It's the last day of summer, and I leave for the University tomorrow. Will it rain today?
I came home with two carloads of stuff and will soon repack it all to head back to my friends and future degree. But I wonder what else I'm carrying around. I brought more in my coupe than anyone realized. Even myself. Yet here I am, taking inventory again. Can I please leave it all somewhere and stop toting it around? My gas mileage is suffering...
I'm in the mood to be ambiguous. Forgive me.
You can change yourself, but you can't. You can change your clothes, your hair, your relationship status, your major, your usual drink order at a coffee shop. It doesn't really change much, though, does it? Change is constant and perpetual, like time. Not a one time occasion or a future eventuality. It is past, present, future. You can't escape it. You can't be lost by it. But that doesn't make it bad.
Just scary.
Change carries with it mystery, an element of the unknown. What will happen? What will I be when it's over? Will I make it out of this next bout of violent convulsions unrecognizable?
Perhaps I'm being unfair. Painting poor change in ugly colors, making it the monster of life. It can't help being itself. God put limitations on mankind. Gravity. Three dimensions. Time. Mortality. Change is just one more part of humanity.
So you leave parts of yourself everywhere. Little pieces of you are in people that come and go. Old relationships, friendships, jobs. The people you meet are chipped off in you forever just as you are in them. And maybe they forget that, and so do you, and things get awkward and tense and no one really knows why. It's just a side effect of change. The people you were bonded in the past, but the new people you are don't know what to do with each other.
Change is untamable, uncontrollable, irresponsible to any human being. But it is good.
I found some old poems the other day. Who was I back then?
Change lifts us out of who we were. Time, change's closest companion, heals us, gives change a constant axis on which to move. Both give relief. They bring new people, new friends, new mentors, new lovers. And they make a new you, one who fits absurdly well with the new set of everything.
It won't modify the past. The past is gone. It is cemented in itself and untouchable but by your memory. The future is ready for your pressing hand against the cool mix. The present begs your attention, though. In this single breath you can rest and live and exist.
So breathe already. Accept the air and exhale. Maybe it's your last, but there's a good chance it's not. More change ahead, but you'll find those who change with you, and they'll end up composing most of yourself, and you them.
And God? Well, he's there. He just isn't going to let you stagnate. Your life with him will change more than all of the above. Sometimes you're the teacher; sometimes you're the student. But you always learn either way. His change is constant, at times seems reckless, but is always purposeful. While you may change in every possible way, He remains immutable. Funny how He always turns out to be the things humans wish they were.
Lots of clouds, but still no drops.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Middle Distance Runner
I have a love / hate relationship with running. It all started in 6th grade when I felt the ridiculous urge to try out for the track team in the spring. Barely mature and rarely outstanding, my season and I gained little more than a basic foundation for running and a shiny Most Improved trophy at the end of the year. For the next few years, I grew as a runner and went from picking four leaf clovers at track meets to anchoring the 1600 meter relay. But by the time I hit Varsity, I had no appreciation for running in itself. It had become something I did, not something I loved.
My problem was distance. As soon as I began running, I wanted to stop. I secretly longed to be a sprinter (thinking I could probably handle 100 meters), but much to my chagrin I was constantly placed in middle distance. I tolerated it for a time, but then rebelled when the coach forced middle distance runners to do the exact same workouts as the long distancers. All I had to do at the meets was half a mile. Why are you making me run three? The logic of endurance escaped me.
So, as with many big projects, ideas, schemes, and novels I have attempted in the past, I quit. Gave up. Wrote it off as something I could never do or enjoy. The looming lengths discouraged me. All I saw myself as capable of was half a mile, and I refused (based on what I thought was principle but was actually laziness) to even try.
Recently, I ran my first 10K road race in downtown Atlanta. Considering I've been a fairly casual runner for the past few months and my previous record for length was a mere 2 miles, you can imagine how the 6.2 miles went in the southern summer heat. Or perhaps you can't.
Bounding down the concrete, sandwiched by 50,000 good citizens of Atlanta (and Africa), I remembered why running was worth loving. I knew, beyond a doubt, I couldn't run the whole thing. But I surprised myself. I made it over half way. It was incredible. I fell in love on the course, with the thrill, the surety of the pavement, the feel of blood rescuing my muscles with oxygen, the familiarity of the liquid movement of my arms and legs propelling me forward.
