I am straight addicted to coffee in a very dependent, I-Need-You-To-Function kind of way. Some days I wish that I could inject it straight into my veins. Is that bad? Too much? Whatever. I've never thought of myself as the addictive personality type, but there are worse things to be addicted to, at least that is what I tell myself. I've always enjoyed coffee, but these days I can drink it black. I prefer a little bit of half and half in there, but if I run out, I'm still drinking it. I definitely don't use any of that sweet, specialty creamer. Hazelnut and peppermint and french vanilla have no place in my coffee. How did I get here? When did I start being capable of drinking my coffee black?
If you would like some answers to what I have been doing for the past four months (clearly I have not been blogging), you can go here, and read about my experience as an intern at Church World Service (CWS). If you want some faces to match the experience I have had as an intern, you can go here, and read about just a few of the beautiful people I got to spend time with this semester. If you want to know a little bit more about what I've been up to, how I've been feeling, and what I've been learning, you can keep reading. My intention is to put words to where exactly I am at this moment in my life, and how exactly I got here. We'll see if that happens. But now you know my intentions.
I started off the semester with hazelnut Coffeemate in my refrigerator. That stuff is non dairy. aka there is no milk in it. aka what is it? I ended the semester with half and half in the fridge, but only because I recently went grocery shopping. This is the tale of how I came to drink my coffee black, how I came to feel more tired than I've ever felt, and how I loved every second of it (except for that one time a client threw up in my car. I actually didn't love that).
I started the semester off nervous and unsure, eager but insecure, anxious and very much aware of the inevitable shift that is happening and in many ways has already happened in my life and the lives of my friends, my peers. We are grown ups. We're not done growing, maturing, and learning. My prayer for us is that we would never stop learning, that we would never close our minds and hearts to new things, that we would hold on to a small part of our youth, our innocence, our desire to become something more, something better, forever. But in the eyes of society, in the eyes of the Law, and in the eyes of our mothers, we are grown ups. We do grown up things like go to bed before midnight and go grocery shopping and buy light bulbs. We do a lot of things now, because they are expected of us, but I think my favorite part about being friends with grown ups is just that - being friends with grown ups.
I have always had people that love me. I have always had good friends. Jesus has never left me feeling unloved (duh), but being friends with grown ups is one of the coolest things I've experienced so far in the game of life. My grown up friends love me so well. When I am sad, they are sad with me. When I am happy, they are happy with me. When I am in crisis, they know without me having to say a word. They know and they care and they respond in a way that demonstrates that they care. They know me. they know my hopes and my fears. They know what I am passionate about and they know what makes me angry. Being friends with grown ups means that I can't always be a hero. I can't always be right. I can't always be blameless. I can't always have the answers, because being friends with grown ups means knowing and being known. Being friends with grown ups means loving and being loved. Being friends with grown ups means facing life in the context of community, in the safety of trustworthiness, and in the beauty of light and all that relationships have to offer. I am afraid of a lot of things, but I am thankful for my grown up friends and the ways that they know me, the ways that they love me, and the ways that they encourage me to be more like I was made to be.
My friends are not perfect, but as we have matured and grown and learned, as we have begun to enter the real world, I have felt a shift in the way that we treat each other and the way that we care for each other. I think we value each other more now that we are grown ups. Things are different than before. We can't spend as much time together as we could in college or high school, but maybe that's the point. We value the time that we do have. We see that there is something there to be valued and protected.
I am shaken to the core each time I think about you guys. I would survive without you, but life would be a lot less full. Thank you for bringing fullness to my life. My heart is so full, so open, and so overjoyed, because of your continual demonstration of love and grace. Grace and love. Love and grace. This semester, I have come to appreciate just how much I need you and just how good it is to need you.
I began the semester feeling small and incompetent, but I was not alone. I was supported and loved like you wouldn't believe. If you clicked on either of those links above, you know that I've spent a lot of time, almost 500 hours, at CWS over the past several months. Refugee Resettlement and Immigration Services. When I tell people that I worked as an intern in an agency that does Refugee Resettlement and Immigration Services most people need more explanation, and most times I am not so good at explaining. But here it goes...
I did a little bit of everything, but most of my time was spent working in the Citizenship Program. My supervisor was over the Citizenship Program at CWS. The purpose of the Citizenship Program is to help clients become citizens of the United States. There are all kinds of reasons that immigrants want to become citizens but it's not an easy process, it's not a short process, and it's rarely a process that occurs without any bumps in the road. I spent time teaching classes that were designed to help people pass the citizenship test. I spent time tutoring clients with test dates approaching. I spent time registering newly naturalized citizens to vote. I drove to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services office in Charlotte quite a few times with nervous, sleepless clients for test appointments.
I expected to gain good experience, but I had no idea what I was signing up for. I have learned more than I ever could have hoped to learn about the process of Refugee Resettlement and the process of becoming a legal citizen of the United States. I have learned about how grant writing works (a little). I have learned how to communicate [relatively] effectively with an individual that speaks very little English. I have seen the importance of strength based practice and cultural competence. I have learned about many resources in Greensboro that I didn't even know existed before my time at CWS. I have learned so, so much. I now have faces and specific instances to place next to things that I once read in a textbook.
I have also learned about the innate dignity that each of us hold. I have learned about the beauty that can be found in differences and disagreements, if we would just take the time to look. I have learned the value of open ears, of listening without a clock, of meeting someone exactly where they are, even if that is right in the middle of the muck and the mire. I have learned what true joy looks like on the face of someone who has tirelessly worked their ass off for months and months and months to finally be able to call this place home. I have learned that courage doesn't always look like we think it should and strength is not always big and loud. Sometimes, it is quiet, almost invisible, undetectable until you catch a glimpse of it and it takes your breath away; it levels you in a way you didn't know was possible.
I learned that this city (and others, I suspect) is full of people that don't look like me, don't speak like me, and don't know the same things that I know. These people are not all that different from me. I have learned that these people are not to be feared. They are not to be treated like children. They are not to be exploited or ridiculed. They are beautiful, they are precious, and they have given me infinitely more than I have given them.
Hearing their stories has helped me to grow up. They have helped me to become an adult. Being a part of their lives opened my eyes and allowed me to see things I had never seen before. I am humbled and grateful for their trust, their dedication, their words, and their actions. I could write endlessly about any one of my students and all of the beauty that lies within them. They have reminded me of why I am here. They have worn me out, well I guess I have worn myself out, but I wouldn't want to be this tired for any other reason. They have left me forever changed. And they have helped me to enjoy black coffee.
I have been reading Ephesians lately. Of course this is in Ephesians.
Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God's people and also members of his household, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit. (Ephesians 2:19-22)
Never has the term, "fellow citizens," meant something so special to me. Never has the gift that Christ died to give me seemed quite so unique. I know what it takes to gain citizenship in the United States. It's hard. How can I even begin to imagine what it took for me to gain citizenship in Heaven. I know the anxiety and stress that my students try to hide as their test dates approach. I know the relief, the joy, the wonder and possibility that they each radiate when the day finally comes for them to stand and pledge their allegiance to the United States. Ear to ear smiles. Security. Home. Freedom. Family. Safety. Sanctuary. That is what they hope citizenship in the United States will promise them.
There are many reasons that people come to this country. It's often not the paradise that was promised or hoped for. There is not an unlimited supply of job opportunities. Creating a life here is by no means easy, but then again, I've come to realize that easy was never what they were after, at least not the people I have met. They want life, not death. They want hope, not hopelessness. They want a chance, a choice, not a paradise, not streets paved with gold or money growing on trees. They don't want to take anything away from anyone. They only want what we all want, the opportunity to have a life worth living, to give their children the things they never had. They would give anything and often times have made incredible sacrifices to be here, to have this chance, to call this country home.
Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God's people and also members of his household...
Never has that sentence filled me with so much gratitude. Never has the gospel touched that nerve in exactly that way. I have it all. I have freedom that no government can give or take away from me. I have citizenship in Heaven. I have a spotless record and abundant life for all eternity. Because he loves me. Only because he loves me. Above everything else, they have shown me that - he loves me and he loves them. He loves us. Watching my students work so hard everyday for this gift that I never had to work for reminds me how much I don't deserve any of it. These people have worked so hard, they have worried so much. For many of them this has consumed their lives for months, even years. I have it all and I can't point to a single thing I did that merits my status. And that is so freeing and beautiful and humbling. How can that bring me to a place of anything other than gratefulness?
These past four months have changed the way I see the world, the way I see injustice, and they way I drink my coffee. These past four months have changed me, I hope for the better, but sometimes it's hard to tell. These past four months have changed me and I'm sure the next four months will continue to do the same. In the midst of all of that I am sure that he loves me. I may have changed. He hasn't. He loves me. He loves me still.
May those of us that are troubled by the trials and chances of this life rest in his eternal changelessness. Amen.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Saturday, August 18, 2012
You better hang on tooth and nail.
