For a hero to exist, there must be people for him to rescue.
In another time, a scene was set for a hero to enter into a story. A nation of people who were not strangers to oppression. Oppressed once again by an empire using violence to bring peace. Leaders who took advantage of a people group through greed and murder. This nation cried out for someone to save them. But they were looking for a political leader for that change.
Yet the hero was not born into wealth or advantage. He was born into a messy family into a messy world. While he could boast of royalty in his lineage, he also had murderers and prostitutes, liars, and plenty of brokenness. He did not look like a hero to the people. Yet he had the courage and ability to do what no other person could. And while most of the nation searched for a strong force to overthrow their oppressors, the hero of the story changed the world forever in a much different plot.
Today our world also cries out for a hero. Oppression is everywhere. Lack of food and shelter or disease oppress some. Others are overtaken by debt, taxes, fear, greed and hate. Some are oppressed by stronger people or groups, some are oppressed by their own choices. In a world where father brings more negative than positive images, where new fears are advertised every day, where some days it is a wonder that our world even remains to exist, we are crying out for someone to save us. Our hero is here. And he hears our cries. But sometimes he is lost in the noise. Noise of politics, news, entertainment, technology, religion.
Sometimes our hero is over shadowed by those that look just like him. The imitation heroes really are just as oppressive--preaching hate for those who are different, whitewashing people yet letting them rot in the their hearts. Claiming we have to be perfect for our hero to hear us. When he came not for those who are saved but those who needed saving. Our hero doesn't have a cape or a sidekick. But he does have supernatural powers. But those powers are not what most of us are searching for.
Where the black and white and shades of gray in our world envelop our lives, he is the color that redefines our existence. In a movie, his touch would start a rainbow of colors spreading through lives. The kingdom he brings is in high definition. But for now all we can see are the bits of color that shine through the darkness and drab. His promises are abundance while the heroes we place our trust in can only offer survival.
The hero will keep returning. The stories will repeat. Each time the hero will be missed by most. But the hope remains that "the end" of the story is a large party, where the hero gathers his people to celebrate. And when we look around that table, we'll be surprised by those we celebrate. Just as we're so often surprised by the hero that invited us to the party.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
thankful
November 2004. Unfortunately it was not just a frightening dream. The experience was real. The first week spent slipping into a personal hell that at the time I had no language to express. Another week in a hospital just trying to fight my way back to the surface. Prescriptions and a vague diagnosis. And Thanksgiving spent driving endless hours to Colorado to move my brother. While I was relieved to be with family, that drive was a constant reminder that I had just failed. I didn't have control. My thoughts were spinning and my hope was fading.
Thanksgiving dinner was spent at Burger King. My parents were worried about my mental status. My parents worried about my brother moving to another state. I was worried about everything. And wanted to crawl in a whole and slip away.
Yet that was my crisis point. The point in my story that led to a choice of how. How would my story would evolve and how would my character change.
November 2009. A dream I wouldn't have imagined but nonetheless magical. This Thanksgiving I look back and see what the results of what I had wanted to be a mere nightmare. What joy I have in my heart to reflect on who I am now because of that crisis point. Not perfect. But good.
Instead of a quiet fast food dinner in the middle of nowhere, I enjoyed two meals Thursday full of laughter and discussions. And a much more enjoyable road trip to Southern California (minus the holiday traffic back to the Bay Area).
One meal shared with family. Which through my own crisis point and other family challenges, the family bonds are strong (and bigger with a sister-in-law). Another with friends--the majority of them very new.
This weekend is another slice-of-life scene. Evidence that my crisis was worth the pain. It brought compassion, openness, and a genuine spirit. It brought in amazing new people who have changed my life for good. It spurred me on a become a person I am proud of and enjoy to be around (and confidence that others also enjoy who I am).
So this year, I am thankful for how my story has changed. The character that I have become. And I dream of what other Thanksgiving's may bring.