Why do I always give up? I look back on my life and see the attempts, the tries, the dreams, the things I've given up on. It infuriates me. I've gotten into the habit of middle distance. Why don't I try for longer? Why don't I push myself just a few paces further? Why do I only see myself as capable of today and (maybe) tomorrow? Also, why do I get so entangled by my mistakes and hurts? Why do I let them prevent me from running my heart out?
Perhaps in some instances, I've been stopped short. I've been conditioned for middle distance. Relationships specifically have ended too soon, before they've even been allowed to run their course. I've been stopped on the track, willing to run more meters. However, I find the lanes around me empty, so I assume the race is won, and I have lost. When it comes to my relationship with God, I've been easily discouraged and distracted by the constant breathing cramps and stress fractures that come with sanctification. My pace has constantly slowed to a walk. Somewhere in this life, I've gotten used to middle distance. Or perhaps I've merely settled for it.
But maybe I'm capable of more than I know. Maybe given the chance, I could run a marathon. I could stop stopping at 800 meters and keep going for miles. I could run beyond 1 month. Maybe even go for 60 to 70 years.
The question remains: Am I, a middle distance runner, willing to train on long distance workouts? Can I build up the endurance I lack? Can I fight against the strain and keep pushing? Can I stay on pace?
I know I can. But it'll take time... and a lot of training. But I can cross the finish line one day.
My problem was distance. As soon as I began running, I wanted to stop. I secretly longed to be a sprinter (thinking I could probably handle 100 meters), but much to my chagrin I was constantly placed in middle distance. I tolerated it for a time, but then rebelled when the coach forced middle distance runners to do the exact same workouts as the long distancers. All I had to do at the meets was half a mile. Why are you making me run three? The logic of endurance escaped me.
So, as with many big projects, ideas, schemes, and novels I have attempted in the past, I quit. Gave up. Wrote it off as something I could never do or enjoy. The looming lengths discouraged me. All I saw myself as capable of was half a mile, and I refused (based on what I thought was principle but was actually laziness) to even try.
Recently, I ran my first 10K road race in downtown Atlanta. Considering I've been a fairly casual runner for the past few months and my previous record for length was a mere 2 miles, you can imagine how the 6.2 miles went in the southern summer heat. Or perhaps you can't.
Bounding down the concrete, sandwiched by 50,000 good citizens of Atlanta (and Africa), I remembered why running was worth loving. I knew, beyond a doubt, I couldn't run the whole thing. But I surprised myself. I made it over half way. It was incredible. I fell in love on the course, with the thrill, the surety of the pavement, the feel of blood rescuing my muscles with oxygen, the familiarity of the liquid movement of my arms and legs propelling me forward.
Why do I always give up? I look back on my life and see the attempts, the tries, the dreams, the things I've given up on. It infuriates me. I've gotten into the habit of middle distance. Why don't I try for longer? Why don't I push myself just a few paces further? Why do I only see myself as capable of today and (maybe) tomorrow? Also, why do I get so entangled by my mistakes and hurts? Why do I let them prevent me from running my heart out?
Perhaps in some instances, I've been stopped short. I've been conditioned for middle distance. Relationships specifically have ended too soon, before they've even been allowed to run their course. I've been stopped on the track, willing to run more meters. However, I find the lanes around me empty, so I assume the race is won, and I have lost. When it comes to my relationship with God, I've been easily discouraged and distracted by the constant breathing cramps and stress fractures that come with sanctification. My pace has constantly slowed to a walk. Somewhere in this life, I've gotten used to middle distance. Or perhaps I've merely settled for it.
But maybe I'm capable of more than I know. Maybe given the chance, I could run a marathon. I could stop stopping at 800 meters and keep going for miles. I could run beyond 1 month. Maybe even go for 60 to 70 years.
The question remains: Am I, a middle distance runner, willing to train on long distance workouts? Can I build up the endurance I lack? Can I fight against the strain and keep pushing? Can I stay on pace?