Summer slipped away. I know that everyone says that every year, but this is the slipperiest summer yet for me. I had my internship kickoff on Thursday and then my first day of work on Friday and now I am having my first weekend of Fall semester. I cannot imagine a day when I do not measure my life by semesters, but I know it is coming. This semester will be different from others. I live in Greensboro now. I am working 32 hours a week this semester, and I only have 3 hours of class a week. Whatttt??
Summer slipped away. Maybe it feels extra slippery, because it feels like other things are slipping away right now too. College. Raleigh things. Childhood. Familiar. Routine. Comfort. Those things are all slipping away, but there are also things like this: beautiful people, joy, encouragement, and truth. I feel them all slipping away as well. I have those things here, too, but they're in different places, different people.
It's the people. It's always the people, isn't it? The people in my life have and are changing. The actual people are different when you move from one city to another, but I think what scares me the most, what makes me the most sad are the little changes, the growth, the continual rebirth and evolution I won't be as much a part of in the people I left. The actual people changed, but the people are actually changing as well. Everyday changing. I am happy. I am excited. I am eager to find my place here, to be a part of those new people changing here, but another part of me is sad. A little homesick for my favorites and the ways they are growing, changing, becoming more like how they are intended to be. I will miss being a part of that every day kind of change.
Well, once again here I am standing in front of my friend, Change, and equally loving and hating him. Change is a boy, because boys are stupid, but you still love them. I've never wanted and not wanted something, lots of things actually, like I do right now. I want to be able to dive in, but that's not all I want. I also want to drag my feet a little bit. To have more time. But I think we have established that the time is slipping away. My in between time is just about gone, and I am ready to work. I am ready to learn the ins and outs of CWS, of GSO, of everything about this new life, but I am not quite ready to let go of things, people, places, that I count on, that give me life and fuel to move forward. I know that they're not disappearing, only changing. But sometimes changing feels like shifting, and sometimes shifting feels like slipping and sometimes slipping just feels scary. Like I don't have a whole lot of control, like I can't hold on, or like I can't control the way that I hold on.
Lately, I have been thinking about my life in terms of skiing. Bare with me. Skiing is my sport. It is just about the only athletic thing that I love and can do well. I really can't take credit for it. LK had me out there early. When I was old enough to walk, I was old enough to ski. We used to have a little condo at Wintergreen and I conquered Eagle's Swoop and its icy terrain as a small ski bunny in my black and white polka dotted, puffy jacket. I have a lot of good childhood memories in the mountains.
When you learn to ski, if you have a good teacher, you start off without poles. All you have and all you need to worry about are the two panels attached to the two boots on your feet. And one of the first things you've got to get down is the "pizza" maneuver.
Pizza-ing is not the end goal, but you have to walk before you can run. People say that, right? Some call it the pie or the pizza pie. I have always fondly referred to this basic move simply as, "the pizza." It's where you angle the tips of your skis together so that they look like a little slice of pizza.
The pizza allows you to maintain control. The pizza helps you slow down and stop, even turn a little. The pizza is important for beginners, because while skis can feel really foreign and awkward, if you can get a hold of your pizza pose, you can have control, even if it's just enough control to stop yourself and get outta those skis. You have control to rearrange and reevaluate. And you have a foundation on which you can keep improving.
Moving up in the world, we want to get our skis side by side, not angled inward. We want to get to poles and parallel turns. We want to add some speed in there somewhere. We want to keep building and getting better. But we always have our pizza to fall back on.
That is how I have been feeling the past week. I feel like I have been in pizza mode. I am just trying to survive. I am just trying to get down the mountain, or this part of the mountain without killing myself. And it's good. I can get down anything with my pizza, so I am glad that I have it, but it doesn't look especially good, and I don't especially enjoy it. It's hard to appreciate the view, the scenery when all you can do is focus whole heartedly on pizza-ing down the mountain.
Transitions are the worst. I know in a few weeks I will have this down. I will be making parallel turns like it's my job and will have no need for the pizza, but I'm not there yet. Things are slipping away and I am trying to hold onto them while simultaneously attempting to get a grasp on all of these new things that are all starting. I am learning my new job and the way the organization works and how I can best be used there. I am learning how to have normal, non summer life in Greensboro; I haven't done that in a lot of years. I am learning how to be a good friend to my friends here and I am learning how to be a good friend to the people I left in Rals and the ones that left me. I am learning lots of things, and I am unsure of how I feel about it all. I know I am happy and I know I am sad, but I don't know how those two contradictory feelings can exist so strongly alongside of each other.
I am pizza-ing. I am just trying to make it through days one at a time. I am trying to learn and adjust and I am trying to have a good attitude about it all, but that's hard and I don't always do it well. I am excited for the day when that is not the case anymore, when I can appreciate the days instead of just trying to get through them. Maybe that's not the best way to look at things, but it's the best I can do right now, and I think that's okay. I think it's okay that life feels heavy right now. I think it's okay that change still stresses me out like you wouldn't believe, and I think it's okay that I am relying on my pizza a whole, whole lot.
Honestly, I love it here. Honestly, I loved it there. Honestly, I am excited and eager to keep moving forward. Honestly, I never want to let go of the beautiful things of the past. Honestly, those are all truths.
I hope I never forget how incredibly precious it is that I have so much to look forward to and so much to miss. I hope I never forget to be thankful for that, even in the midst of all the pizza.
Summer slipped away. Maybe it feels extra slippery, because it feels like other things are slipping away right now too. College. Raleigh things. Childhood. Familiar. Routine. Comfort. Those things are all slipping away, but there are also things like this: beautiful people, joy, encouragement, and truth. I feel them all slipping away as well. I have those things here, too, but they're in different places, different people.
It's the people. It's always the people, isn't it? The people in my life have and are changing. The actual people are different when you move from one city to another, but I think what scares me the most, what makes me the most sad are the little changes, the growth, the continual rebirth and evolution I won't be as much a part of in the people I left. The actual people changed, but the people are actually changing as well. Everyday changing. I am happy. I am excited. I am eager to find my place here, to be a part of those new people changing here, but another part of me is sad. A little homesick for my favorites and the ways they are growing, changing, becoming more like how they are intended to be. I will miss being a part of that every day kind of change.
Well, once again here I am standing in front of my friend, Change, and equally loving and hating him. Change is a boy, because boys are stupid, but you still love them. I've never wanted and not wanted something, lots of things actually, like I do right now. I want to be able to dive in, but that's not all I want. I also want to drag my feet a little bit. To have more time. But I think we have established that the time is slipping away. My in between time is just about gone, and I am ready to work. I am ready to learn the ins and outs of CWS, of GSO, of everything about this new life, but I am not quite ready to let go of things, people, places, that I count on, that give me life and fuel to move forward. I know that they're not disappearing, only changing. But sometimes changing feels like shifting, and sometimes shifting feels like slipping and sometimes slipping just feels scary. Like I don't have a whole lot of control, like I can't hold on, or like I can't control the way that I hold on.
Lately, I have been thinking about my life in terms of skiing. Bare with me. Skiing is my sport. It is just about the only athletic thing that I love and can do well. I really can't take credit for it. LK had me out there early. When I was old enough to walk, I was old enough to ski. We used to have a little condo at Wintergreen and I conquered Eagle's Swoop and its icy terrain as a small ski bunny in my black and white polka dotted, puffy jacket. I have a lot of good childhood memories in the mountains.
When you learn to ski, if you have a good teacher, you start off without poles. All you have and all you need to worry about are the two panels attached to the two boots on your feet. And one of the first things you've got to get down is the "pizza" maneuver.
Pizza-ing is not the end goal, but you have to walk before you can run. People say that, right? Some call it the pie or the pizza pie. I have always fondly referred to this basic move simply as, "the pizza." It's where you angle the tips of your skis together so that they look like a little slice of pizza.
The pizza allows you to maintain control. The pizza helps you slow down and stop, even turn a little. The pizza is important for beginners, because while skis can feel really foreign and awkward, if you can get a hold of your pizza pose, you can have control, even if it's just enough control to stop yourself and get outta those skis. You have control to rearrange and reevaluate. And you have a foundation on which you can keep improving.
Moving up in the world, we want to get our skis side by side, not angled inward. We want to get to poles and parallel turns. We want to add some speed in there somewhere. We want to keep building and getting better. But we always have our pizza to fall back on.
That is how I have been feeling the past week. I feel like I have been in pizza mode. I am just trying to survive. I am just trying to get down the mountain, or this part of the mountain without killing myself. And it's good. I can get down anything with my pizza, so I am glad that I have it, but it doesn't look especially good, and I don't especially enjoy it. It's hard to appreciate the view, the scenery when all you can do is focus whole heartedly on pizza-ing down the mountain.
