth to speak in class at almost every opportunity. I did not. She had lived in Boston her entire life, couldn't stand living in Manchester for ten months because it was too small, and she lives in a house right near the highway so she can have the "white noise" of traffic. I am a country girl through and through. She knows a smattering of half a dozen languages, from old Russian (her parents' tongue) to Mandarin, and she knows how to swear and ask for beer in each of those languages. I only know a little Spanish, and I could barely swear in English even if I wanted to. She's in her forties and has been engaged five times. I'm twenty years younger and don't even have a boyfriend. She's tough and just quit working in construction where she taught rough guys in the classroom and held her own. Well, the toughest thing I've done is yelled at twenty-five teenagers to be quiet and told a girl to get out of a guy's lap at camp.
We were destined to be great friends.
One thing we did have in common: compassionate natures. Beneath her tough exterior, Marie has a heart of gold. The first thing that popped into both of our heads as to why we wanted to teach English was so that we could help people.
Marie also had a way of making me laugh, if for no other reason than that she was a good storyteller and I couldn't relate to her. After my second or third day of teaching, I sat down next to her after delivering my assigned topic of blind dates.
"You know, Kayla," Marie told me, "you almost made me want to go on a blind date again. The last time I went on a blind date was a long time ago. It was a Russian guy, and he came back with me to my apartment. But then he wouldn't leave! I said, 'What are you doing?!' And he said, "We're going to leeve together.' And I said, "Well, I'm sleeping on the couch!" And before I knew it he had filled my refrigerator with cheese and the bedroom with cheese (it's a Russian thing) and the place smelled--it was awful. Finally after three weeks I told him that if he didn't leave I was going to kill him! So he left. I know it was my own fault he stayed so long. I should have put my foot down right away." (very rough quote)
Marie and I also differ in our family situation. On the last day of our course, she shared with me how she hardly has any family in this country. All she has is a half brother, a father who doesn't care for her, and an uncle. That's all. She's been on her own since she was seventeen and in a way she's used to it, but there's still a part of her that never gets over it. A part of her that still feels lonely. A part that is partially missing.
Wow. Looking at my own close immediate and extended family, I can't even imagine how she must feel. At the same time, I think of my huge spiritual family and how special it is to be part of God's family. I long for Marie to experience that same sense of belonging.
Perhaps you'd like to know what a typical day on the CELTA course included for me. Well, between 6:15 and 6:55 a.m. I would arise, depending on how late I'd been up the night before. Get ready for the day, squeeze in a little Bible, print any papers I need, shove in some breakfast, and dash out the door at about 7:54. After a three minute trek to the bus station, two of which are spent at the crosswalk, we wait another five minutes for the bus. It pulls in, we hop on, and we're out of there for a ten-fifteen minute drive.
A word about bus drivers. I wanted to be friendly with every one I met, but once I gave a friendly hello to our bus driver and he just gave me an oily smile and leered at me behind his dark sunglasses. I decided to be a bit more choosy about who I lavished my cheerfulness on. However, our usual bus driver was my favorite. A lanky man wearing pants that were a little too short, he gave a casually warm "Good mohning" or "How ah ya" to each passenger in a perfect Boston accent.
I decided that I liked him.
On the bus I either did class prep (usually handwriting sources at the bottom of each student handout) or people watched. Off the bus we got and onto the train. Usually it was on the crowded side in the mornings and wasn't conducive for conversation, so I picked those twelve minutes or so to pray over the day and for the city of Boston. "This city for King Jesus" rang in my heart repeatedly.
Off the train, up the stairs, and into the bustling city of Boston. After awhile I started becoming downright fond of the busy streets crawling with people of every ethnicity and class, like so many ants striding down a channel of the earth. Past Starbucks brimming with early morning coffee lovers, around the corner and in the back door of Faneuil Hall.
From 9:00 to about 11:20 we had input sessions. These were basically lectures, but we learned a lot of teaching methods by having them practiced on us. From 11:30 to 12:00 we had lesson planning. This was our opportunity to go over our lessons for the next day in our small groups and ask our instructor any questions we had. As time went on we got less and less help. At 12:00 was lunch break if you were lucky enough to be able to eat. After not eating right on my second day I made a point of sitting down and eating every day, if only to maintain my health and sanity. After feverishly downing some food, we scurried about getting our lessons ready. At 1:00 teaching began and kept going until 3:00. We usually had about a fifteen minute break, then dove into feedback from 3:15 until we were finished, whether at 4:00 or 4:45. If you were smart or didn't have a copier at home, you stuck around for awhile like we did, often until 5:00 or 5:30. Then back out into the street and onto the train. If the day was nice and we weren't too stressed, we walked home from the train station, about a half hour walk. If not, we rode back on the bus. Into the house we ran, and usually took a slight breather to gobble dinner and check e-mail. Then into lesson planning we plunged, filling out grammar analysis sheets, procedure pages, phonemic scripts, coming up with things that could go wrong and solutions, inventing concept checking questions, finding visuals, and the like. For me, I was lucky if I finished and went to bed by 12:30 a.m. Between 1:00 and 2:00 was probably my average, though 2:30 was not unusual. 2:42 a.m. my record. Then I'd wake up four hours later, begging God to help me survive through another day of the same thing.
In spite of this, it was amazing. I found myself growing more than I could have imagined, and gaining more and more confidence. And I discovered that I loved teaching. But more especially, I loved my students. Whether from Morocco, Russia, or Brazil, they nestled into a special place in my heart and stayed there. I wanted nothing more than to see them succeed and have fun while doing it.
That is, when I wasn't sweating through class.
It wasn't the students who ever intimidated me. Most of them were warm, encouraging, and eager to learn. What was scary was that instructor sitting in the corner gauging my every move. If you sat in your chair too much, they'd say so. If you paced about the room too much, they'd write it down. If you echoed the students, turned your face to the board while talking, talked too much, moved the lesson too quickly or too slowly, didn't chest your handout, didn't keep your board work tidy, didn't get their attention quickly enough, didn't notice students getting off topic, went three minutes over, or a million other things that are impossible to remember at once unless you've been doing this for a long time, they would write it down. And of course each instructor had different definitions about things, such as what was a fast pace or a slow pace.