I know I can. But it'll take time... and a lot of training. But I can cross the finish line one day.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Failure
I've always been a big fan of sanctification. To me, it's the whole idea of God finally getting together a self-improvement plan for all us screw up Christians. The constant seduction of a seemingly easy to follow 12 step plan or the like can be rejected in the face of the Almighty's renovating Spirit. "Ha! No thanks, Dr. Phil! Take it somewhere else, Tony Robbins! I'm good, Oprah! I'm being sanctified!"
I've had the struggle of perfection bearing down on my slim shoulders since diapers. Some could say it was because I was created for more, being part of my Father's chosen, having the weight of future glory burdening my earthly walk. I have to disagree. I wonder if it simply expectation. Sure, living in a family of perfectionistic personalities hasn't helped. Yet I glance into their lives as a possible mirror to my own, for the qualifications I put on myself are much harsher than theirs.
I often go on self-improvement stints. I resolve to do something everyday or to act better in a certain area or remember something I constantly forget. Most valiant attempts involve as many of these things as possible. I get caught looking around in my life too long, turning away disgusted, submitting all I see for improvements. It's much like a real estate agent would look at a prospective house. "Well, the yard's a mess, let's remember curb appeal... And the hardwood flooring is a selling point, but not with this inch of dust on it. Can we remove this wall?" It's like a big to-do list that I long to check off, but never can. Every try fails. I may keep the plates spinning a while, but then gravity kicks in, and they all crash.
I'm uncomfortable with my adulthood. I rarely feel its consistency; at one moment I am exerting my independence, brash and audacious; the next I am clinging to assistance, needy and incapable. I'm tired of making excuses for my absurd behavior, tired of not quite relating to the adult community around me, tired of having to justify myself to everyone, including myself. I don't know who I am. Leave me alone so I can figure it out. But please don't desert me, because I have no idea what I'm doing.
I wish I had it all right the first time. I'm frustrated with my mistakes. I'm angry at my weaknesses. I'm sick of myself messing up. So I ask, what happened to my sanctification? Why am I not getting better? Why has every new challenge, every new element, every new aspect proved itself my superior as I fall defeated? I guess you could say I'm a little discouraged. Prepare yourself, for this is the rest of your life. Imperfection and the inability to overcome it.
So how does a human, incapable of perfection, relate to God, the creator of perfection? How do I communicate to the One who should be more disappointed in me than anyone else in my life? And why would He even want to talk to His pathetic example of a girl who graduated high school, sure of her standards, morals, and absolutes turning into an unstable woman who would be blind leading anyone to Him, having forgotten the way herself?
I wish I had a conclusion, something to tie this mess up at the end in some clever way that gives the reader hope I'm on the right path, just bumping into the furniture until I can find the light switch. And perhaps I am. But for the time being, my eyes aren't adjusting well to the dark.
I've had the struggle of perfection bearing down on my slim shoulders since diapers. Some could say it was because I was created for more, being part of my Father's chosen, having the weight of future glory burdening my earthly walk. I have to disagree. I wonder if it simply expectation. Sure, living in a family of perfectionistic personalities hasn't helped. Yet I glance into their lives as a possible mirror to my own, for the qualifications I put on myself are much harsher than theirs.
I often go on self-improvement stints. I resolve to do something everyday or to act better in a certain area or remember something I constantly forget. Most valiant attempts involve as many of these things as possible. I get caught looking around in my life too long, turning away disgusted, submitting all I see for improvements. It's much like a real estate agent would look at a prospective house. "Well, the yard's a mess, let's remember curb appeal... And the hardwood flooring is a selling point, but not with this inch of dust on it. Can we remove this wall?" It's like a big to-do list that I long to check off, but never can. Every try fails. I may keep the plates spinning a while, but then gravity kicks in, and they all crash.
I'm uncomfortable with my adulthood. I rarely feel its consistency; at one moment I am exerting my independence, brash and audacious; the next I am clinging to assistance, needy and incapable. I'm tired of making excuses for my absurd behavior, tired of not quite relating to the adult community around me, tired of having to justify myself to everyone, including myself. I don't know who I am. Leave me alone so I can figure it out. But please don't desert me, because I have no idea what I'm doing.
I wish I had it all right the first time. I'm frustrated with my mistakes. I'm angry at my weaknesses. I'm sick of myself messing up. So I ask, what happened to my sanctification? Why am I not getting better? Why has every new challenge, every new element, every new aspect proved itself my superior as I fall defeated? I guess you could say I'm a little discouraged. Prepare yourself, for this is the rest of your life. Imperfection and the inability to overcome it.