Transitions are the worst. I know in a few weeks I will have this down. I will be making parallel turns like it's my job and will have no need for the pizza, but I'm not there yet. Things are slipping away and I am trying to hold onto them while simultaneously attempting to get a grasp on all of these new things that are all starting. I am learning my new job and the way the organization works and how I can best be used there. I am learning how to have normal, non summer life in Greensboro; I haven't done that in a lot of years. I am learning how to be a good friend to my friends here and I am learning how to be a good friend to the people I left in Rals and the ones that left me. I am learning lots of things, and I am unsure of how I feel about it all. I know I am happy and I know I am sad, but I don't know how those two contradictory feelings can exist so strongly alongside of each other.
I am pizza-ing. I am just trying to make it through days one at a time. I am trying to learn and adjust and I am trying to have a good attitude about it all, but that's hard and I don't always do it well. I am excited for the day when that is not the case anymore, when I can appreciate the days instead of just trying to get through them. Maybe that's not the best way to look at things, but it's the best I can do right now, and I think that's okay. I think it's okay that life feels heavy right now. I think it's okay that change still stresses me out like you wouldn't believe, and I think it's okay that I am relying on my pizza a whole, whole lot.
Honestly, I love it here. Honestly, I loved it there. Honestly, I am excited and eager to keep moving forward. Honestly, I never want to let go of the beautiful things of the past. Honestly, those are all truths.
I hope I never forget how incredibly precious it is that I have so much to look forward to and so much to miss. I hope I never forget to be thankful for that, even in the midst of all the pizza.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
We stood, steady as the stars in the wood, so happy hearted & the warmth rang true inside these bones.
Sometimes I write letters. Sometimes I write letters to people just to figure out what it is that I would want to say. Most times, in these letter writing scenarios, when I'm writing to figure out where I am, how I'm feeling, I don't send them. I have a few times, but usually that's totally mine. Usually, I don't let anyone else in on that. Usually, that's something really sacred, and special to me. I like that I have shared them a few times, because those times keep me grounded. Those times keep the process valid. I could at some point, actually want to share this with the name at the top. That keeps me from leaving reality and going off into some alternate universe where everything revolves around me. But the fact that most times these letters never leave my journal makes them real, too. Statistically, it is more likely that I will keep this to myself, than share it with anyone. And so, I'm really not trying to just be nice. I'm really not trying to just be mean. I'm really not interested in making things sound particularly good or well written. I'm really not trying to be anything other than honest.
The more I do this little exercise, the more I realize how seldom all of my energy, all of my effort, or even just the majority of it goes into being honest, being truthful. That freaks me out, because honesty is something that I have to think about and, because I usually don't think about honesty as something that I have to think about.
The process is freeing. The process is enlightening. The process is endless and surprising and sometimes it hurts, sometimes it hurts a lot, but the process is always worth it. It has always given me something valuable, or at least pointed me towards something of worth.
I think I got to this place, where I have to write these letters, because somewhere along the way I stopped being honest about my relationships. Somewhere along the way, I stopped talking honestly, or more likely, I stopped talking altogether about what it means for me to be hurt by someone that I shouldn't have to worry about hurting me. I got really good at answering questions. I developed this skill where I could talk about really painful things without letting anyone (including myself) know that they were actually really painful. I got really good at controlling the way that I talked about things.
Facts. That is the secret. Only facts. If I'm not really careful, if I don't take a second every now and then to remind myself of what honesty actually is, I'll slide back into talking about facts. I can talk to you about something that has impacted my life a whole lot, something that hurt me a whole lot, or even something that has brought me a whole lot of joy, but if I can control the way that I talk about it, if you will let me tell you what happened or is happening without ever actually having to address how it touches me, I can separate the two.
So good. And so, so bad.
And it's usually not as obvious as it sounds like it would be. I'm pretty good at tricking you into thinking that I've talked about myself, my feelings, my heart without ever actually having to do it. I can trick myself too, but that's getting harder to do. Trickery doesn't sound a whole lot like honesty.
The letters help me. They give me opportunities to be honest. And I can write a letter to absolutely anyone, about absolutely anything, absolutely anytime. Anyone. Anything. Anytime. For someone that kind-of-sort-of just discovered honesty, those are really helpful, really great, really incredible things.
The facts are important, but the feelings rule my days. The feelings are so much bigger than the facts. We need them both. I'm not entirely sure how I operated for so long with just one.
It's funny how things that you do to keep yourself strong can actually do the opposite. I thought I was protecting myself, and I was, but it didn't make me strong. Strength is not in facing the facts. Strength comes when we face the things that the facts produce. Strength comes when we face the feelings, the scars, the joys and the sorrows.
So far, 2012 has taught me a lot. I have cried more in 2012 than I have in a long, long time. And I feel stronger than I ever have. I asked God to make me more honest in 2012. He's surprising me. Everyday, he's surprising me.
Tears and strength have gone hand in hand for me this year. He's teaching me about what it means to really be honest. He's teaching me that real honesty is way more than just not lying. He's also teaching me that honesty yields things like tears. And he's showing me that the kind of strong he wants me to be is not cold, it is not fact based, and it is not strong like an impenetrable forcefield.
He's showing me that the strong he wants me to be is alive and it feels things. The strong he wants me to be is tender. The strong he wants me to be isn't afraid of empathy and the strong he wants me to be can cry. The strong he wants me to be can cry a lot, because the strong he wants me to be is rooted in facts and it's rooted in feeling feelings and it's rooted in a whole lot of hope.
And we have so much more of 2012 left.
The more I do this little exercise, the more I realize how seldom all of my energy, all of my effort, or even just the majority of it goes into being honest, being truthful. That freaks me out, because honesty is something that I have to think about and, because I usually don't think about honesty as something that I have to think about.
The process is freeing. The process is enlightening. The process is endless and surprising and sometimes it hurts, sometimes it hurts a lot, but the process is always worth it. It has always given me something valuable, or at least pointed me towards something of worth.
I think I got to this place, where I have to write these letters, because somewhere along the way I stopped being honest about my relationships. Somewhere along the way, I stopped talking honestly, or more likely, I stopped talking altogether about what it means for me to be hurt by someone that I shouldn't have to worry about hurting me. I got really good at answering questions. I developed this skill where I could talk about really painful things without letting anyone (including myself) know that they were actually really painful. I got really good at controlling the way that I talked about things.
Facts. That is the secret. Only facts. If I'm not really careful, if I don't take a second every now and then to remind myself of what honesty actually is, I'll slide back into talking about facts. I can talk to you about something that has impacted my life a whole lot, something that hurt me a whole lot, or even something that has brought me a whole lot of joy, but if I can control the way that I talk about it, if you will let me tell you what happened or is happening without ever actually having to address how it touches me, I can separate the two.
So good. And so, so bad.
And it's usually not as obvious as it sounds like it would be. I'm pretty good at tricking you into thinking that I've talked about myself, my feelings, my heart without ever actually having to do it. I can trick myself too, but that's getting harder to do. Trickery doesn't sound a whole lot like honesty.
The letters help me. They give me opportunities to be honest. And I can write a letter to absolutely anyone, about absolutely anything, absolutely anytime. Anyone. Anything. Anytime. For someone that kind-of-sort-of just discovered honesty, those are really helpful, really great, really incredible things.
The facts are important, but the feelings rule my days. The feelings are so much bigger than the facts. We need them both. I'm not entirely sure how I operated for so long with just one.
It's funny how things that you do to keep yourself strong can actually do the opposite. I thought I was protecting myself, and I was, but it didn't make me strong. Strength is not in facing the facts. Strength comes when we face the things that the facts produce. Strength comes when we face the feelings, the scars, the joys and the sorrows.
So far, 2012 has taught me a lot. I have cried more in 2012 than I have in a long, long time. And I feel stronger than I ever have. I asked God to make me more honest in 2012. He's surprising me. Everyday, he's surprising me.
Tears and strength have gone hand in hand for me this year. He's teaching me about what it means to really be honest. He's teaching me that real honesty is way more than just not lying. He's also teaching me that honesty yields things like tears. And he's showing me that the kind of strong he wants me to be is not cold, it is not fact based, and it is not strong like an impenetrable forcefield.
He's showing me that the strong he wants me to be is alive and it feels things. The strong he wants me to be is tender. The strong he wants me to be isn't afraid of empathy and the strong he wants me to be can cry. The strong he wants me to be can cry a lot, because the strong he wants me to be is rooted in facts and it's rooted in feeling feelings and it's rooted in a whole lot of hope.
And we have so much more of 2012 left.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
I was looking for a breath of life, a little touch of heavenly light, but all the choirs in my head say no.
I did an exercise that a little app on my phone suggested a few days ago. It was trying to teach me about gentleness, and I did learn about gentleness, but I learned something else as well. It asked me to think of my best friend and then to create a list of five words that described that friend. Not too hard. Then it asked me to think of someone that I don't get along with and to create a list of five words that described that person. Also, not too hard.