Maybe you can see another reason why this course is called "intense."
I found myself learning to trust God just one step at a time. I took each lesson day by day and clung to Him for survival. He was pretty much the only reason I didn't panic. Even though most of my devotional time was spent on the Sabbath, I felt more connected to God than usual because I was in almost constant prayer to make it through each day.
After two weeks of this, I summed up my week this way on Facebook (it was the best way I could describe it): When I had every reason to cry, I didn't. When I had every reason to feel overwhelmed, I wasn't. When I had every reason to drop from exhaustion, I didn't. Someone must have been praying for me, and Someone must have been answering, because when I've cried, I've cried over God's goodness, when I've been overwhelmed, I've been overwhelmed with peace, and when I was exhausted, I was exhausted thinking what it would be like if I didn't have the stamina of Christ coursing through me. Thanks be to God! (And may it continue for two more weeks!)
Crying over God's goodness was no joke. I read 1 Samuel 22 and tears started streaming, it seemed to describe exactly how I felt.
But it wasn't over yet.
On Sunday, I had two papers to write, and I felt drained. Just talking on the phone for two minutes to a stranger left me crippled emotionally. I was afraid to go to church because the effort to not cry while sitting on the front row seemed too huge. So at my parents' suggestion I stayed home and worked. And worked. Then rode back to Boston and worked some more.
The next morning it was too much, so I got smart and brought my feelings to God. I was pretty sure He answered, "Who said riding out with Me was always easy?" I remembered that God had called me to take this course, and in taking it I was carrying out His will and riding with Him in this small battle. Then the words to my own song came to me, "Trust Me, Elijah, I have a plan. Join Me in the wilderness."
This was a wilderness if I ever saw one. And I got to experience it with God.
By the time I got off of the train that morning, I had recommitted everything to Him.
It's only in His will that I am free, after all.
The fourth week was hard, but through Christ, it was bearable. I hardly knew what to do with myself after I had taught my last lesson. For the first time in nearly four weeks I didn't have something stressful hanging over my head every second! It was a freedom so foreign and so delicious.
Two days after CELTA ended, we left for NY and GA where we attended my friend Becca's high school graduation and my brother's wedding to one of my best friends. I had the privilege of being one of her bridesmaid's, and I had fun being helpful and wearing a gorgeous aqua summer dress that was made just for me. They got hitched outside, though not over the dead horse's grave like I had suggested. I wasn't too offended they didn't take me up on my idea though. Somehow it was a joyous occasion anyway.
I would say a lot more, but frankly everything was so blissful I don't think I could quite capture it, and this post is gargantuan already. I could speak of how Jane's brother Jeff accidentally made his car alarm go off while acting out a story about Jane or how the bridal party started getting ready at 5:30 a.m. or how ants were crawling all over my feet during the wedding and it took all of my composure to keep myself from leaping about during the ceremony or how I borrowed a friend's guitar and sang my heart out in the new gazebo after everyone was gone until I gave myself a blister or how I got to comfort my crying brother one last time on the eve of his wedding day. But that would take too much time. And if you've gotten this far in the post, you are probably already getting bored.
After we got back from the wedding, I had two days. Two days to job dig. I had already made about a dozen phone calls in the car looking for teaching jobs, to no avail. So I checked Craig's list, the newspaper, and on-line sites. I applied, I e-mailed, I called. Nothing worked out. I so badly wanted to do everything I could to find a job that it took me awhile to realize I had to trust God to help me find a job as well. Having done everything I could for the time being, I decided to wait on Him.
So I decided to run drama for the Family Convention again. Tackling it for my third time, I chose to be smart this time. No more trying the run the show on my own. Regular consultations with God were in order, and together we planned drama day by day. God is the Source of creativity, so to that Source I fled. Often I didn't know what we were going to be doing that day or the next, but somehow I made it through, despite late nights, tense mornings, little food, and having to continually surrender it to the Lord.
At the same time, I had a lot of fun. It's funny how stressful things and fun things can coincide so closely.
Also, during the Family Convention, I came to truly appreciate the fellowship I experienced. Whether it was getting to listen to or unload feelings to Katie or Kimberly, listening to and encouraging Emily or Sarah as they graduate from high school, having one-on-one conversations with my buddies Meredith or Klara, or just having a short connection with Mr. Brown or young Chloe, I was grateful for the Body of Christ. Especially when some of us got to stay up until 12:30 a.m. playing volleyball outside.
A couple days after the Family Convention ended, my family went to a camp in Maine for vacation. Ah, what euphoria to sit in the sun on a rocking dock and devour hours of Dickens and fantasy fiction! Plus plundering yard sales, going on a boat ride, and getting some coveted exercise. I started gaining back the 4-8 pounds I'd lost this spring (which is a good thing).
Since then, things have been a bit more quiet. Quite the contrast to the first part of my summer. I've had doctors' appointments to get ready for college, I've filled out sundry paperwork, I've helped out a little at my school, I've made Clyde and Jane's wedding present, and I've worked. I didn't find a "real" job (despite filling out yet another application), but I am occasionally babysitting and helping take care of an elderly lady in our church. She's a dear thing and very easy to please; perhaps later I'll share an anecdote or two about working with her.
Besides that, I attended a Summer Bible school here (a grand time to study the book of I John with about thirty other youngish people). It was also another great opportunity to lap up more Christian fellowship. I felt quite boosted getting to sing, laugh, canoe, pray, dance in the rain, and share our hearts.
Then I took a spontaneous road trip to NY and PA by myself. Simply because I could. And because I wanted to see people and to do something with myself. And because I was pretty sure God put it in my heart to do it. I folded piles and piles of laundry, chased cows, flipped hamburgers, went swimming in the creek, hiked to a waterfall, studied the Bible, star gazed, went to campfire and graduation parties, went to the Imax, grocery shopped, and drank smoothies--all with people I was happy to reunite with or meet (with the exception of the laundry). Also, it was the longest I'd driven by myself. I made the most of it by playing my music very loudly and singing as loud as I could, whether it was Newsies, Jamie Grace, Josh Turner, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, or Rascal Flatts. I have some eclectic music tastes.