So how does a human, incapable of perfection, relate to God, the creator of perfection? How do I communicate to the One who should be more disappointed in me than anyone else in my life? And why would He even want to talk to His pathetic example of a girl who graduated high school, sure of her standards, morals, and absolutes turning into an unstable woman who would be blind leading anyone to Him, having forgotten the way herself?
I wish I had a conclusion, something to tie this mess up at the end in some clever way that gives the reader hope I'm on the right path, just bumping into the furniture until I can find the light switch. And perhaps I am. But for the time being, my eyes aren't adjusting well to the dark.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Present Tense
She makes them laugh, as always.
The sound of their happiness carries from the kitchen and dissolves over the still driveway as she slips out quietly through the front door. Preoccupied, she hardly notices the weight of dusk surrounding her. The stars above serenade her with their splatters of light while the crescent moon smiles upon her down turned head. Her face remains set on her car as she flip flops across the cement, and she ignores the summer night sky's cartographic display.
She slides in the driver's seat, slips the key in the ignition, and pauses. The windshield receives her blank stare as she sighs. She shakes off the moment and turns the key. The four-cylinder murmur reaches her unhearing ears as the honeyed humidity forces her to roll down the windows. Ah, the poor man's convertible is once again created from her coup.
She heads down the road and turns on the music. Coldplay. Exactly what she needs. The wind fills the car and mingles with the strokes of the strings. Her pulse rises with each swell. Her brunette locks with tickles of blond summer highlights fly freely as she twists the knob for more volume. She is lost in the music. It dissolves her thoughts, her words, her senses.
She turns into her neighborhood and the gusts die down. She suddenly becomes aware of the music and how contrary it is to the quiet calm of the suburbs. She spins it down, but the magic is not lost. The song comes to an end as she bumps over the gutter and into her slot on the driveway. The engine sleeps with the exit of the key, and the lights blink off. She steps out and stands, regaining her sense of existence. She walks to the house, glancing up to check if any lights were still on inside. Her green eyes find the window, but refuse to linger. They shoot up towards the heavens and she finally sees that which has been above her as she drove the streets.
She has always been in love with the night sky. Nothing else can make her feel as purposeful, as significant, as humbly important as the stars, moon, and infinite dark beyond. But lately, the realities and necessities and tendencies of life have distracted her from her first love. They haven't met in quite some time.
But now, they have reunited. She forgets to breathe, forgets to blink. Her thirsty eyes take in the sight she has neglected far too long, recognizing the familiar pattens. She is silent, for she is listening. And what she hears gives her hope.
"You are my daughter. You are imperfect; you are sinful; you get things wrong. But you are my daughter, and I love you."
"Help me." She says simply. She does not beg, but says this with the strength of faith, learning once again she is needy and poor, yet has the deepest resource, the richest kindness, standing wide open to her.
She walks into the house and rests in peace.
The sound of their happiness carries from the kitchen and dissolves over the still driveway as she slips out quietly through the front door. Preoccupied, she hardly notices the weight of dusk surrounding her. The stars above serenade her with their splatters of light while the crescent moon smiles upon her down turned head. Her face remains set on her car as she flip flops across the cement, and she ignores the summer night sky's cartographic display.
She slides in the driver's seat, slips the key in the ignition, and pauses. The windshield receives her blank stare as she sighs. She shakes off the moment and turns the key. The four-cylinder murmur reaches her unhearing ears as the honeyed humidity forces her to roll down the windows. Ah, the poor man's convertible is once again created from her coup.
She heads down the road and turns on the music. Coldplay. Exactly what she needs. The wind fills the car and mingles with the strokes of the strings. Her pulse rises with each swell. Her brunette locks with tickles of blond summer highlights fly freely as she twists the knob for more volume. She is lost in the music. It dissolves her thoughts, her words, her senses.
She turns into her neighborhood and the gusts die down. She suddenly becomes aware of the music and how contrary it is to the quiet calm of the suburbs. She spins it down, but the magic is not lost. The song comes to an end as she bumps over the gutter and into her slot on the driveway. The engine sleeps with the exit of the key, and the lights blink off. She steps out and stands, regaining her sense of existence. She walks to the house, glancing up to check if any lights were still on inside. Her green eyes find the window, but refuse to linger. They shoot up towards the heavens and she finally sees that which has been above her as she drove the streets.