Thanksgiving dinner was spent at Burger King. My parents were worried about my mental status. My parents worried about my brother moving to another state. I was worried about everything. And wanted to crawl in a whole and slip away.
Yet that was my crisis point. The point in my story that led to a choice of how. How would my story would evolve and how would my character change.
November 2009. A dream I wouldn't have imagined but nonetheless magical. This Thanksgiving I look back and see what the results of what I had wanted to be a mere nightmare. What joy I have in my heart to reflect on who I am now because of that crisis point. Not perfect. But good.
Instead of a quiet fast food dinner in the middle of nowhere, I enjoyed two meals Thursday full of laughter and discussions. And a much more enjoyable road trip to Southern California (minus the holiday traffic back to the Bay Area).
One meal shared with family. Which through my own crisis point and other family challenges, the family bonds are strong (and bigger with a sister-in-law). Another with friends--the majority of them very new.
This weekend is another slice-of-life scene. Evidence that my crisis was worth the pain. It brought compassion, openness, and a genuine spirit. It brought in amazing new people who have changed my life for good. It spurred me on a become a person I am proud of and enjoy to be around (and confidence that others also enjoy who I am).
So this year, I am thankful for how my story has changed. The character that I have become. And I dream of what other Thanksgiving's may bring.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Box of candid photographs.
In my memory I sit curled up in my favorite reading chair. A blanket wrapped for comfort.
I push play for music that speaks to my soul. I can feel the bass in my chest. Light flickers against walls.
I sort through the pictures. Like in Harry Potter's world, these pictures are not static but move as I hold them. They bring with them sounds, and color and texture of life.
I pick up the first photo. An old theatre. Deep red curtains. The center isle leading to the stage. It was my new experience to have church in a building other than, well, a church. It was a place I only visited a few times when I could catch a ride during my car-less freshman year. There was something different about the voices. The sounds in the theatre. The story that began during autumn years ago.
----
Edges of another photo. A converted supermarket is now a church. Clouds are painted on the front wall bordering the brick wall in the center. Candles line the front stage, wax dripping down the black metal holders into puddles. The young man in front has humor and honesty that catches me off guard. And the music pulls me out of myself. Out of my awkwardness and clumsiness. This became my resting place.
----
The back room is painted in deep blues, golds and burgundy. Couches in a circle. And discussions between peers that make my head and heart spin. Sometimes it's a Sunday morning. A handful or two of college students. Some days it is a Tuesday night and there is the sweet smell of cigars and maybe a pipe. It is here a group is gathered one week after a phone call. It was time for on leader to start a new community and new journey. Time for the torch to be passed on to another. I remember a feeling of sadness for this passing moment. And a comfort in my soul for this community I belonged.
----
A retro Sunday. "New" burst orange pews to accommodate the few hundred college students. In the spirit of celebrating a silly gift of seating, some of us boldly dressed up in old 60's and 70's attire. There was fun here. Laughing. Spirit. Sarcasm at times. Yet there was also awe. Mystery. Beauty. Humility and brokenness.
----
Communion during the last Sunday before I moved home from college. Orange pews still. Tears from my friend Kelly and I before walking up for a torn corner of bread and the small plastic cup of grape juice. It was time for my life to change. Many good moments from the previous few years. And a lot of uncertainty ahead. Distance to separate me from a place that fostered the paradigm shift. One that would leave lasting ripples of change. Distance from a community that always allowed me to be me. The music that enveloped me, was felt in the beat of my heart and soul. With eyes closed, within moments I was transported to another world.
----
Another photo. The last time I saw my pastor Kyle. He spotted Kelly and I during the sermon. A moment of recognition. I remember how much I longed at that time to be back in that room week after week. To a place where I could come to with whatever was on my heart. Close my eyes. Sway. Forget about the outside and remember my connection to something else. We chatted with Kyle after the service for only a few quick moments before visiting another college hangout.