And that pretty much sums up my summer, except for all the roller coaster drama of the unknown future school year. I'll probably write more of that later. However, I just wanted to take this opportunity to look back and share some of my summer memories. They are so many and scattered I feel like it would take months to write a really good post about them, so I'll just settle for this patchy job instead. Now you know a little more about my recent life, whether you wanted to or not. But hey, I guess if you got this far then you must have wanted to. Unless you're just plain weird or masochistic.
However, this is more than just about my life. You see, through it all, I see a common thread: the faithfulness of God. He has been so good to me, in big ways and little ways.
Sometimes it's good to look back and remember it.
I saw my summer, and it was very good.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Homesick
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, January 07, 2012
Not the God of Second Best
"And Abraham said to God, 'Oh that Ishmael might live before you!' God said, 'No, but Sarah your wife shall bear you a son, and you shall call his name Isaac.'" (Genesis 17:18-19)
Although sometimes called the Father of Faith, Abraham seems to be faltering a little here. Abraham is old. He's dreamed of having a son all his life. God says he'll give Abraham something special (his own dream!), and Abraham, full of longing, says, "Oh that Ishmael might live before you!"
What?!?
In other words, he's saying, "Isn't this good enough? You don't have to give me something better."
Or, "Here. This is what I came up with, I think I'd rather have the fruit of my efforts rather than Yours."
Does God settle for this "solution"? Of course not! God is not a God of second best or human effort. He is the God of all that's Best. And only He has the power to produce it.
So often we're like Abraham in this story. We're happy to settle for our product which is "good enough," but it never works very well. As we toy with mud pies of pleasure, God yearns to give us feasts of infinite delight. He might let us settle for our mud pies for a little while, but He's waiting for us to realize how silly they are and come to Him for something More.
Will we be quick to do so?
Although sometimes called the Father of Faith, Abraham seems to be faltering a little here. Abraham is old. He's dreamed of having a son all his life. God says he'll give Abraham something special (his own dream!), and Abraham, full of longing, says, "Oh that Ishmael might live before you!"
What?!?
In other words, he's saying, "Isn't this good enough? You don't have to give me something better."
Or, "Here. This is what I came up with, I think I'd rather have the fruit of my efforts rather than Yours."
Does God settle for this "solution"? Of course not! God is not a God of second best or human effort. He is the God of all that's Best. And only He has the power to produce it.
So often we're like Abraham in this story. We're happy to settle for our product which is "good enough," but it never works very well. As we toy with mud pies of pleasure, God yearns to give us feasts of infinite delight. He might let us settle for our mud pies for a little while, but He's waiting for us to realize how silly they are and come to Him for something More.
Will we be quick to do so?
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Prayer
By C.S. Lewis
Master, they say that when I seem
To be in speech with you,
Since you make no replies, it's all a dream
--One talker aping two.
They are half right, but not as they
Imagine; rather, I
Seek in myself the things I meant to say,
And lo! the wells are dry.
Then, seeing me empty, you forsake
The Listener's role, and through
My dead lips breathe and into utterance wake
The thoughts I never knew.
And thus you neither need reply
Nor can; thus, while we seem
Two talking, thou art One forever, and I
No dreamer, but thy dream.
By C.S. Lewis
Master, they say that when I seem
To be in speech with you,
Since you make no replies, it's all a dream
--One talker aping two.
They are half right, but not as they
Imagine; rather, I
Seek in myself the things I meant to say,
And lo! the wells are dry.
Then, seeing me empty, you forsake
The Listener's role, and through
My dead lips breathe and into utterance wake
The thoughts I never knew.
And thus you neither need reply
Nor can; thus, while we seem
Two talking, thou art One forever, and I
No dreamer, but thy dream.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Answers
God usually has four answers to our prayers:
"Yes."
"No."
"Wait."
Or, "I've got something better."
When I was six years old, I all but prayed that I would get to be a flower girl. Some of my best friends got to be flower girls (multiple times!), but not I. One of my friends even received a great prize in exchange for donning a beautiful dress, dropping flower petals, and briefly being the center of attention: a dark wood jewelry box with a little white ballerina inside that danced endearingly to a charming tinkle when you opened the lid. And I coveted that flowery status. My consolation came in realizing that when my oldest siblings got married, I would be guaranteed the high ranking position of flower girl in their wedding(s). Every fiber in my being longed for it. I don't remember praying about it, but I wouldn't be surprised if I did. I waited for God's answer.
Fourteen years later, He's asked, "How about being a bridesmaid instead?"
In my first wedding with a dear girl friend and a dear brother getting hitched to each other. What more could I ask?
God's answers are always better than what we had envisioned ourselves.
"Yes."
"No."
"Wait."
Or, "I've got something better."
When I was six years old, I all but prayed that I would get to be a flower girl. Some of my best friends got to be flower girls (multiple times!), but not I. One of my friends even received a great prize in exchange for donning a beautiful dress, dropping flower petals, and briefly being the center of attention: a dark wood jewelry box with a little white ballerina inside that danced endearingly to a charming tinkle when you opened the lid. And I coveted that flowery status. My consolation came in realizing that when my oldest siblings got married, I would be guaranteed the high ranking position of flower girl in their wedding(s). Every fiber in my being longed for it. I don't remember praying about it, but I wouldn't be surprised if I did. I waited for God's answer.
Fourteen years later, He's asked, "How about being a bridesmaid instead?"
In my first wedding with a dear girl friend and a dear brother getting hitched to each other. What more could I ask?
God's answers are always better than what we had envisioned ourselves.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
God's robust generosity
*Hustle*bustle*hustle*bustle
Do these make real sounds? Probably a "hustle" sounds like rapid footfalls, while a "bustle" sounds like huge 19th century skirts swishing. At least that's what I think.
As I hustle into one store and bustle into the next, sights, sounds, and thoughts pepper me from every direction. I see the young blonde lady in an automatic wheelchair, her cart bulging with pillows, accompanied by a black-coated man with a strange accent. I hear the grandmother telling her chubby grandson to put the mouth-watering Pringles back on the shelf.
"He's five years old and thinks money grows on trees," she tells the lady next to her.
"My son is 23 and he still thinks money grows on trees," another lady replies. They chuckle.