She has always been in love with the night sky. Nothing else can make her feel as purposeful, as significant, as humbly important as the stars, moon, and infinite dark beyond. But lately, the realities and necessities and tendencies of life have distracted her from her first love. They haven't met in quite some time.
But now, they have reunited. She forgets to breathe, forgets to blink. Her thirsty eyes take in the sight she has neglected far too long, recognizing the familiar pattens. She is silent, for she is listening. And what she hears gives her hope.
"You are my daughter. You are imperfect; you are sinful; you get things wrong. But you are my daughter, and I love you."
"Help me." She says simply. She does not beg, but says this with the strength of faith, learning once again she is needy and poor, yet has the deepest resource, the richest kindness, standing wide open to her.
She walks into the house and rests in peace.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Plot Twists
Some time ago, I wrote a blog (March 25, 2007... or thereabouts) about how I felt like a child in one of the craziest times of my life. I was a confused toddler, yet somehow God tolerated my selfishness and wailing to bless me regardless of my unwillingness. I was upset because I was losing normal. I wanted the status quo, the life I had always known, whereas God was slowly but swiftly pushing me out of the predictable. And I wasn't happy about it.
Over Christmas break, a friend of mine had accidentally double booked herself as a babysitter for two families at the same time. Even though as a full time nanny in the summer I have an aversion to acknowledging the existence of all human beings 12 and under during the other 9 months of the year, I agreed to help her out. I headed over to a family of two little girls and a set of parents racing to get to a wedding on time. With a flurry of instructions, I was left alone to take care of the dependents.
We had a pretty good time, and everything went as usual. Dinner, however, was a challenge. The youngest was less than a year old and did not, under and circumstances or powers of persuasion, desire to eat the orange mush I was assigned to feed her. After about an hour of trying and one very desperate phone call to the friend who had placed me in the predicament in the first place, I gave up, hoping somehow the child had as many orange blobs inside her as on the outside of her. (And of me.)
After getting back home from school this May, I was called back on duty (pun? yes.) to the same family for a day. The girls and I had a great time again: piggy back rides, blanket fights, hundreds of swing set pushes, and a whole lot of Disney/Pixar movies. It came time for lunch, and I was delightfully suprised. The baby sat in her high chair and ate her unattractive "garden vegetable" green purée with little fuss. Sure, she got some around her mouth. Which got on her hands. Which got in her hair. Which somehow got on my leg. But all in all, it was like feeding a different baby.
I sat in my big person chair next to her in wonder as I realized I was looking at myself. We had both grown up since Christmas. Sure, the change wasn't monumental. She wasn't sitting at a fancy dinner, deftly going through salad forks and soup spoons. And I'm still not perfect, still not doing everything right, remembering all my responsibilities or forgetting my default setting of stubborn. But as I looked at this little 13 month year old, I realized how far I've come. I'm back home now. I can see the change in myself, and I like it.
I've been through a lot since visiting that house at Christmastime. I was texting a different guy then. I was thinking about different commitments, dreaming different dreams. But here I am, in a new, everchanging situation, looking around and realizing I'm happy. I'm getting somewhere. I'm maybe even doing a few things right. And I realized I can never go back to the place from which I've come. Progress can't be repeated like a bar of music or revistited like a familiar coffee place. It's perpetual. To go back would be to forfeit the growth.
I've always hated roller coasters. The awful feeling of being propelled in unpredictable directions at an unstoppable speed. But now I'm starting to wonder... perhaps the thrill truly is worth the ride.
Over Christmas break, a friend of mine had accidentally double booked herself as a babysitter for two families at the same time. Even though as a full time nanny in the summer I have an aversion to acknowledging the existence of all human beings 12 and under during the other 9 months of the year, I agreed to help her out. I headed over to a family of two little girls and a set of parents racing to get to a wedding on time. With a flurry of instructions, I was left alone to take care of the dependents.