----
This next photo was outside of a house on Halloween weekend. Dressed up in costume with the phone in my hand. To hear the words "Kyle is gone". The world paused if only for seconds.
The dramatic pause of a song that soon would let the tears begin. And a new melody rise.
The cool October air. Inside candy corn and chocolate, decorations and a few early students and parents. But outside is was an enveloping darkness. It's a picture I hid against my chest for a few hours that night before sharing. A picture says a thousand words... This snap shot was a climatic chapter of Kyle's story that had a brief but profound supporting role in my story. And my story there after continues to be colored by this picture.
---
I sort through more photographs. Some are laid out in a time line. My eyes dart back and forth between them. There are others that are out of sequence laying in my lap. The beating the bass is still there. The melody of relationships is present. The harmonies of conversations are the richness and colors. There are shadows and light playing around with the images that are sometimes clear and other times softly blurred with time.
----
So I pull out the most recent photograph. Standing in a pew of a church I have never attended, in a city I don't live, more than a thousand miles from where the first picture in the old theatre was taken. Instead of candles there are lights. And the music louder, more complex. The same band plays. A request from someone in the audience leads to a quick recall of an old song. One that was played often in the beginning of my time with my college church. Moments like these to bring the story full circle. And yet they add a new layer to build on. Some days these photos lay tucked away. But times like these I bring them out on display. They can say more about me and who I am now than I can explain. They frame my present.
I am blessed that I get to share these photographs with others. And look fondly at these moments.
I push play for music that speaks to my soul. I can feel the bass in my chest. Light flickers against walls.
I sort through the pictures. Like in Harry Potter's world, these pictures are not static but move as I hold them. They bring with them sounds, and color and texture of life.
I pick up the first photo. An old theatre. Deep red curtains. The center isle leading to the stage. It was my new experience to have church in a building other than, well, a church. It was a place I only visited a few times when I could catch a ride during my car-less freshman year. There was something different about the voices. The sounds in the theatre. The story that began during autumn years ago.
----
Edges of another photo. A converted supermarket is now a church. Clouds are painted on the front wall bordering the brick wall in the center. Candles line the front stage, wax dripping down the black metal holders into puddles. The young man in front has humor and honesty that catches me off guard. And the music pulls me out of myself. Out of my awkwardness and clumsiness. This became my resting place.
----
The back room is painted in deep blues, golds and burgundy. Couches in a circle. And discussions between peers that make my head and heart spin. Sometimes it's a Sunday morning. A handful or two of college students. Some days it is a Tuesday night and there is the sweet smell of cigars and maybe a pipe. It is here a group is gathered one week after a phone call. It was time for on leader to start a new community and new journey. Time for the torch to be passed on to another. I remember a feeling of sadness for this passing moment. And a comfort in my soul for this community I belonged.
----
A retro Sunday. "New" burst orange pews to accommodate the few hundred college students. In the spirit of celebrating a silly gift of seating, some of us boldly dressed up in old 60's and 70's attire. There was fun here. Laughing. Spirit. Sarcasm at times. Yet there was also awe. Mystery. Beauty. Humility and brokenness.
----
Communion during the last Sunday before I moved home from college. Orange pews still. Tears from my friend Kelly and I before walking up for a torn corner of bread and the small plastic cup of grape juice. It was time for my life to change. Many good moments from the previous few years. And a lot of uncertainty ahead. Distance to separate me from a place that fostered the paradigm shift. One that would leave lasting ripples of change. Distance from a community that always allowed me to be me. The music that enveloped me, was felt in the beat of my heart and soul. With eyes closed, within moments I was transported to another world.
----
Another photo. The last time I saw my pastor Kyle. He spotted Kelly and I during the sermon. A moment of recognition. I remember how much I longed at that time to be back in that room week after week. To a place where I could come to with whatever was on my heart. Close my eyes. Sway. Forget about the outside and remember my connection to something else. We chatted with Kyle after the service for only a few quick moments before visiting another college hangout.