I stare at the item (it's not Christmas yet and the internet has ears), debating whether or not to get it. "Money is like manure," I comfort myself with the saying passed on from some family friends. "It doesn't do anybody any good unless you spread it all around." I pick up the item and stride toward the register. But what about this other person? Am I not spending enough money on them while I spend it on this person? I poke myself inwardly for thinking this way. Am I being too materialistic?
So many people hate Christmas. So many make fun of it as a pagan holiday, twisted by department stores to prey on mankind's greed. What am I motivated by, materialism or love?
In the midst of these conflicting thoughts, another penetrates: God gave generously. He gave us Jesus. For those with a personal relationship with Him, Christmas is never about materialism. It's about imitating our Creator by giving freely as He gave. Freely ye've received, now freely give!
Of course, I've known for ages that Christmas was about giving, not getting. Yet still the thrill of opening that package with my name on it continued to enamor me as a child. I tried to hide my selfish excitement, but it still glowed and bubbled beneath the surface, like a pet monster breathing underwater. It was difficult to mollify the cute beast whenever I talked to friends after Christmas. It seemed like no matter how nice my presents were, theirs were always a little nicer. I let my cute monster turn green and I hated myself for it as I tried desperately to be content with what I had. It wasn't my friends' fault if their dads made more money than mine did.
Why am I writing this? I'm not sure. Perhaps because I've realized that receiving presents no longer holds the same electric appeal to me. The euphoria is gone. Not that gifts don't bless me when they're given in love, but I've realized that they don't satisfy. They're empty wind. In contrast, giving is bringing increasing joy. Yes, I worry briefly as I watch money slide through my fingers every Christmas, but God is able to provide. He provided a lamb for Abraham when he nearly offered Isaac. He provided His Son when no other solution was possible. My God gives generously. Why shouldn't I?
I am glad our family doesn't draw names for Christmas. I can see why big families want to save money and not be drawn into materialism by flooding their home with unneeded gifts, but it's not the gifts that we need. It's the giving of them. If you want to save money, give in full faith and love. God doesn't like to be outdone in the giving department--He'll see that you're taken care of. I've seen this happen over and over again just in my small experience (though I'm not recommending foolish, out of the Spirit giving either). And don't just give to one person. If God gave His Son to save one person then where would we be?
For the thousandth and first time, Christmas isn't about getting. It's about giving. It may be hard to convince an eight-year-old of this but anyone older who has felt the euphoria of getting presents die knows what I'm talking about.
Christmas is God's object lesson for His people. Don't spoil it by keeping it half-heartedly. Exercise the same robust generosity that God did, even if it hurts. It hurt Him. It was worth it to Him. Is it worth it to us?
I hand over the money (hey, it's not mine anyway!) to the cashier, and warm with pleasure as I think about giving my prize to a loved one. Could this be a small picture of how God felt, and of how He feels today? I don't know, but it makes spending the money a lot easier.
And it makes Christmas just a little more beautiful.
Do these make real sounds? Probably a "hustle" sounds like rapid footfalls, while a "bustle" sounds like huge 19th century skirts swishing. At least that's what I think.
As I hustle into one store and bustle into the next, sights, sounds, and thoughts pepper me from every direction. I see the young blonde lady in an automatic wheelchair, her cart bulging with pillows, accompanied by a black-coated man with a strange accent. I hear the grandmother telling her chubby grandson to put the mouth-watering Pringles back on the shelf.
"He's five years old and thinks money grows on trees," she tells the lady next to her.
"My son is 23 and he still thinks money grows on trees," another lady replies. They chuckle.
I stare at the item (it's not Christmas yet and the internet has ears), debating whether or not to get it. "Money is like manure," I comfort myself with the saying passed on from some family friends. "It doesn't do anybody any good unless you spread it all around." I pick up the item and stride toward the register. But what about this other person? Am I not spending enough money on them while I spend it on this person? I poke myself inwardly for thinking this way. Am I being too materialistic?
So many people hate Christmas. So many make fun of it as a pagan holiday, twisted by department stores to prey on mankind's greed. What am I motivated by, materialism or love?
In the midst of these conflicting thoughts, another penetrates: God gave generously. He gave us Jesus. For those with a personal relationship with Him, Christmas is never about materialism. It's about imitating our Creator by giving freely as He gave. Freely ye've received, now freely give!
Of course, I've known for ages that Christmas was about giving, not getting. Yet still the thrill of opening that package with my name on it continued to enamor me as a child. I tried to hide my selfish excitement, but it still glowed and bubbled beneath the surface, like a pet monster breathing underwater. It was difficult to mollify the cute beast whenever I talked to friends after Christmas. It seemed like no matter how nice my presents were, theirs were always a little nicer. I let my cute monster turn green and I hated myself for it as I tried desperately to be content with what I had. It wasn't my friends' fault if their dads made more money than mine did.
Why am I writing this? I'm not sure. Perhaps because I've realized that receiving presents no longer holds the same electric appeal to me. The euphoria is gone. Not that gifts don't bless me when they're given in love, but I've realized that they don't satisfy. They're empty wind. In contrast, giving is bringing increasing joy. Yes, I worry briefly as I watch money slide through my fingers every Christmas, but God is able to provide. He provided a lamb for Abraham when he nearly offered Isaac. He provided His Son when no other solution was possible. My God gives generously. Why shouldn't I?
I am glad our family doesn't draw names for Christmas. I can see why big families want to save money and not be drawn into materialism by flooding their home with unneeded gifts, but it's not the gifts that we need. It's the giving of them. If you want to save money, give in full faith and love. God doesn't like to be outdone in the giving department--He'll see that you're taken care of. I've seen this happen over and over again just in my small experience (though I'm not recommending foolish, out of the Spirit giving either). And don't just give to one person. If God gave His Son to save one person then where would we be?
For the thousandth and first time, Christmas isn't about getting. It's about giving. It may be hard to convince an eight-year-old of this but anyone older who has felt the euphoria of getting presents die knows what I'm talking about.
Christmas is God's object lesson for His people. Don't spoil it by keeping it half-heartedly. Exercise the same robust generosity that God did, even if it hurts. It hurt Him. It was worth it to Him. Is it worth it to us?