We had a pretty good time, and everything went as usual. Dinner, however, was a challenge. The youngest was less than a year old and did not, under and circumstances or powers of persuasion, desire to eat the orange mush I was assigned to feed her. After about an hour of trying and one very desperate phone call to the friend who had placed me in the predicament in the first place, I gave up, hoping somehow the child had as many orange blobs inside her as on the outside of her. (And of me.)
After getting back home from school this May, I was called back on duty (pun? yes.) to the same family for a day. The girls and I had a great time again: piggy back rides, blanket fights, hundreds of swing set pushes, and a whole lot of Disney/Pixar movies. It came time for lunch, and I was delightfully suprised. The baby sat in her high chair and ate her unattractive "garden vegetable" green purée with little fuss. Sure, she got some around her mouth. Which got on her hands. Which got in her hair. Which somehow got on my leg. But all in all, it was like feeding a different baby.
I sat in my big person chair next to her in wonder as I realized I was looking at myself. We had both grown up since Christmas. Sure, the change wasn't monumental. She wasn't sitting at a fancy dinner, deftly going through salad forks and soup spoons. And I'm still not perfect, still not doing everything right, remembering all my responsibilities or forgetting my default setting of stubborn. But as I looked at this little 13 month year old, I realized how far I've come. I'm back home now. I can see the change in myself, and I like it.
I've been through a lot since visiting that house at Christmastime. I was texting a different guy then. I was thinking about different commitments, dreaming different dreams. But here I am, in a new, everchanging situation, looking around and realizing I'm happy. I'm getting somewhere. I'm maybe even doing a few things right. And I realized I can never go back to the place from which I've come. Progress can't be repeated like a bar of music or revistited like a familiar coffee place. It's perpetual. To go back would be to forfeit the growth.
I've always hated roller coasters. The awful feeling of being propelled in unpredictable directions at an unstoppable speed. But now I'm starting to wonder... perhaps the thrill truly is worth the ride.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Update
Hey, Dad.
February 6th - it caught me off gaurd again. 50 years old today. Crazy, isn't it? I can't really imagine you topping off half a century, honestly. I guess I always think of you as young. I can't imagine your black hair peppered with grays or your twinkling eyes framed by crow's feet.
I'm doing pretty well. Much has happened since last year. I graduated high school. It was crazy, honestly. I can't tell you how much that scared me! I guess I'm a lot like Peter Pan, refusing to grow up. (And yet, people always insist on my maturity. Psh.) Mom admires that about me - that I like to enjoy every time of my life. It just goes by so fast, you know? It was weird gradutating. Everyone was really excited. I mean, I was. But it just seemed a little overdone. Great. I finished high school. Now give me a real challenge. It just didn't seem worthy of all the pomp. It was, however, a satisfying feeling walking out of the school knowing I'd done what I could, that maybe I made it a little better for having been there. That was pretty nice.
I made it to college. Now, it's nothing fancy, but I'm really happy, Dad. I was walking past the soccer field out to my car the other day (I LOVE driving! It's so amazing. No worries, I'm a safe driver.) and I just realized how much God has blessed me over my time at the University. First, I have the most amazing support system ever. My close friends love God like I do. Instead of compromising my faith, they challenge it. I can't imagine ever living without them. I have mentors who deeply care about me, who look out for me and love me.
Also, I have so many great opportunities. I absolutely love being an English major. My heart belongs to literature, and those are my favorite classes. I got to be in Hamlet this semester. Dad, it was a dream come true, to act in a Shakespearean play - and as a freshman, no less! I'm also in the flute choir here. I get so much joy in playing. I love just sneaking back to one of the practice rooms and playing for hours at night.
Mom's handling it well that I'm gone. I don't get to go home much, but we keep in touch all the time. I know she misses you, but I've never seen her relationship with God stronger than it is now. Mary's doing really well, too. She's a remarkable person - one of those that will change the world some day. She's engaged! Mom and I couldn't be happier. He's a great guy, Dad. You'd approve 100%.
And me? Well, I'm alright. I have good times and bad times, but then again, who doesn't? I've made mistakes, Dad. I'm in no way perfect, which I've proven constantly throughout this year. But I'd like to think that through the work of God, I get some things right every now and then. Maybe, it's in the failures and the weaknesses that He is most glorified... and I am most easily used.