----
This next photo was outside of a house on Halloween weekend. Dressed up in costume with the phone in my hand. To hear the words "Kyle is gone". The world paused if only for seconds.
The dramatic pause of a song that soon would let the tears begin. And a new melody rise.
The cool October air. Inside candy corn and chocolate, decorations and a few early students and parents. But outside is was an enveloping darkness. It's a picture I hid against my chest for a few hours that night before sharing. A picture says a thousand words... This snap shot was a climatic chapter of Kyle's story that had a brief but profound supporting role in my story. And my story there after continues to be colored by this picture.
---
I sort through more photographs. Some are laid out in a time line. My eyes dart back and forth between them. There are others that are out of sequence laying in my lap. The beating the bass is still there. The melody of relationships is present. The harmonies of conversations are the richness and colors. There are shadows and light playing around with the images that are sometimes clear and other times softly blurred with time.
----
So I pull out the most recent photograph. Standing in a pew of a church I have never attended, in a city I don't live, more than a thousand miles from where the first picture in the old theatre was taken. Instead of candles there are lights. And the music louder, more complex. The same band plays. A request from someone in the audience leads to a quick recall of an old song. One that was played often in the beginning of my time with my college church. Moments like these to bring the story full circle. And yet they add a new layer to build on. Some days these photos lay tucked away. But times like these I bring them out on display. They can say more about me and who I am now than I can explain. They frame my present.
I am blessed that I get to share these photographs with others. And look fondly at these moments.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Midnight revelations
Okay it wasn't midnight. Maybe 2:41 am. Or It could have been 4:37 am. It has been different times for the last four nights.
The first night it was a dream about earthquakes and fires. I woke up abruptly and knew it was one of those dreams. Those dreams--the ones that if I did not get up for a drink and go to the bathroom to wake up would continue haunting me all night. I brushed off the dream in the morning figuring it was due to: a) the upcoming 20th anniversary of the '89 Loma Prieta Earthquake b) I had been in San Francisco more frequently in the last month and that always makes me think about earthquakes c) I had started to read a book about the 1906 earthquake and fires that ensued. While irritated that I had broken sleep, I didn't think to much about the dream.
Night two brought on more dreams. Dreams I cannot recall details from but definitely disaster of some sort. Another middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom and then the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was Saturday night. So again I brushed it off to bad timing and figured I'd make up for the disjointed sleep in an afternoon nap.
Sunday night came. Once again another disturbing dream woke me twice. By the second time I was mumbling a few obseneties. I NEED sleep. I already struggle with getting enough hours. More days that not hoping that the 6 1/2 to 7 hours a night won't cause me to slip back into a nightmarish state in my waking hours. The details were a blur but something told me that these weren't just my normal random dreams.
I mentioned my strange dreams to a friend via email who recommended I write them down and figure out if there was some meaning. I started to blow it off figuring it was just random memories my brain was purging. But eventually I decided if I wanted continuous sleep again I had to figure if there was something there. Yet the details were all blurred. There were people but they were nameless and faceless. I recall a sense of panic and chaos but that was the limit of my recollection.
The fourth night of a waking nightmere sent me once again to the bathroom and the kitchen. This time I took a spoon from the drawer and served myself a tablespoon of peanut butter. Strange dreams in four nights called for a strange response. I crawled back into bed trying to move my legs around my dead-to-the-world-sleeping cat. And there I decided that my dreams were about me losing control. Or the chaos that happens when I pretend to be in control.
It was at some odd hour that this conversation occurred in my head. I think the peanut butter was God's way of keeping me quiet--and limiting the snarky comments that I often put in his mouth.
Me--"Okay God, what are you trying to tell me?!? This is the FOURTH night in a row I woke up from crazy dreams".
God--"Shannon, you have to let go of your control."
Me--"WHAT?"