Next, it asked me to go through all of the words I had come up with and think about how it would make me feel for someone to use each of them to describe me. The good ones would obviously make me feel good. The bad ones would obviously make me feel bad, all but one of the bad ones that is. My words to describe someone that I don't get along with were: loud, argumentative, manipulative, mean, and different.
I have never wanted to be excessively loud. I have never wanted to come across as argumentative. I have never hoped that someone would describe me as manipulative. I have never wanted to seem mean to others. I have, however wanted to be different.
I chose the word different to describe someone that I don't get along with, because sometimes when you have a different perspective than someone else, or differing views on a particular topic, it can cause conflict. Sometimes even differing personality traits can cause tension or confusion. That is what I meant by including, "different," in my list of words to describe someone that I don't get along with. There is potential and value and so much to learn from our differences, but sometimes differences just make things hard.
There have been many times in my 22 years that I have wanted to be like someone else, different than myself. I can't really say that I've ever wanted to actually be someone else. I've always wanted my name to be Jill. I've always wanted to be whatever makes me, me. But often times I want to just borrow traits from others. Sometimes it's as superficial as, "I want your hair or your skin," but sometimes it is more like, "I want your courage, your ability to relate to others, I want your sense of humor, or your ability to captivate an audience."
I want what's not mine. I want to be me, but a better, more capable version of me. I want to be a version of myself that I can tweak a little, sometimes a lot. I talked about this dissatisfaction with myself and who exactly that is a lot last summer. Being on a team every day with people that were all so different from me was great, but it was hard. It stirred up a lot of insecurities, and hidden feelings of disdain that I had for myself and for specific things about myself, or things that I thought/think I was/am lacking.
I can remember an email I got one day last summer after posting what I am sure was a very dramatic blog entry. I got an email in which Ashley very gently reminded me of how counter productive wishing that I was made differently is. It's one thing to want to be better, to want to improve, but it's something entirely different to long to be made differently, to wish to have different strengths, different gifts.
"I watched the Voyage of the Dawn Treader the other night and the line that the little rat [Reepicheep] said keeps sticking with me. He said, 'Aslan gave me this tail, so if you don't let go of it, I will have to fight you (or something like that).' Just got me thinking how Aslan made you the way you are and it is perfect! He created you, Jill Burnette, in his image, and with all of the pieces and parts the way he designed and saw fit..." A.A.D.
She went on to say more kind things to me, and they were and are nice, but that right there is the point. Perfect. In his image. The way he designed and saw fit.
When I got to the last word, different, I didn't hate the thought of someone describing me as different. I knew that I was not supposed to like the way the words describing the person I don't get along with made me feel, but different was hard for me to dislike. What does that say about me?
It would be really easy for me to say that comes from a good place. I want to be different than I am today. I want to be better tomorrow. I want to love better. I want to trust more. I want to live well.
But that's really not what I meant.
Honestly, it is tempting for me to cling to the word different, because time and time again I do covet what other people have. I want their gifts. I want what they are good at. I want what they do well. I do not see the things I do well. I don't appreciate my gifts. I don't see the way that I was made perfect, in his image, the way he designed and saw fit. It's not about wanting to improve on the things that I have been given; it's about wishing that I had entirely different instruments.
And that can't be good.
Perfect. In his image. The way he designed and saw fit. Those words describe me right here and right now. So why would I want to be different? I don't know, but I hope that I can learn to wish for a continual sharpening of my knife, not for a new knife altogether.
Next, it asked me to go through all of the words I had come up with and think about how it would make me feel for someone to use each of them to describe me. The good ones would obviously make me feel good. The bad ones would obviously make me feel bad, all but one of the bad ones that is. My words to describe someone that I don't get along with were: loud, argumentative, manipulative, mean, and different.
I have never wanted to be excessively loud. I have never wanted to come across as argumentative. I have never hoped that someone would describe me as manipulative. I have never wanted to seem mean to others. I have, however wanted to be different.
I chose the word different to describe someone that I don't get along with, because sometimes when you have a different perspective than someone else, or differing views on a particular topic, it can cause conflict. Sometimes even differing personality traits can cause tension or confusion. That is what I meant by including, "different," in my list of words to describe someone that I don't get along with. There is potential and value and so much to learn from our differences, but sometimes differences just make things hard.
There have been many times in my 22 years that I have wanted to be like someone else, different than myself. I can't really say that I've ever wanted to actually be someone else. I've always wanted my name to be Jill. I've always wanted to be whatever makes me, me. But often times I want to just borrow traits from others. Sometimes it's as superficial as, "I want your hair or your skin," but sometimes it is more like, "I want your courage, your ability to relate to others, I want your sense of humor, or your ability to captivate an audience."
I want what's not mine. I want to be me, but a better, more capable version of me. I want to be a version of myself that I can tweak a little, sometimes a lot. I talked about this dissatisfaction with myself and who exactly that is a lot last summer. Being on a team every day with people that were all so different from me was great, but it was hard. It stirred up a lot of insecurities, and hidden feelings of disdain that I had for myself and for specific things about myself, or things that I thought/think I was/am lacking.
I can remember an email I got one day last summer after posting what I am sure was a very dramatic blog entry. I got an email in which Ashley very gently reminded me of how counter productive wishing that I was made differently is. It's one thing to want to be better, to want to improve, but it's something entirely different to long to be made differently, to wish to have different strengths, different gifts.
"I watched the Voyage of the Dawn Treader the other night and the line that the little rat [Reepicheep] said keeps sticking with me. He said, 'Aslan gave me this tail, so if you don't let go of it, I will have to fight you (or something like that).' Just got me thinking how Aslan made you the way you are and it is perfect! He created you, Jill Burnette, in his image, and with all of the pieces and parts the way he designed and saw fit..." A.A.D.
She went on to say more kind things to me, and they were and are nice, but that right there is the point. Perfect. In his image. The way he designed and saw fit.
When I got to the last word, different, I didn't hate the thought of someone describing me as different. I knew that I was not supposed to like the way the words describing the person I don't get along with made me feel, but different was hard for me to dislike. What does that say about me?
It would be really easy for me to say that comes from a good place. I want to be different than I am today. I want to be better tomorrow. I want to love better. I want to trust more. I want to live well.
But that's really not what I meant.
Honestly, it is tempting for me to cling to the word different, because time and time again I do covet what other people have. I want their gifts. I want what they are good at. I want what they do well. I do not see the things I do well. I don't appreciate my gifts. I don't see the way that I was made perfect, in his image, the way he designed and saw fit. It's not about wanting to improve on the things that I have been given; it's about wishing that I had entirely different instruments.
And that can't be good.
Perfect. In his image. The way he designed and saw fit. Those words describe me right here and right now. So why would I want to be different? I don't know, but I hope that I can learn to wish for a continual sharpening of my knife, not for a new knife altogether.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
I was about to give up and that's no lie. Cardinal landed outside my window, threw his head back, & sang a song. So beautiful, it made me cry.
My church is doing a series on work right now. Today, the sermon was about rest. It was about Sabbath time, what that should mean, what that should look like, why it is important, and what the Bible has to say about all of that.
I am not always really great at working, but I think I am pretty good at Sabbath-ing, at least when I get around to doing it, I do it pretty well. I say that, because I love doing it. A lot of people say that they don't know how to rest, they can't rest, it doesn't come easily to them. I am an excellent rester, sometimes. I love these moments. I long for this time.
Stillness. Peace. Rest. Ink. Books. Depths. Intimacy. Wonder. Honesty. Those are the words I think of when I think about the word Sabbath, and what it means to observe Sabbath time. I probably am too good at it. I would fill day, upon day, upon day up with coffee shop time, my Bible, my journal, a little Sara Groves in my headphones, and ink spilling over pages. It feels so good to me. I know there is value in this time, because I can feel it in my bones. I can feel it in my heart. I don't think the quality of my relationship with Jesus depends on anything that I do and so, while I am very appreciative of time like this, time where I sit and write and think and pray and read, I don't think I make anything better in this time. That has to be him. If that is happening, it has got to be him. That has to come from someone else.
The more I see that and think about what that means, the more in awe I am of how good he is to me. Awe. That is equally terrifying and freeing. Does this time that I am rambling on about have anything to do with my faith increasing or my maturity increasing, or my unbelief decreasing? Yeah, I'd say so. If those things are happening, I think this time has something to do with it, but it comes from him, not me. It's his. Maturity and faith are not things that I can produce. Awe. Terrifying. Freeing.
How little control I actually have over any of this. I am sure that he can and is doing an infinitely better job than I ever could, but my heart doesn't always remember that; my heart of hearts doesn't always believe that. I read an article once that talked about this idea. I can't remember who wrote it or where I read it. It might have actually been a sermon I listened to once, but the point was this, "We cannot muster faith. We cannot muster intimacy with God. We cannot muster maturity. We must ask for those things, but we cannot make them ourselves. And when he grants them, when he gives us pieces of those things, the glory is his."