I think you'd be proud of me. I think you'd be happy about where I am and where I'm going. I think if you were still here, we'd be close. We'd talk about theology and politics and you'd give me huge hugs when I'd finally get to come home to visit. I miss you. I love you. I can't wait to walk with you in God's heavenly gardens and hear your voice mixed with mine in praise to our King.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Jessie
February 6th - it caught me off gaurd again. 50 years old today. Crazy, isn't it? I can't really imagine you topping off half a century, honestly. I guess I always think of you as young. I can't imagine your black hair peppered with grays or your twinkling eyes framed by crow's feet.
I'm doing pretty well. Much has happened since last year. I graduated high school. It was crazy, honestly. I can't tell you how much that scared me! I guess I'm a lot like Peter Pan, refusing to grow up. (And yet, people always insist on my maturity. Psh.) Mom admires that about me - that I like to enjoy every time of my life. It just goes by so fast, you know? It was weird gradutating. Everyone was really excited. I mean, I was. But it just seemed a little overdone. Great. I finished high school. Now give me a real challenge. It just didn't seem worthy of all the pomp. It was, however, a satisfying feeling walking out of the school knowing I'd done what I could, that maybe I made it a little better for having been there. That was pretty nice.
I made it to college. Now, it's nothing fancy, but I'm really happy, Dad. I was walking past the soccer field out to my car the other day (I LOVE driving! It's so amazing. No worries, I'm a safe driver.) and I just realized how much God has blessed me over my time at the University. First, I have the most amazing support system ever. My close friends love God like I do. Instead of compromising my faith, they challenge it. I can't imagine ever living without them. I have mentors who deeply care about me, who look out for me and love me.
Also, I have so many great opportunities. I absolutely love being an English major. My heart belongs to literature, and those are my favorite classes. I got to be in Hamlet this semester. Dad, it was a dream come true, to act in a Shakespearean play - and as a freshman, no less! I'm also in the flute choir here. I get so much joy in playing. I love just sneaking back to one of the practice rooms and playing for hours at night.
Mom's handling it well that I'm gone. I don't get to go home much, but we keep in touch all the time. I know she misses you, but I've never seen her relationship with God stronger than it is now. Mary's doing really well, too. She's a remarkable person - one of those that will change the world some day. She's engaged! Mom and I couldn't be happier. He's a great guy, Dad. You'd approve 100%.
And me? Well, I'm alright. I have good times and bad times, but then again, who doesn't? I've made mistakes, Dad. I'm in no way perfect, which I've proven constantly throughout this year. But I'd like to think that through the work of God, I get some things right every now and then. Maybe, it's in the failures and the weaknesses that He is most glorified... and I am most easily used.
I think you'd be proud of me. I think you'd be happy about where I am and where I'm going. I think if you were still here, we'd be close. We'd talk about theology and politics and you'd give me huge hugs when I'd finally get to come home to visit. I miss you. I love you. I can't wait to walk with you in God's heavenly gardens and hear your voice mixed with mine in praise to our King.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Jessie
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Pursuit
When I was younger, out of all the necessary kid things I instinctly knew I had to do, one stood out from the rest: I absolutely had to find a hiding place. My house wasn't very accommodating when it came to secrecy, but as an eight year old, I needed a spot to go and disappear for a while. Why? I'm not really sure. Perhaps the thrill of being invisible was the draw. Or maybe I just needed somewhere to go when Mom brought out the "I want you to do something that, if left up to your own volition, you would have no desire to do" tone. Either way, after days (hours) of searching, I found it. If I squeezed myself just right between the side table and the couch in the far end of the nice living room we never used, then I was unfindable.
What is it about hiding that's so appealing? Why did it delight me to sneak back to my spot (eventually stocked with my favorite stuffed animals and books) throughout the day for a few precious minutes at a time? Why did Adam and Eve hide in the Garden after the Fall? Why do people walk around today, living behind masks, with their best and fakest faces forward?
I've always thought of myself as a hider. I often play hide and seek with the people in my life. Fulghum put it best: "Hide and seek, grown-up style. Wanting to hide. Needing to be sought. Confused about being found." It takes a lot of courage to step out of hiding, to take off the mask, to give up the act, to be found. Courage that I have yet to possess. And that's probably why God has decided to test me in this very area.