I hand over the money (hey, it's not mine anyway!) to the cashier, and warm with pleasure as I think about giving my prize to a loved one. Could this be a small picture of how God felt, and of how He feels today? I don't know, but it makes spending the money a lot easier.
And it makes Christmas just a little more beautiful.
Friday, September 09, 2011
An unusual day
Voldemort was back. The devil personified, he hid himself in an upstairs room while gradually gathering followers. Not only that, but he had somehow managed to hoodwink Christian followers--my friends! I only learned of it because my best friend told me she was invited to see him. Well, I did not fight so hard to see him destroyed only to sit back and watch him regroup! I marched right up into the upstairs room where he was and sat down uninvited. Before I knew it I was resisting the devil in the name of Jesus and honoring the blood of Jesus right in his face and in front of all those people in that little room.
I woke, my own fervent prayers having disturbed my slumber, then peacefully went back to sleep, knowing the Enemy had been vanquished.
Even I am disturbed by the ferocity of this dream. No doubt you are either laughing or thinking that I am very strange. I, on the other hand, feel like doing both. However, at the same time I am extremely thankful that the name of Jesus is just as powerful in nightmares as it is in real life. It's good to have your sword ready for any moment.
And thus began a very interesting day which I will sum up quite briefly:
I read my Bible and was reminded how desperately I need God every minute.
I nearly panicked when my dad called me three minutes before my departure time to tell me he still had the car in town. Thankfully my sister came to the rescue and let me use her car so I was able to just make it on time to . . .
A hair appointment! Yes, I used a coupon and got a free shampoo and cut. Nothing major, but it's delightfully fresh. Even more interesting was the conversation I engaged in with the hair salon lady . . .
Who turned out to be a Jehovah's Witness! We had an interesting time talking about the Bible and the end times. It was a perfect opportunity to ask some questions and show the love of Christ. Then I drove home and rode out again with my dad to . . .
The jail! Actually, I didn't go in. But we discussed Jehovah's Witnesses a lot on the way. Instead of turning myself in, I rode on to town and stocked up on a few supplies before school starts. I also by some miracle . . .
Got a large matted frame at Michael's for only $4.19! I could hardly believe it when it rang up at such a low price. Now a late Christmas present for Kate S. can finally be delivered. After that I went to Target, and having no success finding a skirt hanger, I . . .
Used my Starbucks gift card! I slurped my caramel frappucino contentedly as I strolled about . . .
Loading my arms full of books at Borders! They are going out of business so all their merchandise is 70 to 80% off! I just grabbed whatever struck my fancy, then spent a long time figuring out what I could sensibly afford. I parted reluctantly with some of my choices, but still came away with eight books, all but two of which were under four dollars! Then I drove toward home and . . .
Picked up my daddy!
Then I ate liver, practiced my rare broad-stroking skills in cleaning, made lemon meringue pie, and the Sabbath came. It was like a machine gun of events.
Grand things can happen when the sun thrusts back the cobwebby clouds.
I woke, my own fervent prayers having disturbed my slumber, then peacefully went back to sleep, knowing the Enemy had been vanquished.
Even I am disturbed by the ferocity of this dream. No doubt you are either laughing or thinking that I am very strange. I, on the other hand, feel like doing both. However, at the same time I am extremely thankful that the name of Jesus is just as powerful in nightmares as it is in real life. It's good to have your sword ready for any moment.
And thus began a very interesting day which I will sum up quite briefly:
I read my Bible and was reminded how desperately I need God every minute.
I nearly panicked when my dad called me three minutes before my departure time to tell me he still had the car in town. Thankfully my sister came to the rescue and let me use her car so I was able to just make it on time to . . .
A hair appointment! Yes, I used a coupon and got a free shampoo and cut. Nothing major, but it's delightfully fresh. Even more interesting was the conversation I engaged in with the hair salon lady . . .
Who turned out to be a Jehovah's Witness! We had an interesting time talking about the Bible and the end times. It was a perfect opportunity to ask some questions and show the love of Christ. Then I drove home and rode out again with my dad to . . .
The jail! Actually, I didn't go in. But we discussed Jehovah's Witnesses a lot on the way. Instead of turning myself in, I rode on to town and stocked up on a few supplies before school starts. I also by some miracle . . .
Got a large matted frame at Michael's for only $4.19! I could hardly believe it when it rang up at such a low price. Now a late Christmas present for Kate S. can finally be delivered. After that I went to Target, and having no success finding a skirt hanger, I . . .
Used my Starbucks gift card! I slurped my caramel frappucino contentedly as I strolled about . . .
Loading my arms full of books at Borders! They are going out of business so all their merchandise is 70 to 80% off! I just grabbed whatever struck my fancy, then spent a long time figuring out what I could sensibly afford. I parted reluctantly with some of my choices, but still came away with eight books, all but two of which were under four dollars! Then I drove toward home and . . .
Picked up my daddy!
Then I ate liver, practiced my rare broad-stroking skills in cleaning, made lemon meringue pie, and the Sabbath came. It was like a machine gun of events.
Grand things can happen when the sun thrusts back the cobwebby clouds.
Thursday, September 08, 2011
Eternity in our hearts
Wow.
Sometimes there are feelings one can't capture. But maybe I'll be stupid enough to try.
However, in order to make any sense at all, I must make an enormous confession. It could shock, maim, or stupefy.
Are you ready?
Okay.
I've now read the whole Harry Potter series.
Yes, yes! I know! At this point you are staggering under the blow, offended or stumbled. Or you're rolling your eyes and muttering that it's about time I caught up with my generation.
Enough drama.
After observing one or two of my siblings trying the series for the first time, I discussed it with my parents and warily commenced reading, on guard for anything that might try hoodwinking me into thinking something abominable. I am not here to debate all of the positive and negative aspects of the series. Suffice it to say that Harry Potter has morals akin to Jack Bauer, and as I would rather my ten-year-old didn't immerse himself in Jack Bauer's ends-justify-the-means mentality, neither would I let him read Harry Potter and get duped into thinking he's always a great guy.
However, as I devoured the last book, my breathing short, I felt something stir within me. Something I couldn't name. And then I was done, closing the back cover with a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. I laid the book down in the wee hours of the morning, my mind racing. And soon after that, something like despair set in. Despair that the series that I've long enjoyed over the summer is over (now what do I look forward to?:). Despair that the story came so close to hitting the mark, and yet barely fell short. And despair that if I ever wanted to write a story like that which actually did hit the mark, I could never make it that good.