The only thing I am sure of is that the word, "muster," was used, and that always stuck with me. In social work we have the I.M.A.G.I.N.E. model for program development (insert APA citation here). The, "M," stands for, "Mustering Support."
Three things about Mustering Support:
1. We always laugh when we get to the M, because, seriously, who came up with this mnemonic device? Who thought that muster was the word that everyone needed to remember. It just sounds so awkward and random.
2. Aside from muster being a funny/random word to land on, once you get passed the weirdness of it, it's actually really great. Muster Support. Get people on your team. Get people excited about you cause. Make it exciting. Let people know why what you are doing is important. With most things in social work and in life, individual people don't get large scale projects accomplished on their own. To be successful, to make a lasting impact, to touch lives, to move towards social justice, you have to have support. You have to have more than yourself. You have to muster.
3. Mustering support when you are trying to implement a new project or program is great. Mustering faith is impossible. I've tried to do both. I can tell you that at least one of them was unsuccessful, and more than that, it was/is exhausting and lonely.
For a long time in my walk with my father, I told myself that if I did the things that I needed to be doing, I would get the things I needed to get in order to keep moving towards him. I never would have thought that was the message I was telling myself, but in a lot of ways, and in a lot of different circumstances, that was (and sometimes still is) how I operated.
I was upset about missing coffee shop alone time or missing morning quiet time, but not for the right reasons. I was upset, because it was something I needed to be doing, and I wasn't. I was upset, because it was pushing me backwards. I can also, regretfully say that I wasn't upset because I missed sweet, sweet talks with dad. I wasn't upset, because I hurt the only one who has never let me down. I wasn't upset, because I was missing out on quality time. I was upset, because I wasn't moving forward. I was frustrated with myself, because I couldn't just do right. That cycle is tough to get out of.
Frustration with myself (not so surprisingly) never pointed me towards growth. Frustration with myself has never pointed me towards maturity. All frustration with myself has ever done is point me towards more frustration with myself.
I am frustrated with myself --> I don't do better --> I am more frustrated with myself (etc.)
This is the only thing that has pointed me towards something like growth:
I can't do better --> Jesus goes after me anyway --> I can't do better --> Jesus goes after me anyway --> I still can't do better --> Jesus goes after me anyway (etc.)
I have a lot to learn about a lot of things. I am so sure that I have a ton to learn about work, especially as I begin to think about life after college, but I am also sure that I have a lot to learn about rest. I have a lot to learn about Sabbath-ing. God, thank you for the times you have given me. Thank you for the faith and maturity you have granted me. I'm excited to see what else you have to show me through rest. I can't wait to learn more from rest. I cannot wait to see that I'm really not as good at it as I think I am.
It actually isn't about me. I actually cannot do better. Jesus goes after me anyway. And when he grants it, the glory is his.
I am not always really great at working, but I think I am pretty good at Sabbath-ing, at least when I get around to doing it, I do it pretty well. I say that, because I love doing it. A lot of people say that they don't know how to rest, they can't rest, it doesn't come easily to them. I am an excellent rester, sometimes. I love these moments. I long for this time.
Stillness. Peace. Rest. Ink. Books. Depths. Intimacy. Wonder. Honesty. Those are the words I think of when I think about the word Sabbath, and what it means to observe Sabbath time. I probably am too good at it. I would fill day, upon day, upon day up with coffee shop time, my Bible, my journal, a little Sara Groves in my headphones, and ink spilling over pages. It feels so good to me. I know there is value in this time, because I can feel it in my bones. I can feel it in my heart. I don't think the quality of my relationship with Jesus depends on anything that I do and so, while I am very appreciative of time like this, time where I sit and write and think and pray and read, I don't think I make anything better in this time. That has to be him. If that is happening, it has got to be him. That has to come from someone else.
The more I see that and think about what that means, the more in awe I am of how good he is to me. Awe. That is equally terrifying and freeing. Does this time that I am rambling on about have anything to do with my faith increasing or my maturity increasing, or my unbelief decreasing? Yeah, I'd say so. If those things are happening, I think this time has something to do with it, but it comes from him, not me. It's his. Maturity and faith are not things that I can produce. Awe. Terrifying. Freeing.
How little control I actually have over any of this. I am sure that he can and is doing an infinitely better job than I ever could, but my heart doesn't always remember that; my heart of hearts doesn't always believe that. I read an article once that talked about this idea. I can't remember who wrote it or where I read it. It might have actually been a sermon I listened to once, but the point was this, "We cannot muster faith. We cannot muster intimacy with God. We cannot muster maturity. We must ask for those things, but we cannot make them ourselves. And when he grants them, when he gives us pieces of those things, the glory is his."
The only thing I am sure of is that the word, "muster," was used, and that always stuck with me. In social work we have the I.M.A.G.I.N.E. model for program development (insert APA citation here). The, "M," stands for, "Mustering Support."
Three things about Mustering Support:
1. We always laugh when we get to the M, because, seriously, who came up with this mnemonic device? Who thought that muster was the word that everyone needed to remember. It just sounds so awkward and random.
2. Aside from muster being a funny/random word to land on, once you get passed the weirdness of it, it's actually really great. Muster Support. Get people on your team. Get people excited about you cause. Make it exciting. Let people know why what you are doing is important. With most things in social work and in life, individual people don't get large scale projects accomplished on their own. To be successful, to make a lasting impact, to touch lives, to move towards social justice, you have to have support. You have to have more than yourself. You have to muster.
3. Mustering support when you are trying to implement a new project or program is great. Mustering faith is impossible. I've tried to do both. I can tell you that at least one of them was unsuccessful, and more than that, it was/is exhausting and lonely.
For a long time in my walk with my father, I told myself that if I did the things that I needed to be doing, I would get the things I needed to get in order to keep moving towards him. I never would have thought that was the message I was telling myself, but in a lot of ways, and in a lot of different circumstances, that was (and sometimes still is) how I operated.
I was upset about missing coffee shop alone time or missing morning quiet time, but not for the right reasons. I was upset, because it was something I needed to be doing, and I wasn't. I was upset, because it was pushing me backwards. I can also, regretfully say that I wasn't upset because I missed sweet, sweet talks with dad. I wasn't upset, because I hurt the only one who has never let me down. I wasn't upset, because I was missing out on quality time. I was upset, because I wasn't moving forward. I was frustrated with myself, because I couldn't just do right. That cycle is tough to get out of.
Frustration with myself (not so surprisingly) never pointed me towards growth. Frustration with myself has never pointed me towards maturity. All frustration with myself has ever done is point me towards more frustration with myself.
I am frustrated with myself --> I don't do better --> I am more frustrated with myself (etc.)
This is the only thing that has pointed me towards something like growth:
I can't do better --> Jesus goes after me anyway --> I can't do better --> Jesus goes after me anyway --> I still can't do better --> Jesus goes after me anyway (etc.)
I have a lot to learn about a lot of things. I am so sure that I have a ton to learn about work, especially as I begin to think about life after college, but I am also sure that I have a lot to learn about rest. I have a lot to learn about Sabbath-ing. God, thank you for the times you have given me. Thank you for the faith and maturity you have granted me. I'm excited to see what else you have to show me through rest. I can't wait to learn more from rest. I cannot wait to see that I'm really not as good at it as I think I am.
It actually isn't about me. I actually cannot do better. Jesus goes after me anyway. And when he grants it, the glory is his.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
if you tarry till you're better, you will never come at all.
"I wanted to start this journal without commenting on how I am starting a new journal, but I couldn't do it. I love the feeling of ending a journal and the feeling of starting a new one. Somewhere in the middle I get restless and antsy, but the beginning and the end are really exciting for me. So, I am going to write about that, even though I told myself I wouldn't.
I am excited. I am excited to start this journal. These pages are pure, crisp, fresh. The cover is blue, which is just enough change from my last black one, that I can handle it without being overwhelmed by the change, I can maybe even enjoy it (baby steps, right?). I think I will like this journal. I think I will like writing in here. I am excited today to fill these pages up; I am excited because I know that I will feel that same excitement tomorrow.
Help me to find rhythm in my days and in my writing. Help me to find purpose and direction and help me to do all of these things for a good reason."
Oh dear. I was not joking at all when I wrote that. And it was only a few months ago. It's a little bit embarrassing that I get excited about things like starting a new journal, but it is very true. And truth trumps embarrassment as part of my pre new years resolutions.
Lately I have been going back and reading through things that I have written. Journals, papers, this blog. That's not something that I typically do a lot of, rereading things that I have written. When I write a paper, I rarely even go through and proof read before handing it in. I occasionally will look through an old journal, but only when I'm cleaning or procrastinating. I've had some time on my hands the past few weeks and somewhere along the way I decided that I was going to read through some of my old papers and letters and journal entries.
