Star?

I used to be enthralled by the Oscars. The beautiful dresses, the funny comedians, the talented Hollywood people. I completely bought into it. During spring break in 8th grade, I even got to go out to California and stood on the Kodak Theatre stage. I think that's probably when my fascination began.

I tuned in this year. I missed the first hour or so because I was at church. As I watched Al Gore receive two standing ovations and Ellen Degeneres meander around in her white tennis shoes and Clint Eastwood stumble over the intro for the honorary oscar (because he admittedly "should have brought his glasses"), I lost my enchantment. I saw it for what it really is: the Hollywood system giving itself a big pat on the back. Is this what people live for? A moment of fame? A little gold statue? A 30 second acceptance speech that's cut off by music anyway? Oddly enough, I became fairly ecclesiastical: it is all meaningless.

Tonight, I went (with my extremely proud mom) to a banquet honoring seniors with outstanding SAT scores, myself included. We sat at our assigned table behind our large name cards (I took mine home) with people we didn't know. I left the table for two minutes and came back to find that mom had already filled our table mates in on my constantly changing college plans: "She's applied to A, B, and C. She got into B and C but she hasn't heard from A..." I could recite it in my sleep I've said it so many times. Turns out, the other spectacular test taker at my table is also interested in A. More conversation about how ironic it would be.

To the buffet line we proceed. Pasta with two options (two!) of sauce: marinara or alfredo. As with my ever-present college decision, I could not choose and solicited the advice of the man in front of me. Turns out he couldn't decide either and had two separate piles of noodles with a different sauce on each. "It's like a cruise ship!" he says. "I've never been on a cruise ship." "Well, you better marry rich then!"

Back to the table. Mom disappeared for a while and things got awkward. All adults stared at me, the teenager whom they know not, and one asked the question. "Well, [glances down at the large name card] Jessica... what's next for you?"

What kind of vague question is that? What will I do when I get home? Next week? Next year? "Next? Like... after high school?" When she replied in the affirmative, I panicked. Mom had already taken the usually litany of A, B, and C. So I opted for the "give them something to laugh at so they'll leave me alone" escape route.

"Well, I'm definitely going to college." They laugh - of course she is! She did so well on the SAT! I push my advantage. "Actually, I decided that in fifth grade, so I've been ahead of schedule for some time." More laughter. They catch the irony of my current lack of plans with the existence of them seven years ago.

Keynote speaker. I don't remember anything she said. It was so cliche, I just tuned it out. Oh, well. I can always marry rich.

Was it just a big night of pats on the back? Perhaps. Was it meaningless? Maybe. I'm glad I went, but I don't put too much stock in it. It's no fun chasing the wind.

My Active Realization

It appears that I am a senior. Yes, I've known this for quite some time now. I know that I am a "can leave campus when I'm not taking on of my five classes / sits in the front row for chapel / doesn't want to do homework because of senioritis / yells proudly "07" to anyone who will listen" senior.

But now, I've become a "will graduate in 3 months / has to decide on the far away future today / will leave my school / will leave my friends / will leave my teachers / will leave my church / will leave my life" senior.

And, honestly, it has undone me.

I'm so tired of contemplating the future. My plans rarely hold up under scrutiny: I want to reject admission to one of the best schools in the state, I want to go to a "buy a small house with the money you spent on tuition" expensive, 5 hours away college, my scholarships are falling through, my second choice might not work out. It's all so tangled and messy. I hate tangled and messy.

My Father knows His plans. I do not. But I know Him. That's enough.

What's really been heavy on my mind lately, though, is the future of my current relationships. I've gotten close to people this year: my mom, my friends, my youth group, my teachers. The hardest thing I see myself facing is letting them go. I must. I'm beginning to acknowledge the changes that will come to these relationships. For now, I can't bear the thought; I usually end up crying when left alone to think about it.

And so, I am once again confronted with a choice: if I am going to enventually let go of these people, should I loosen my grasp or tighten my fist? Should I begin withdrawing from their lives and pushing them out of mine or should I savor what time I have left with them? I want to run, with the desire of making it easier on myself in May, and to finally rid their lives of the burden I am for them, no longer victimized by my selfishness.

But I have found that what I want is usually not what God wants. And I am seeing the work He is doing in my life, for part of me longs to throw myself into these relationships selflessly. But then the other side of me worries once again about reciprocation and poses the question: "What if they will not miss you as you miss them? What if they cannot or will not return your love?"

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town to another due,
Labor to admit to you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lovéd fain
But am betrothed unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Take It All

Back in middle school, the swirling cauldron of life lessons it seems, I decided to try out for the middle school praise team. It was my first time auditioning for anything (unless you count the time my best friend and I tried out for the talent show - I don't). I walked in and saw Goodwin behind a folding table with my audition sheet under his pen. I was scared. Very scared. He asked me what I wanted to do in the praise team. I remember mumbling something about being able to sing and play the piano (badly), guitar (barely), and flute. He turned to whoever was next to him and said, "Hey, wouldn't that be awesome? To have a flute?"

Thus, I was in the middle school praise team, playing along with the guitar cords, being miked at the wrong end, and attempting to not be heard.

Fast forward to the next year's auditions. Same room, same table, same Goodwin. This year's interview posed a new question: "Why do you want to be the middle school praise team?" Caught off guard, I told him the first thing that came to mind: "Well, I believe God has given me a gift for playing the flute, and I want to give it back to Him."