What made the book fall short? Simply this: it didn't express a love for the truth. It expressed a great deal of other powerful things, but that one important thing was lacking. Oh yes, there was truth sprinkled in all right, but why does Harry Potter have to be such a liar? Why did he have to resort (however rarely) to using one or two of the Dark side's tools/curses?
And yet there is so much truth that the story displays: an epic battle of good versus evil, the power of faithful friends who are willing to die for you even when they don't know what's going on, and the power of love--more importantly, the power of sacrificial love. The final movie (which I just saw in Imax 3D = awesome) doesn't even emphasize this last part, but the book does. Something stirs within me when I think about all of it.
And then I remember the power that art has over the spirit. And I remember that God has put eternity in our hearts. Whatever it is, God has placed a yearning within us that knows deep inside that in the end there is going to be a Battle. The Enemy has yet to succeed in making cowardice a positive attribute, and so stories of courage thrill our hearts still. We long to see good triumph over evil, and we easily experience fear, tragedy, or exhilaration in the description of a battle because we know we are meant to be a part of the Battle.
Love has been twisted and idolized in our society, but in stories like this we know what real love is. As Someone so eloquently put it, "Greater love hath no man than this, than he who lays down his life for his friends." I don't want to spoil the story of Harry Potter for someone who hasn't read it yet, but this happens. In a climax so poignant, a life is willingly given up, making no defense, and people are magically shielded as a result. Sound familiar? If I hadn't heard that the author has questions about God, I would have thought it was quite purposeful, except the point isn't emphasized strongly. It almost hits the bull's eye right on, but the (dishonest) hero finishes the villain off and the Gospel connotations are left hanging and unnoticed.
Despite this discouraging fact, I am still amazed. Amazed that this redemptive analogy, in the midst of the gripping heat of a battle, is actually present. I guess it shouldn't surprise me in our Western Judeo-Christian society, but one has to admit that over the past thirty years our Western world has largely become pagan. And here, in the midst of what some Christians would deem a pagan, wicked story . . . is the Gospel staring you right in the face. Jesus Christ gave His life, making no effort to defend Himself. He not only laid His life down for His friends, but also for His enemies. And because of that precious blood that He spilled for others, we who believe are magically shielded from the Enemy's worst curses.
Mind you, the analogy between Harry Potter and Jesus Christ very quickly breaks down. Very quickly. I've already alluded to Harry's tendency to lie and not behave ethically. However, the story as a whole still resonates a chord within me, and it astounds me that just as God can take a pagan ritual in the jungles of New Guinea and insert truth about Himself that prepares the hearers for the Real Truth (see Don Richardson and the Perspectives on the World Christian Movement course on "redemptive analogies"), so can He insert truth about Himself in the pagan story of Harry Potter, even if the author had absolutely no intention of doing so. We long for Truth, and although not as palate-cleansing as Narnia or Lord of the Rings, we find an imperfect yet intact measure of it in a fanatically popular story like Harry Potter.
The story resonates with us for a reason. God has put eternity into our hearts.
What an amazing God we serve!
Again, wow.
Sometimes there are feelings one can't capture. But maybe I'll be stupid enough to try.
However, in order to make any sense at all, I must make an enormous confession. It could shock, maim, or stupefy.
Are you ready?
Okay.
I've now read the whole Harry Potter series.
Yes, yes! I know! At this point you are staggering under the blow, offended or stumbled. Or you're rolling your eyes and muttering that it's about time I caught up with my generation.
Enough drama.
After observing one or two of my siblings trying the series for the first time, I discussed it with my parents and warily commenced reading, on guard for anything that might try hoodwinking me into thinking something abominable. I am not here to debate all of the positive and negative aspects of the series. Suffice it to say that Harry Potter has morals akin to Jack Bauer, and as I would rather my ten-year-old didn't immerse himself in Jack Bauer's ends-justify-the-means mentality, neither would I let him read Harry Potter and get duped into thinking he's always a great guy.
However, as I devoured the last book, my breathing short, I felt something stir within me. Something I couldn't name. And then I was done, closing the back cover with a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. I laid the book down in the wee hours of the morning, my mind racing. And soon after that, something like despair set in. Despair that the series that I've long enjoyed over the summer is over (now what do I look forward to?:). Despair that the story came so close to hitting the mark, and yet barely fell short. And despair that if I ever wanted to write a story like that which actually did hit the mark, I could never make it that good.
What made the book fall short? Simply this: it didn't express a love for the truth. It expressed a great deal of other powerful things, but that one important thing was lacking. Oh yes, there was truth sprinkled in all right, but why does Harry Potter have to be such a liar? Why did he have to resort (however rarely) to using one or two of the Dark side's tools/curses?
And yet there is so much truth that the story displays: an epic battle of good versus evil, the power of faithful friends who are willing to die for you even when they don't know what's going on, and the power of love--more importantly, the power of sacrificial love. The final movie (which I just saw in Imax 3D = awesome) doesn't even emphasize this last part, but the book does. Something stirs within me when I think about all of it.
And then I remember the power that art has over the spirit. And I remember that God has put eternity in our hearts. Whatever it is, God has placed a yearning within us that knows deep inside that in the end there is going to be a Battle. The Enemy has yet to succeed in making cowardice a positive attribute, and so stories of courage thrill our hearts still. We long to see good triumph over evil, and we easily experience fear, tragedy, or exhilaration in the description of a battle because we know we are meant to be a part of the Battle.
Love has been twisted and idolized in our society, but in stories like this we know what real love is. As Someone so eloquently put it, "Greater love hath no man than this, than he who lays down his life for his friends." I don't want to spoil the story of Harry Potter for someone who hasn't read it yet, but this happens. In a climax so poignant, a life is willingly given up, making no defense, and people are magically shielded as a result. Sound familiar? If I hadn't heard that the author has questions about God, I would have thought it was quite purposeful, except the point isn't emphasized strongly. It almost hits the bull's eye right on, but the (dishonest) hero finishes the villain off and the Gospel connotations are left hanging and unnoticed.