God--"Your control. All of your dreams about how things go wrong when you try to control something. Or that things can be out of your control completely. I want you to trust me."
Me--"Could you not have told me this when I was awake!?! You know how much I need sleep!"
God--"No. You weren't listening to me. I knew you'd hear me this way. There are too many distractions for you during the day. "
Me--(thinking and bordering a pout)"But what does that look like?"
God--"Trust me and I'll show you".
Think what you will about this little conversation. Believe me I went through quite a few explanations of my craziness before catching the last few hours of shut eye. But the feelings and conversation were real. And the need to respond to this was real.
Limited by my humanity and brokenness, despite all the times I've tried so hard to ignore, deny, curse, and run from faith--I still believe. I still believe in hope, in love. In a God that is bigger than me. In a God who tells me a story that I can see myself living. That those who come before me share my story. The communities I have lived within, moved away from (for whatever reason) or will encounter at some point share in the story. And it's the story of my life that I don't want to just endure and survive but LIVE.
So to God I say:
"Bring it on. Bring on your correction. Bring on your lessons. I'll accept the suffering knowing that it produces character. But also bring the joy. Bring the beauty. Your love.
Forgive me when I go off the deep end like I do at least oh 1000 times per day!
Oh and one more thing--yup. You already know. Let my team's story end in a big silver cup this June. Even if there are more nights that the story is a little messy like it was last night".
The first night it was a dream about earthquakes and fires. I woke up abruptly and knew it was one of those dreams. Those dreams--the ones that if I did not get up for a drink and go to the bathroom to wake up would continue haunting me all night. I brushed off the dream in the morning figuring it was due to: a) the upcoming 20th anniversary of the '89 Loma Prieta Earthquake b) I had been in San Francisco more frequently in the last month and that always makes me think about earthquakes c) I had started to read a book about the 1906 earthquake and fires that ensued. While irritated that I had broken sleep, I didn't think to much about the dream.
Night two brought on more dreams. Dreams I cannot recall details from but definitely disaster of some sort. Another middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom and then the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was Saturday night. So again I brushed it off to bad timing and figured I'd make up for the disjointed sleep in an afternoon nap.
Sunday night came. Once again another disturbing dream woke me twice. By the second time I was mumbling a few obseneties. I NEED sleep. I already struggle with getting enough hours. More days that not hoping that the 6 1/2 to 7 hours a night won't cause me to slip back into a nightmarish state in my waking hours. The details were a blur but something told me that these weren't just my normal random dreams.
I mentioned my strange dreams to a friend via email who recommended I write them down and figure out if there was some meaning. I started to blow it off figuring it was just random memories my brain was purging. But eventually I decided if I wanted continuous sleep again I had to figure if there was something there. Yet the details were all blurred. There were people but they were nameless and faceless. I recall a sense of panic and chaos but that was the limit of my recollection.
The fourth night of a waking nightmere sent me once again to the bathroom and the kitchen. This time I took a spoon from the drawer and served myself a tablespoon of peanut butter. Strange dreams in four nights called for a strange response. I crawled back into bed trying to move my legs around my dead-to-the-world-sleeping cat. And there I decided that my dreams were about me losing control. Or the chaos that happens when I pretend to be in control.
It was at some odd hour that this conversation occurred in my head. I think the peanut butter was God's way of keeping me quiet--and limiting the snarky comments that I often put in his mouth.
Me--"Okay God, what are you trying to tell me?!? This is the FOURTH night in a row I woke up from crazy dreams".
God--"Shannon, you have to let go of your control."
Me--"WHAT?"
God--"Your control. All of your dreams about how things go wrong when you try to control something. Or that things can be out of your control completely. I want you to trust me."
Me--"Could you not have told me this when I was awake!?! You know how much I need sleep!"
God--"No. You weren't listening to me. I knew you'd hear me this way. There are too many distractions for you during the day. "
Me--(thinking and bordering a pout)"But what does that look like?"