The little excerpt I opened with was from my latest journal, the one that I am still writing in. I've been reading back over the blog lately, too. Secret Space. Penelopenosegirl. That's also a little embarrassing. Maybe embarrassing is the wrong word. It doesn't really have to do with anyone except for me. I'm not embarrassed that other people can read my ridiculousness. It's more like my current self wants to point and laugh a little bit at my old self, the self that wrote whatever entry I am making fun of. My old self is embarrassed. I guess that's the most accurate way to describe what I am feeling. And since I am, in fact both my old self and my current self, I am embarrassed.
I am the most embarrassed when I read things I have written that come from a place of passion. When I read something I wrote that has to do with something that I care about a good deal. When I read things that I have written that I actually care about I cringe. I think that's why the blog has been so funny to reread (not in the haha way, but in the strange/familiar/warm/cold way), because there haven't been many entries on this sucker that didn't come from a place of sincerity. Some of it is just nostalgia. Some of it is fun and neat to read back over, but some of it is something like embarrassment. That's still not the best word but I will keep using it.
Did I really ever say those things? Was I ever really that cheesy or over the top or immature or flighty? How could anyone take me seriously? I hate to read over things that come across trite or insensitive or naive. I hate to reread things that seem insignificant or just flat out wrong. I think I hate it so much because I know that all of these things I have written about meant a lot to me when I wrote them. They still mean a lot to me. My feelings may not be exactly as they were when I wrote the entry, but I've had this blog for a while, and it is both incredible and underwhelming, both inspiring and heartbreaking, both encouraging and embarrassing to read through these glimpses into pages of my life from the past few years.
I am thankful for this blog. I am thankful for this secret space that is slightly less secret than it was two years ago. I am also thankful that it is slightly less secret. I love alliteration and so I will keep the name forever, but reading through these entries fills me with hope and joy and possibility. One big old metaphor this blog is. Fitting. When I first started I don't even think anyone could look at my page, but me. Now, not only is it public, but I have a few followers. I wouldn't go too far, but I will say that I have a few more life followers these days than a few years back. Maybe it's not that I have a whole lot more followers than when I started, but I am infinitely more honest and vulnerable with the followers that I do have, the friends and family that I do have.
I am thankful for these followers, for these friends, for these life lines that keep me sane, that nudge me towards good things, towards life. I am thankful for outlets like this blog, that help keep me honest, or at least give me opportunities to be honest. My prayer is that I would keep writing and that I would keep reading and that I would keep coming to some place of embarrassment when I do reread, because I think that means growth, I think that means honesty and I think that means something close to healing, something close to letting someone, even if it's just myself, see and love and appreciate.
All of that said, I want to make a will. And I want to have it in there that my journal and all journals I have ever filled up are to be burned when I die.
Help me to find rhythm in my days and in my writing. Help me to find purpose and direction and help me to do all of these things for a good reason."
Oh dear. I was not joking at all when I wrote that. And it was only a few months ago. It's a little bit embarrassing that I get excited about things like starting a new journal, but it is very true. And truth trumps embarrassment as part of my pre new years resolutions.
Lately I have been going back and reading through things that I have written. Journals, papers, this blog. That's not something that I typically do a lot of, rereading things that I have written. When I write a paper, I rarely even go through and proof read before handing it in. I occasionally will look through an old journal, but only when I'm cleaning or procrastinating. I've had some time on my hands the past few weeks and somewhere along the way I decided that I was going to read through some of my old papers and letters and journal entries.
The little excerpt I opened with was from my latest journal, the one that I am still writing in. I've been reading back over the blog lately, too. Secret Space. Penelopenosegirl. That's also a little embarrassing. Maybe embarrassing is the wrong word. It doesn't really have to do with anyone except for me. I'm not embarrassed that other people can read my ridiculousness. It's more like my current self wants to point and laugh a little bit at my old self, the self that wrote whatever entry I am making fun of. My old self is embarrassed. I guess that's the most accurate way to describe what I am feeling. And since I am, in fact both my old self and my current self, I am embarrassed.
I am the most embarrassed when I read things I have written that come from a place of passion. When I read something I wrote that has to do with something that I care about a good deal. When I read things that I have written that I actually care about I cringe. I think that's why the blog has been so funny to reread (not in the haha way, but in the strange/familiar/warm/cold way), because there haven't been many entries on this sucker that didn't come from a place of sincerity. Some of it is just nostalgia. Some of it is fun and neat to read back over, but some of it is something like embarrassment. That's still not the best word but I will keep using it.
Did I really ever say those things? Was I ever really that cheesy or over the top or immature or flighty? How could anyone take me seriously? I hate to read over things that come across trite or insensitive or naive. I hate to reread things that seem insignificant or just flat out wrong. I think I hate it so much because I know that all of these things I have written about meant a lot to me when I wrote them. They still mean a lot to me. My feelings may not be exactly as they were when I wrote the entry, but I've had this blog for a while, and it is both incredible and underwhelming, both inspiring and heartbreaking, both encouraging and embarrassing to read through these glimpses into pages of my life from the past few years.
I am thankful for this blog. I am thankful for this secret space that is slightly less secret than it was two years ago. I am also thankful that it is slightly less secret. I love alliteration and so I will keep the name forever, but reading through these entries fills me with hope and joy and possibility. One big old metaphor this blog is. Fitting. When I first started I don't even think anyone could look at my page, but me. Now, not only is it public, but I have a few followers. I wouldn't go too far, but I will say that I have a few more life followers these days than a few years back. Maybe it's not that I have a whole lot more followers than when I started, but I am infinitely more honest and vulnerable with the followers that I do have, the friends and family that I do have.
I am thankful for these followers, for these friends, for these life lines that keep me sane, that nudge me towards good things, towards life. I am thankful for outlets like this blog, that help keep me honest, or at least give me opportunities to be honest. My prayer is that I would keep writing and that I would keep reading and that I would keep coming to some place of embarrassment when I do reread, because I think that means growth, I think that means honesty and I think that means something close to healing, something close to letting someone, even if it's just myself, see and love and appreciate.
All of that said, I want to make a will. And I want to have it in there that my journal and all journals I have ever filled up are to be burned when I die.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
It's always there, you just don't know it till a quarter to three.
I wrote this morning while I sat out on our screened in porch, and this is a little bit of what I wrote:
This morning as I sit out here, I am overcome by a feeling that I am not sure I have ever felt before. This morning, as I sit here on the 2521 side's porch, I am overcome with a sense of freedom. I feel light here. I feel like I can breathe the most air I've ever had in my lungs at any one time. I feel cozy and warm, but not too warm. I feel a subtle urgency in the air as I watch the cars speed by, but I am overcome with peace in the moments when the damp road is still. I feel alone. I feel alone, and I don't hate that. I feel free to sit here, existing in my current state no matter how immature and self absorbed that might really be. I don't want to live in this moment forever. I don't want to feel alone forever, but right now, this morning, there is no other place I'd like to be. This morning it's hard to hide from myself. I hope that I can hold on to that part of this feeling forever.
This is not the norm. There are things I've always loved about this place. I love this porch. I love N.C. State. I love campus and football games and wearing red. I really do love being a part of the wolfpack. I love Raleigh. I love how I've had the chance to get to know her over the past four years (yes, I think Raleigh is a girl). We haven't always loved each other, or I guess I haven't always loved her, but it seems that the more I get to know these streets, these places, these people, the more I have come to love and appreciate the beauty and comfort that Rals has to offer me. She's seen me through a lot.
I love the rose garden and the sidewalks that run through my neighborhood. I love the social work department at state - my teachers and classmates and classes. I love my roommates - I love them a lot. I've loved living in this house for three years. Three years. That's a long time. I complain about the chaos of living with seven girls. I complain about the mess, the dirty kitchen, the squirrel that lives in the attic and shuffles nuts next to my head while I'm trying to sleep. I complain about the mysterious and disgusting smell that penetrates just about every room of our house. Our basement floods (poor Amber). Our shower will not drain. Our fire alarms are constantly dying. Our dishwasher is broken. Our roof is literally falling off. I could go on and on and on about what is wrong with this house. I could and I have and if you ask any one of my roommates they will confirm that I do it often.
I complain a lot about the things I don't like about this place, but I would be lying if I said for even one second that I didn't love every bit of my experience here, in this place, with these girls. I cannot imagine college without this place, without these people. I can't imagine life without all of the things I have done here. I will probably continue to complain about the smell, but don't let me fool you. I am grateful for this house, for these girls, for the man with the long ponytail that walks his husky by our house every day. These things have brought me stability, they have brought me comfort, they have brought me light and community and they have taught me so many things.
I keep talking to people about this period of time being very bitter sweet, but this morning it feels only bitter. I am excited for life after this place, but right now, in this specific moment, I feel sad. It will be hard to let go of comfort and stability and routine, but so much more than that - it will be hard to let go of these people, because I love them. I love them a lot. I love it here. You wouldn't always know from the way that I talk about this place, but so much of me will miss so much of what makes up my life here.