Despite this discouraging fact, I am still amazed. Amazed that this redemptive analogy, in the midst of the gripping heat of a battle, is actually present. I guess it shouldn't surprise me in our Western Judeo-Christian society, but one has to admit that over the past thirty years our Western world has largely become pagan. And here, in the midst of what some Christians would deem a pagan, wicked story . . . is the Gospel staring you right in the face. Jesus Christ gave His life, making no effort to defend Himself. He not only laid His life down for His friends, but also for His enemies. And because of that precious blood that He spilled for others, we who believe are magically shielded from the Enemy's worst curses.
Mind you, the analogy between Harry Potter and Jesus Christ very quickly breaks down. Very quickly. I've already alluded to Harry's tendency to lie and not behave ethically. However, the story as a whole still resonates a chord within me, and it astounds me that just as God can take a pagan ritual in the jungles of New Guinea and insert truth about Himself that prepares the hearers for the Real Truth (see Don Richardson and the Perspectives on the World Christian Movement course on "redemptive analogies"), so can He insert truth about Himself in the pagan story of Harry Potter, even if the author had absolutely no intention of doing so. We long for Truth, and although not as palate-cleansing as Narnia or Lord of the Rings, we find an imperfect yet intact measure of it in a fanatically popular story like Harry Potter.
The story resonates with us for a reason. God has put eternity into our hearts.
What an amazing God we serve!
Again, wow.
Monday, September 05, 2011
A Noble Profession
In the course of my life I have formed a glorious opinion: the artist is one of the most noble occupations one can have. Unfortunately, in the course of my life I have also come to a tragic conclusion: the artist's job is one of the hardest of all. Probably every outer instinct you possess is reacting to my theories. I say "outer instinct" because you haven't stopped fully to think. Let me explain myself.
There are many noble occupations in the world that I value. The construction worker is just as important as the farmer because while without one we would starve, without the other we wouldn't be able to travel to the store and keep ourselves from starving. The janitor is just as key as the doctor because while without one we'd have no way to be cured, without the other we'd have so much filth that there would be too much sickness to even try to cure it. Such jobs and countless others are vital in proper care of the body, but we all know that the body is temporary.
Teachers! Ah, yes! Where would we be without them? I would not be writing this and you would not be reading if we hadn't had teachers to pass on knowledge and to mold our young minds into sharp, thinking instruments. And yet--there is so much more to life than just head knowledge.
Artists, on the other hand, don't seem to have direct impact on the mind and they seem to have even less on the body. Or so it seems. We admire a spectacular painting, breathe in the soft strains of a sweet melody, or delve into another world inside a book, and when we leave the art we've been exposing ourselves to, any onlooker might say we were no different. In fact, what have we gained? We cannot silence a rumbling stomach with a painting nor staunch the flowing blood of the wounded with a tonic chord. A story doesn't usually teach us that C6H12O6 is glucose; our minds seem to have barely expanded. And yet we've already agreed that the body is temporary, and there's more to life than what you know.
So what does last?
The fact is, there's something deeper than the body and deeper than the mind. The spirit (or heart) and soul are the essence of a person. Now, I'm no theologian or psychologist. I'm not going to explain and dissect where one begins and the other ends. But I'm just as confident that they exist as I am that there's a North Pole, even though I have never seen it and don't fully understand how it works. The soul is the deepest part of you, where it surrenders itself is where you will spend eternity. But personally, I believe that there's something that's almost as deep but not quite as deep, and that's your spirit. It is loosely linked with your personality and even more loosely connected with your emotions. It is the outermost shell of your soul. This is getting way more abstract than I wanted to go, but bear with me.
How do you respond to a fine work of art? Does it make your heart beat faster, your breathing slow down? Does it fill you with excitement or awe? Why? You may have a difficult time explaining this. There is no outward reason your body should respond or your emotions fluctuate as you bask in the art. The only reason I can think of is that something within you is responding. As the beauty of what you are seeing, or listening to, or reading calls out to you, something inside of you is answering. That something is your spirit. As the art is reflecting the wonder of a Creator, we, as created beings, are responding naturally, drawn to the creation that so clearly cries, "Look! I am beautiful! Somebody made me! And I'm reflecting my ultimate Maker!" And if our spirits are tuned in to this voice, our automatic result is worship. We leave the room exactly the same on the outside, but forever changed on the inside.
Needless to say, the Enemy doesn't like this.
Anything that ministers to our spirits is going to face resistance from the powers of darkness. Why? Firstly, our spirits are just a small step away from our souls, and the Enemy wants these under his prickly belt. If he wants to get his sticky fingers on our souls then he will undoubtedly set out to crush our spirits. Once this shell is punctured his opportunities widen. Secondly, anything that even remotely inspires worship of the true Creator is to be discouraged.
And so the battle rages. I am not here to debate what constitutes good or bad art, but I think many Christians can agree that much art is crudely twisted. Paintings swirl into pornography, melodies of heaven crunch into sounds of hell, tales of valor morph into subtle promotions of deceit.
You would think with so much bad art more Christians would be inspired to counterbalance it. However, here's where Satan has stepped in again. He has taken one of the most noble professions (ministering to the spirit) and has projected it as an elevated hobby. He convinces people that you have to have a rare talent to ever make a go at being an artist. He discourages adults who were prolific artists as children by embarrassing them with their crude style. He depicts artists as feeble wanderers who can barely scratch out a living until the picture has almost turned into a reality. He impresses the importance of "real jobs" like banking and cooking while minimizing your art so much that you feel obliged to put it at the bottom of your priority list. "It's really a waste of time, after all," you tell yourself sadly, then you go for a run, go to work, feed the dog, and fritter away the rest of your time on the Internet.
But is art really a waste of time?
No.
And again I say, "No."
What's more important than ministering to one's spirit? I can think of only a few professions off the top of my head that go deeper than helping just the body and mind: those involved in ministry, and parents. If you're a missionary or pastor your priority is the soul, the core of man. It is possible to be a missionary and a teacher, or police man, or secretary, or anything else, I know, so many of us may already be missionaries even if we don't realize it. These people are vital, caring for souls as well as bodies, minds, and spirits as long as they remain focused. Parents too are essential because they appeal to the bodies, spirits, and souls of their children in a "controlled" mission field. The artist, however, need not distract himself with caring for the body. No sirree, they can target the spirit right away and by the blessing of God stir the spirit into worship. And if the Holy Spirit is in it, that spirit may be softened into unfolding its delicate petals and surrendering the soul within to its Maker.