Tonight, I attended the concert of arguably the world's greatest flutist. He conquered every piece with absolute brilliance: his vibrato was heartbreaking, his double tonguing astounding, his fingering remarkable. He had perfect joy in his work; the audience's standing ovations were merely auxiliary factors in his delighted satisfaction.

It seems as though I have lost my joy for many things in my life. I get so caught up in the crazy scheduling, the fruitless rehearsals, the frustrating people involved, that I lose the whole reason I do anything: to glorify God, and then, seeing Him pleased, bringing happiness to others and maybe even myself. I love those moments where I'm up on stage, playing a solo on my flute straight from my heart, feeling God's pleasure on me. That is where I find true joy and satisfaction. Trust me - I've searched other places.

I want to give myself - my talents, my gifts, my hopes, my dreams, my potential - back to God. I want to be one in whom He is well pleased.

Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee... Take my hands and let them move at the impulse of Thy love... Take my feet and let them be consecrated, Lord, to Thee... Take my voice and let me sing, always, only, for my King...Take my lips and let them be filled with messages from Thee... Take my silver and my gold; not a mite would I withhold... Take my intellect and use every power as Thou shalt choose... Take my will and make it Thine; it shall be no longer mine... Take my heart it is Thine own, it shall be Thy royal throne... Take my love, my Lord, I pour at Thy feet its treasure store... Take myself and I will be, ever, only, all for Thee...

A Very Cliche Topic

I hate it when things are not reciprocated. Looking over the patterns of my life, however, it seems a constant thing I must deal with. If I respect you, shouldn't you respect me? If I'm kind to you, shouldn't you be kind to me? Most would agree. Nevertheless, there is one area in life where all of us have failed: love. Unreturned love is devastating. As I've posted before, to love is to be vulnerable. When the love is not reciprocated, the vulnerablity is attacked. The pain is deep, personal, and confusing.

I know.

And because I am familiar with rejection's sting, I am brought to a different understanding of God. Hosea is one of my favorite books in the Bible. In it, God commands his prophet, Hosea, to marry a prostitute, have children by her, find her when she runs back to her sin, and buy her back. Gomer the prostitute represents Israel, God's runaway lover. She has turned away from God and given herself to other gods. Hosea records God's words, full of fury, love, judgement, and tenderness. That's what I love about Hosea: reading it gives us insight into God's emotions - the part of Him that responds to us. And His responses are overwhelming.

With Israel as His lover, God first wants to "expose her lewedness before the eyes of her lovers" then wants to "speak tenderly to her."

With Israel as His child, God calls down judgement on him, then asks, "How can I give you up?"

And finally, God promises restoration. This part hits me hardest: "I will be like dew to Israel; he will blossom like a lily. Like a cedar of Lebanon he will send down his roots; his young shoots will grow."

Israel - a tree stripped bare, no leaves, no branches.
God - sees Israel, has overwhelming compassion, nourishes it back to health.

He loves me. There's no unreturned love I could ever give Him. In fact, I often fail to reciprocate. But even so, His compassion is so great, that He sees me, cries over me, wants me, changes me, provides for me. And I have yet to even comprehend a small piece of this love.

February 6th

When I was a child, my dad worked a lot of late shifts. He took us to school in the mornings, since my mom had to be at work early. Thus, he worked evenings. Every night, after my mom tucked me in, he came home from work, climbed the stairs and checked in on me. If I was still awake, he'd sit on the edge of my bed and ask me about my day. Then, he'd sing me to sleep. His favorite was "Amazing Grace." Even now, I hardly need the hymnal when we sing it in church. What is to many a cliche Christian song, for me, it is the sweetest memory of my dad. It breaks me; it mends me; it depresses me; it strengthens me.

The idea of grace has struck me recently. It seems no matter how much I feel I disappoint God, the reality of a second chance is always mine. I have rejected His love, His healing, His peace. And yet, he still offers it to me. Not only that, but because of His unfailing love, I am able to love others, something that has never happened to me. He breaks down my walls. He gives me ineffable joy. I can't begin to describe it. Even though I fail and grow weary, He gives me strength.

His grace is not just enough. It is overflowing.

And so, I remember my dad. The one that some could blame for my reluctance when it comes to grace. I, however, only remember his calm, tenor voice, teaching me of the grace the relieves fears, that sustains through dangers, toils and snares, that found me when I once was lost. And I know that he is there, bright shining as the sun, praising God to His face.

Happy birthday, Dad. I love you.

Sleeplessness

"Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable." - C.S. Lewis

It's Sunday. Very early, Sunday morning. I'm far from sleep, from dreams, from rest.

Conflicted. It's the only word that suits me at this early hour.

I have a choice to make. My bare instincts scream at me to run as fast as possible in the other direction, to absolutely sever the ties that keep me bound to one of the things I fear the most. I want to completely hide myself, to climb into the coffin of my selfishness and wait for this to pass.

But if I do this, I will continue on, locked up forever, and become incurable. To run is to forfeit the joys and the reciprocation, to disobey my Lord's 2nd greatest command, to hurt someone who is very close to me. If I keep running, I will never be caught. I will never know the honorable, Godly, righteous love that could be mine and that I could return. I will be even further away from understanding that which frightens me, and when I truly fall in love in the future, I fear I will never be able to take off my running shoes.

This is hard. Ima go try to sleep.