I'm not sure what to do with that. I'm not sure how to move forward. I hate changing things. The thought of moving me and all of my stuff to a different city is terrifying. I'm stressed. I'm confused. I'm incapable of doing any of this properly, but I feel confident that I can at least be honest about all of these things. And I'm comfortable enough to sit here in that honesty, that stress, that terror, at least for a little while. I think that's a start. I think that's growth, or at least something that comes before growth.
There is something so sooting and precious about the cold and the rain. Sitting out here wrapped up in blankets, I am forced to feel the cold, but I am also forced to feel my own warmth. These blankets don't produce heat. If' I'm going to be warm today, it's going to be because all of the layers keep in my own heat. Today, I am reminded by the cold that I am not that. I am not cold. I am alive. Today, I am reminded what it feels like to be alive. Today, I am reminded how precious and valuable life is. Today, I feel challenged to live.
This morning as I sit out here, I am overcome by a feeling that I am not sure I have ever felt before. This morning, as I sit here on the 2521 side's porch, I am overcome with a sense of freedom. I feel light here. I feel like I can breathe the most air I've ever had in my lungs at any one time. I feel cozy and warm, but not too warm. I feel a subtle urgency in the air as I watch the cars speed by, but I am overcome with peace in the moments when the damp road is still. I feel alone. I feel alone, and I don't hate that. I feel free to sit here, existing in my current state no matter how immature and self absorbed that might really be. I don't want to live in this moment forever. I don't want to feel alone forever, but right now, this morning, there is no other place I'd like to be. This morning it's hard to hide from myself. I hope that I can hold on to that part of this feeling forever.
This is not the norm. There are things I've always loved about this place. I love this porch. I love N.C. State. I love campus and football games and wearing red. I really do love being a part of the wolfpack. I love Raleigh. I love how I've had the chance to get to know her over the past four years (yes, I think Raleigh is a girl). We haven't always loved each other, or I guess I haven't always loved her, but it seems that the more I get to know these streets, these places, these people, the more I have come to love and appreciate the beauty and comfort that Rals has to offer me. She's seen me through a lot.
I love the rose garden and the sidewalks that run through my neighborhood. I love the social work department at state - my teachers and classmates and classes. I love my roommates - I love them a lot. I've loved living in this house for three years. Three years. That's a long time. I complain about the chaos of living with seven girls. I complain about the mess, the dirty kitchen, the squirrel that lives in the attic and shuffles nuts next to my head while I'm trying to sleep. I complain about the mysterious and disgusting smell that penetrates just about every room of our house. Our basement floods (poor Amber). Our shower will not drain. Our fire alarms are constantly dying. Our dishwasher is broken. Our roof is literally falling off. I could go on and on and on about what is wrong with this house. I could and I have and if you ask any one of my roommates they will confirm that I do it often.
I complain a lot about the things I don't like about this place, but I would be lying if I said for even one second that I didn't love every bit of my experience here, in this place, with these girls. I cannot imagine college without this place, without these people. I can't imagine life without all of the things I have done here. I will probably continue to complain about the smell, but don't let me fool you. I am grateful for this house, for these girls, for the man with the long ponytail that walks his husky by our house every day. These things have brought me stability, they have brought me comfort, they have brought me light and community and they have taught me so many things.
I keep talking to people about this period of time being very bitter sweet, but this morning it feels only bitter. I am excited for life after this place, but right now, in this specific moment, I feel sad. It will be hard to let go of comfort and stability and routine, but so much more than that - it will be hard to let go of these people, because I love them. I love them a lot. I love it here. You wouldn't always know from the way that I talk about this place, but so much of me will miss so much of what makes up my life here.
I'm not sure what to do with that. I'm not sure how to move forward. I hate changing things. The thought of moving me and all of my stuff to a different city is terrifying. I'm stressed. I'm confused. I'm incapable of doing any of this properly, but I feel confident that I can at least be honest about all of these things. And I'm comfortable enough to sit here in that honesty, that stress, that terror, at least for a little while. I think that's a start. I think that's growth, or at least something that comes before growth.
There is something so sooting and precious about the cold and the rain. Sitting out here wrapped up in blankets, I am forced to feel the cold, but I am also forced to feel my own warmth. These blankets don't produce heat. If' I'm going to be warm today, it's going to be because all of the layers keep in my own heat. Today, I am reminded by the cold that I am not that. I am not cold. I am alive. Today, I am reminded what it feels like to be alive. Today, I am reminded how precious and valuable life is. Today, I feel challenged to live.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
I went seeking some clarity and solutions. I came home with neither, but I was still glad I went.
"There are lots of ways to tell this story. I can tell a perfect Christian salvation story, about God's hand and foreordainedness and teleology. In that story, the telos, the end to which everything has always been pointing, is Jesus, is the church, is the cross. That story tells of Jesus' dogged pursuit of me, of God's leading me through Judaism to Him, of everything matching and meeting and lining up just so I can say, ‘I had this dream about some mermaids, and it changed everything,’ and that would be true.
But there is another version of the story, one that is full of almosts and contingencies. Stop this story at any point and things look different. This story is harder to tell because it drips with more betrayal. It indicts. It reads more like a failure than a triumph. It is not the story of all the things that drew me to Christianity during my college years and before; it's the story of all the things that pushed me away from Judaism... This story is harder, the truth of it and the telling of it, but it's also true." Lauren Winner
That sounds right to me. I'm sure it's true for Lauren, and I see it in my life as well. It's not exactly like that; our four stories are not the same, but I can relate to her feeling that there are two sides to the same story. I have two stories, or maybe just one story, but I definitely have two sides to my story, one that I like to talk to people about, and one that I don't. I have the side I get excited to tell people about, the story where I was very simply lost and found. The one where Jesus touched me and I responded. The one where I felt his love and my cold, hard heart melted away leaving something new, different, beautiful. That's the story that I'm comfortable talking about, for the most part. In this story I am moved by love. I am moved by the truth of the gospel. Those things all happened. Those things all are happening. Those things are all true.
But if that's how I told my story (and it often times is), that would be a lie. It would be a lie because it's leaving so much out. My story is not so pure. Don't let me fool you. My resistance, my apathy, my inconsistencies. There are so many things about this life, this world that I cling to, because I understand them, I know how to operate with those things in my life. This other side of the story isn't quite so simple. I am still moved, I am still found, I am still changed, but in the midst of those good things that I believe come from my father, I find comfort and identity in things that I can understand, smaller things, things that eat away at me. And I think he uses those things too. I don't think they go to waste. I don't think my first story loses any of it's merit because of these things, but I definitely don't like to talk about them and I am definitely becoming more and more painfully aware of these things.
I like to talk about my cold, hard heart being melted away, and it was, but I don't talk about how it has to be melted and softened each and everyday, and some days I let it remain cold, some weeks, some months, I hope not years, but maybe. I talk about responding to Jesus' love, and that's true, it did happen like that, but I don't talk about the times that I don't respond. I don't talk about the times that I choose to ignore him altogether, I choose to walk away.
I talk about how I once was lost. I talk about it like it was this thing that happened one day long ago. I talk about it like Jesus is my mom and I am a five year old that got separated from her at the mall. I was lost and it was pretty scary. I was scared and didn't know what to do. A mall cop found me in the food court and he paged my mom over the intercom to come claim me and then we were reunited and went home. But that's not what it's like.
I feel lost at some point most days.
I just reread Girl Meets God, by Lauren Winner. I’m not a huge fan of the cheesy title, but I love, love, love her story and the way that she tells it. She feels refreshing to me, because she feels honest. She feels sincere. She doesn't always say what you might expect an author that you find in the Christian section of Barnes and Noble to say, but I think that's part of the reason I enjoy reading her so much. I appreciate her honesty. I appreciate her struggle. I appreciate the fact that she tells her story with no apologies. I think it's great. I think her honesty about her brokenness strengthens her story, her testimony. I reread this book before reading her new book that just came out, Still. She's got a few others out there too, and I just like her. I like how she writes and I typically really like what she has to say.
Sometimes, I get scared that if I let myself be too honest about where I am, how I'm feeling, how I'm doing, and how I got here I might discover something that I don't like. What I've noticed while reading Ms. Winner's books these past few months is that I don't have to be so scared. It's off-putting, yeah, but more and more I am beginning to see how valuable an accurate, or at least a more accurate view of my sin is. I pray that Jesus would show me the darkness in my heart. I pray that he would show me the fundamental defect of my heart's condition. Show me, really show me the gross stuff, the things about myself that I don't like, that I hate, that I despise; show them to me. I want to see them. I want to know that they're there. As long as I am alive, I want to remember that they are there, that I am on a very basic level tarnished, because without that knowledge I forget how very much I need my savior. I like the idea of honesty in regards to my heart, because if I am always honest about my condition, than I'll always have to be honest about my need, my fundamental dependancy on grace.