I thought for a time (much like I assume Adam and Eve did) that the sin that initially alienated me from God created an immovable block between us. Somehow, I was convinced that because I was responsible for the distance I felt from God, it was my job to fix it. But the more I tried, the more imperfect I proved myself to be. My mistakes piled up. The block not only remained, but grew wider as I began to hide from God, ashamed that I kept failing, guilty that my sin remained on my shoulders. Finally, I got so frustrated. Why can't I just turn back to God? Why can't I get over this? Why can't I improve and do better?
Then it hit me: This isn't about what I can do. Somewhere in me, I was convinced that Jesus did His work on the cross, and now it's my job to finish my sanctification. But honestly, isn't the inability for broken people to fix themselves at the heart of the Gospel? Isn't that why Jesus came in the first place and why the Holy Spirit is in us now, changing us each day? For, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick." I'm starting to think maybe God's forgiveness doesn't depend on prerequisites. I don't have to wait around, get my act together, and THEN come to God. I don't have to hide, because He already knows the sinful state I find myself in, and even there, He pursues me, never willing to give up seeking me.
Jesus didn't say, "Come to me, all you who are able-bodied and perfect, and I will give you more work to do. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am tyrannical and demanding in heart, and you will find guilt for your souls. For my yoke is really heavy and my burden cannot be handled by weak, pathetic Christians who sin all the time." No! He knows I'm weary, weak, and burdened. That's not a surprise. So why not come to Him, honestly, in that state, and seek his strength? It might just be worth trying.
Meanwhile, I'm finding God refuses to just simply teach me to trust Him with the messy side of me. He wants me to trust others, persisting on working in me to change the old, "run away and hide" mentality. And I'm honestly finding my old hiding spots less of a comfort, getting restless behind the walls I've built. I want to be sought. And perhaps, I'm ready to be found.
What is it about hiding that's so appealing? Why did it delight me to sneak back to my spot (eventually stocked with my favorite stuffed animals and books) throughout the day for a few precious minutes at a time? Why did Adam and Eve hide in the Garden after the Fall? Why do people walk around today, living behind masks, with their best and fakest faces forward?
I've always thought of myself as a hider. I often play hide and seek with the people in my life. Fulghum put it best: "Hide and seek, grown-up style. Wanting to hide. Needing to be sought. Confused about being found." It takes a lot of courage to step out of hiding, to take off the mask, to give up the act, to be found. Courage that I have yet to possess. And that's probably why God has decided to test me in this very area.
I thought for a time (much like I assume Adam and Eve did) that the sin that initially alienated me from God created an immovable block between us. Somehow, I was convinced that because I was responsible for the distance I felt from God, it was my job to fix it. But the more I tried, the more imperfect I proved myself to be. My mistakes piled up. The block not only remained, but grew wider as I began to hide from God, ashamed that I kept failing, guilty that my sin remained on my shoulders. Finally, I got so frustrated. Why can't I just turn back to God? Why can't I get over this? Why can't I improve and do better?
Then it hit me: This isn't about what I can do. Somewhere in me, I was convinced that Jesus did His work on the cross, and now it's my job to finish my sanctification. But honestly, isn't the inability for broken people to fix themselves at the heart of the Gospel? Isn't that why Jesus came in the first place and why the Holy Spirit is in us now, changing us each day? For, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick." I'm starting to think maybe God's forgiveness doesn't depend on prerequisites. I don't have to wait around, get my act together, and THEN come to God. I don't have to hide, because He already knows the sinful state I find myself in, and even there, He pursues me, never willing to give up seeking me.
Jesus didn't say, "Come to me, all you who are able-bodied and perfect, and I will give you more work to do. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am tyrannical and demanding in heart, and you will find guilt for your souls. For my yoke is really heavy and my burden cannot be handled by weak, pathetic Christians who sin all the time." No! He knows I'm weary, weak, and burdened. That's not a surprise. So why not come to Him, honestly, in that state, and seek his strength? It might just be worth trying.
Meanwhile, I'm finding God refuses to just simply teach me to trust Him with the messy side of me. He wants me to trust others, persisting on working in me to change the old, "run away and hide" mentality. And I'm honestly finding my old hiding spots less of a comfort, getting restless behind the walls I've built. I want to be sought. And perhaps, I'm ready to be found.
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