God--"Trust me and I'll show you".
Think what you will about this little conversation. Believe me I went through quite a few explanations of my craziness before catching the last few hours of shut eye. But the feelings and conversation were real. And the need to respond to this was real.
Limited by my humanity and brokenness, despite all the times I've tried so hard to ignore, deny, curse, and run from faith--I still believe. I still believe in hope, in love. In a God that is bigger than me. In a God who tells me a story that I can see myself living. That those who come before me share my story. The communities I have lived within, moved away from (for whatever reason) or will encounter at some point share in the story. And it's the story of my life that I don't want to just endure and survive but LIVE.
So to God I say:
"Bring it on. Bring on your correction. Bring on your lessons. I'll accept the suffering knowing that it produces character. But also bring the joy. Bring the beauty. Your love.
Forgive me when I go off the deep end like I do at least oh 1000 times per day!
Oh and one more thing--yup. You already know. Let my team's story end in a big silver cup this June. Even if there are more nights that the story is a little messy like it was last night".
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Why can't my cat be more responsible?
The advantage of living by yourself: No one will yell at you for the mess you make and leave even if for days...or months. Freedom.
The disadvantage: No one will pick it up. (Especially your spoiled cat who doesn't work for his food, sleeps all day, and complains if the food bowl is empty or he wants attention. Too bad you can't claim him as a dependent on your taxes.) Responsibilty.
I hate to admit that I can be a slob. Its one of those undesired genes--or shall I say habits--I come by honestly from my parents. I have moments where I stay on top of cleaning and picking up. But most days, I walk in the door, throw my purse and what ever else on the living room floor and then continue to leave a trail of items all over my living space. And when that living space is only 650 square feet, that doesn't take much time before it looks like a tornado hit.
The mess I leave embarrasses me. It results often in my condo becoming so messy I don't know where to start, I close my eyes and pretend it doesn't exist. Which leads to having to create paths through the living room from the door to the kicthen or the bedroom to the bathroom (so that I don't trip in the middle of the night). Consequently most of the time I don't invite anyone over to hang out and am more than willing to pretend that my flexibility in meeting them else where or at their residence is selfless--not because the truth is I don't want someone to see my lack of care for my personal space.
Tonight I decided not to turn on the TV when I came in the door. After walking in the door (kicking the cat back in as he tried to sneak by once again!), dropping my purse and some books on a chair, and kicking off my shoes, I stopped to look around. Again with what my mother refers to as a "postage stamp" condo, the survey was quite short. But it revealed that I had one of two choices tonight. I could easily ignore the mess and either read, turn on the TV after all, or climb into bed knowing that the morning would bring more frustration of creatively traveling through the junk and feeling chaotic. Or I could pick up at least some of the mess and enjoy a few moments of peace.
As I chose the responsible adult action, I turned to the sink. Again something I hate to confess, but here and there I don't clean my dishes right away. A few glasses and pieces of silverware were waiting to be put in the dishwasher. One of the cups had some remaining ice tea with a very small amount of mold sitting at the top.
Gross. Really gross.
And then some neurons started to fire in my brain. A new connection hit as I was rinsing my dishes. Placing them in the dishwasher, putting in soap and starting a new cycle.
THIS is what happens in my life when I fail to see those poor choices I often make in how I treat others and myself (and yes, I'll say it even my cat) resulting in chaos. When I claim that I have freedom to do whatever I damn well please just because I can. And then I look around I wonder why things aren't working out. I'm not talking of the accidents or the normal life problems or even the results of others' choices affecting me. I'm realizing how the judgements I pass, the relationships I ignore, and the choices to put my own needs above others are the piles of shoes all over the floor. The laundry that is waiting to be finished and rehung. The closet that has a pile big enough the door will not shut unless I kick the pile higher and deeper.