This idea may indeed be fantasized, I'll not pretend otherwise. But like every story of true art, I believe such fantasies contains gems of truth truer than any spoken. So if you're an artist of any sort, take courage. Your work is more important than you know. And as warped as the world's appetites have become, they are hungry for the true art you have to give them. I say this to myself more than anybody else: don't let them go hungry. Don't be afraid to put forth your art as a testimony to the Creator. Naturally speaking I'm scared sick to do this because I know I don't have what it takes to be a great artist. But greatness doesn't matter. It's the real Artist that does.
Think of Him and the impact you can have together.
There are many noble occupations in the world that I value. The construction worker is just as important as the farmer because while without one we would starve, without the other we wouldn't be able to travel to the store and keep ourselves from starving. The janitor is just as key as the doctor because while without one we'd have no way to be cured, without the other we'd have so much filth that there would be too much sickness to even try to cure it. Such jobs and countless others are vital in proper care of the body, but we all know that the body is temporary.
Teachers! Ah, yes! Where would we be without them? I would not be writing this and you would not be reading if we hadn't had teachers to pass on knowledge and to mold our young minds into sharp, thinking instruments. And yet--there is so much more to life than just head knowledge.
Artists, on the other hand, don't seem to have direct impact on the mind and they seem to have even less on the body. Or so it seems. We admire a spectacular painting, breathe in the soft strains of a sweet melody, or delve into another world inside a book, and when we leave the art we've been exposing ourselves to, any onlooker might say we were no different. In fact, what have we gained? We cannot silence a rumbling stomach with a painting nor staunch the flowing blood of the wounded with a tonic chord. A story doesn't usually teach us that C6H12O6 is glucose; our minds seem to have barely expanded. And yet we've already agreed that the body is temporary, and there's more to life than what you know.
So what does last?
The fact is, there's something deeper than the body and deeper than the mind. The spirit (or heart) and soul are the essence of a person. Now, I'm no theologian or psychologist. I'm not going to explain and dissect where one begins and the other ends. But I'm just as confident that they exist as I am that there's a North Pole, even though I have never seen it and don't fully understand how it works. The soul is the deepest part of you, where it surrenders itself is where you will spend eternity. But personally, I believe that there's something that's almost as deep but not quite as deep, and that's your spirit. It is loosely linked with your personality and even more loosely connected with your emotions. It is the outermost shell of your soul. This is getting way more abstract than I wanted to go, but bear with me.
How do you respond to a fine work of art? Does it make your heart beat faster, your breathing slow down? Does it fill you with excitement or awe? Why? You may have a difficult time explaining this. There is no outward reason your body should respond or your emotions fluctuate as you bask in the art. The only reason I can think of is that something within you is responding. As the beauty of what you are seeing, or listening to, or reading calls out to you, something inside of you is answering. That something is your spirit. As the art is reflecting the wonder of a Creator, we, as created beings, are responding naturally, drawn to the creation that so clearly cries, "Look! I am beautiful! Somebody made me! And I'm reflecting my ultimate Maker!" And if our spirits are tuned in to this voice, our automatic result is worship. We leave the room exactly the same on the outside, but forever changed on the inside.
Needless to say, the Enemy doesn't like this.
Anything that ministers to our spirits is going to face resistance from the powers of darkness. Why? Firstly, our spirits are just a small step away from our souls, and the Enemy wants these under his prickly belt. If he wants to get his sticky fingers on our souls then he will undoubtedly set out to crush our spirits. Once this shell is punctured his opportunities widen. Secondly, anything that even remotely inspires worship of the true Creator is to be discouraged.
And so the battle rages. I am not here to debate what constitutes good or bad art, but I think many Christians can agree that much art is crudely twisted. Paintings swirl into pornography, melodies of heaven crunch into sounds of hell, tales of valor morph into subtle promotions of deceit.
You would think with so much bad art more Christians would be inspired to counterbalance it. However, here's where Satan has stepped in again. He has taken one of the most noble professions (ministering to the spirit) and has projected it as an elevated hobby. He convinces people that you have to have a rare talent to ever make a go at being an artist. He discourages adults who were prolific artists as children by embarrassing them with their crude style. He depicts artists as feeble wanderers who can barely scratch out a living until the picture has almost turned into a reality. He impresses the importance of "real jobs" like banking and cooking while minimizing your art so much that you feel obliged to put it at the bottom of your priority list. "It's really a waste of time, after all," you tell yourself sadly, then you go for a run, go to work, feed the dog, and fritter away the rest of your time on the Internet.
But is art really a waste of time?
No.
And again I say, "No."
What's more important than ministering to one's spirit? I can think of only a few professions off the top of my head that go deeper than helping just the body and mind: those involved in ministry, and parents. If you're a missionary or pastor your priority is the soul, the core of man. It is possible to be a missionary and a teacher, or police man, or secretary, or anything else, I know, so many of us may already be missionaries even if we don't realize it. These people are vital, caring for souls as well as bodies, minds, and spirits as long as they remain focused. Parents too are essential because they appeal to the bodies, spirits, and souls of their children in a "controlled" mission field. The artist, however, need not distract himself with caring for the body. No sirree, they can target the spirit right away and by the blessing of God stir the spirit into worship. And if the Holy Spirit is in it, that spirit may be softened into unfolding its delicate petals and surrendering the soul within to its Maker.
This idea may indeed be fantasized, I'll not pretend otherwise. But like every story of true art, I believe such fantasies contains gems of truth truer than any spoken. So if you're an artist of any sort, take courage. Your work is more important than you know. And as warped as the world's appetites have become, they are hungry for the true art you have to give them. I say this to myself more than anybody else: don't let them go hungry. Don't be afraid to put forth your art as a testimony to the Creator. Naturally speaking I'm scared sick to do this because I know I don't have what it takes to be a great artist. But greatness doesn't matter. It's the real Artist that does.
Think of Him and the impact you can have together.
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