And it's freeing. When I'm honest about my condition, I don't always have to be right, I can't always be right. When I'm honest about my condition, I don't have to have all the answers, I don't have to have any answers. When I'm honest it becomes less about me and more about someone who is right, who does have the answers. Who would have thought that becoming less self-absorbed would feel so therapeutic? I didn't. At the end of the day, it just isn't about me. How do I always forget that?
Moving forward, I will pray once again what I prayed a post or two ago. Jesus, show me my sin, and Jesus, show me you. Show me that I am so bad that you had to die for me, and show me that I am so loved that you were glad to die for me. Let that never become something that I just say. Let that always bring me to a place of awe.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Grace unending all my days, you'll give me strength to run this race.
I like it here. In this one place. Other places like the future, the past, and potential pasts and futures are pulling at me, trying to take my focus off of this one place. But for the first time in a long time, I am very content with where I am. I like it here. I don't want to be here forever, but I feel a sense of wonder and possibility as I sit here and look forward. I don't feel anxious. I don't feel sad. I don't feel unprepared. I only feel thankful for this one place and expectant that the next place will come and that is will be great, it will be necessary, it will be for my betterment. There is so much about my life right now that is not for sure. Seriously, I have absolutely no idea what my life will look like a year from now, two years from now, three years from now. The farther out I go, the hazier things get. I don't know where I will be, what I will be doing, or who I will be doing things with. Can you believe that doesn't scare me to death? I can't. It is wild how he hasn't given me anything that I wasn't ready for, and it's even more wild how he knows me better than I know myself. He knows when I am ready; often times I don't.
Can we take a minute to talk about that. Christian bubbles love to tell you that, "God will not give you anything that you can't handle." There probably is truth in that. I think that God loves us a whole lot. I think he gives us things that seem both good and bad, out of that love. I'm not really positive exactly what it means to be able to "handle" something, but I think I can get on board with the statement that, "our heavenly father will not give us anything that we are not capable of doing or learning from; he won't give us anything that's not good for us." That seems obvious. What is becoming more and more obvious to me is this: he may never give me more than I can handle, but he does push me, he does give me things to handle. It might not be more than I can handle, but sometimes it feels like exactly the amount of X I can have without having X become something unhealthy, without having X become something it shouldn't be.
This idea of God not giving me more than I can handle has always been something I have found comfort in, but I also hid behind it. It gives me an out. More recently God has been showing me how very true his promises are. I don't have to worry about tomorrow or the next day. I don't have to live in stress and anxiety. I don't have to be hard and guarded and sarcastic all of the time. I may not know what I'm doing with my life or even with next semester, but I am confident in the fact that he tells me he will always provide for me, care for me; he will always love me well. I am very sure of that. As I have grown in my understanding of what it means for Jesus to promise not to leave me, I have discovered that where there was once fear, peace now resides. Where there was once stress and anxiety, wonder and possibility are now abounding. Where self-doubt and sheer terror once ruled, surety of my ability to meet God's plans for me now reign.
I am not sure of a lot of things, but I am learning to be content with that. I am learning to hold on to things bigger than my plans. I am learning that part of the ride is just sitting back and appreciating the current view. I am learning how to enjoy the ride more and more. Nothing about the ride is perfect, but there is so much for me to learn right here and right now.
Can we take a minute to talk about that. Christian bubbles love to tell you that, "God will not give you anything that you can't handle." There probably is truth in that. I think that God loves us a whole lot. I think he gives us things that seem both good and bad, out of that love. I'm not really positive exactly what it means to be able to "handle" something, but I think I can get on board with the statement that, "our heavenly father will not give us anything that we are not capable of doing or learning from; he won't give us anything that's not good for us." That seems obvious. What is becoming more and more obvious to me is this: he may never give me more than I can handle, but he does push me, he does give me things to handle. It might not be more than I can handle, but sometimes it feels like exactly the amount of X I can have without having X become something unhealthy, without having X become something it shouldn't be.
This idea of God not giving me more than I can handle has always been something I have found comfort in, but I also hid behind it. It gives me an out. More recently God has been showing me how very true his promises are. I don't have to worry about tomorrow or the next day. I don't have to live in stress and anxiety. I don't have to be hard and guarded and sarcastic all of the time. I may not know what I'm doing with my life or even with next semester, but I am confident in the fact that he tells me he will always provide for me, care for me; he will always love me well. I am very sure of that. As I have grown in my understanding of what it means for Jesus to promise not to leave me, I have discovered that where there was once fear, peace now resides. Where there was once stress and anxiety, wonder and possibility are now abounding. Where self-doubt and sheer terror once ruled, surety of my ability to meet God's plans for me now reign.
I am not sure of a lot of things, but I am learning to be content with that. I am learning to hold on to things bigger than my plans. I am learning that part of the ride is just sitting back and appreciating the current view. I am learning how to enjoy the ride more and more. Nothing about the ride is perfect, but there is so much for me to learn right here and right now.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
I cannot make it & I cannot break it & I can't afford it, but it's mine.
How I would love, love, love for my job to be filling up pages with ink each and every day. A lot of times I get nervous that I'm not going to have things to say, but that has never happened. I may not always have words to speak, but for as long as paper and pens exist, I will have things to write.
My fear shouldn't be that I will have a lack of things to write about, but instead that I may not particularly like the things I have to say. A lot of times when I get going, I find that the things I have to say scare me or make me uncomfortable. So often the things that come out challenge me and stretch me in a way that I don't always like. It's like the more stuff I get down, the more I realize that there are so many things inside of me waiting to get out, but I'm also reminded more and more of my brokenness, my inability to fix that brokenness and my needs - my need of salvation, my need of grace, my need of help, my need of the cross.
My church had a really awesome Ash Wednesday service on Ash Wednesday (duh). We sang songs, and read scripture. I love things like that. I love when there is built in time for reflection and introspection. I love that solemn, almost heavy feeling; not all the time, but every now and then.
Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent. In between the songs and the readings there was a little mini sermon. There was a lot of goodness and truth tucked into that little guy. So much. I walked out of that place feeling like I had a renewed understanding of the meaning of Lent.
I could plagiarize the whole sermon and I might do a half decent job of getting the points that were made across. Probably not, but maybe. I'm not going to do that. I'm sure the whole thing is somewhere on CTK's website if someone is really interested. Instead, I will recap the most simple part, the part that challenged me the most. We got a little bit of the history of Lent in the church, what it means, represents, and then came the simple little challenge.
"Pray this during Lent," Geoff said. "Lord, show me my sin and show me my savior."
Show me my sin and show me my savior. Simple and pure. It hit me hard though. God, show me my sin and show me my savior. Lord, show me my sin and show me my savior. Show me that I utterly and desperately need salvation. Show me my wretchedness. Show me my depravity. Show me my fundamental need for you. Show me my ugliness. And on top of all of those things, show me your grace. Show me your son. Show me the cross. May my heart's condition and my inability to change my heart's condition always point me back to the cross, to hope, to eternity. Jesus, in this season, in this time to reflect on your life and what your existence means in our lives today, show me my sin, and Jesus show me my savior.
My fear shouldn't be that I will have a lack of things to write about, but instead that I may not particularly like the things I have to say. A lot of times when I get going, I find that the things I have to say scare me or make me uncomfortable. So often the things that come out challenge me and stretch me in a way that I don't always like. It's like the more stuff I get down, the more I realize that there are so many things inside of me waiting to get out, but I'm also reminded more and more of my brokenness, my inability to fix that brokenness and my needs - my need of salvation, my need of grace, my need of help, my need of the cross.
My church had a really awesome Ash Wednesday service on Ash Wednesday (duh). We sang songs, and read scripture. I love things like that. I love when there is built in time for reflection and introspection. I love that solemn, almost heavy feeling; not all the time, but every now and then.
Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent. In between the songs and the readings there was a little mini sermon. There was a lot of goodness and truth tucked into that little guy. So much. I walked out of that place feeling like I had a renewed understanding of the meaning of Lent.
I could plagiarize the whole sermon and I might do a half decent job of getting the points that were made across. Probably not, but maybe. I'm not going to do that. I'm sure the whole thing is somewhere on CTK's website if someone is really interested. Instead, I will recap the most simple part, the part that challenged me the most. We got a little bit of the history of Lent in the church, what it means, represents, and then came the simple little challenge.
"Pray this during Lent," Geoff said. "Lord, show me my sin and show me my savior."
Show me my sin and show me my savior. Simple and pure. It hit me hard though. God, show me my sin and show me my savior. Lord, show me my sin and show me my savior. Show me that I utterly and desperately need salvation. Show me my wretchedness. Show me my depravity. Show me my fundamental need for you. Show me my ugliness. And on top of all of those things, show me your grace. Show me your son. Show me the cross. May my heart's condition and my inability to change my heart's condition always point me back to the cross, to hope, to eternity. Jesus, in this season, in this time to reflect on your life and what your existence means in our lives today, show me my sin, and Jesus show me my savior.
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