The mess that occurs when I place doing what I want (which sometimes is good) over what is best. All for the sake of my freedom. Of my right to choose. Sometimes that choice only affects me. My anger at a driver who cuts me off in traffic. I yell and imagine how I would love to ram my SUV right into the back of their bumper and push them off the road. That anger is limited mostly to the confines of the vehicle with a few curse words and visions of revenge. But even those limited moments of expression can lead to a growing anger that can affect an entire day at work or taking focus out of time with family or friends. And if I continue to let it fester, that anger could lead to road rage or just an genearal sense of anger and resentment to anyone who decides to assert their own rights to do what they please. I wish I could say that every time I reacted to a car that cut in front of me needlessly without signals or concern for safety did not bleed into the following moments. But left unchecked, its those piles of papers that build up until a bill is missed or a family member I snap 10 minutes into a drive to celebration dinner because I didn't chose to just allow that car a few extra feet of space.
Sometimes I wait until my place is so messy I can't find things, or my wardrobe is so bare I'm having to do a last minute load of laundry so I have a pair of jeans I can wear. Or maybe someone is coming over and I scramble to make my place presentable enough. Enough that I can say "Forgive me. It's just a little messy" when I'm really thinking "if you only saw the pile I shoved into my closet" or "good thing you didn't show up 10 minutes ago".
How many times have I done this in my life? How often do my words say "I have my issues but I'm doing okay"? What I often mean is "you couldn't stand it if you really knew what bad choices I've made" or "at least my life isn't as messy as that person's".
What choices to assert my freedoms do I hide in the closet pretending no one can see. Waiting to see when that pile becomes so large that it pours out into my bedroom. When I have to keep others out of my life because I don't think they could stand the things I've done.
"No one would love me if they knew/all the things I hide." (Caedmon's Call).
These words hit to the core when I hear them.
And my one relief as I spent a quick fifteen minutes attacking the last of my kitchen and living room (besides knowing that when I woke up and got ready for work that I wasn't in danger of tripping and had clean dishes to eat breakfast)...
...that I didn't have to clean things up by myself. My responsiblity was saying "I was wrong." And there was someone to help change the rest. Someone who could change my heart.
The disadvantage: No one will pick it up. (Especially your spoiled cat who doesn't work for his food, sleeps all day, and complains if the food bowl is empty or he wants attention. Too bad you can't claim him as a dependent on your taxes.) Responsibilty.
I hate to admit that I can be a slob. Its one of those undesired genes--or shall I say habits--I come by honestly from my parents. I have moments where I stay on top of cleaning and picking up. But most days, I walk in the door, throw my purse and what ever else on the living room floor and then continue to leave a trail of items all over my living space. And when that living space is only 650 square feet, that doesn't take much time before it looks like a tornado hit.
The mess I leave embarrasses me. It results often in my condo becoming so messy I don't know where to start, I close my eyes and pretend it doesn't exist. Which leads to having to create paths through the living room from the door to the kicthen or the bedroom to the bathroom (so that I don't trip in the middle of the night). Consequently most of the time I don't invite anyone over to hang out and am more than willing to pretend that my flexibility in meeting them else where or at their residence is selfless--not because the truth is I don't want someone to see my lack of care for my personal space.
Tonight I decided not to turn on the TV when I came in the door. After walking in the door (kicking the cat back in as he tried to sneak by once again!), dropping my purse and some books on a chair, and kicking off my shoes, I stopped to look around. Again with what my mother refers to as a "postage stamp" condo, the survey was quite short. But it revealed that I had one of two choices tonight. I could easily ignore the mess and either read, turn on the TV after all, or climb into bed knowing that the morning would bring more frustration of creatively traveling through the junk and feeling chaotic. Or I could pick up at least some of the mess and enjoy a few moments of peace.
As I chose the responsible adult action, I turned to the sink. Again something I hate to confess, but here and there I don't clean my dishes right away. A few glasses and pieces of silverware were waiting to be put in the dishwasher. One of the cups had some remaining ice tea with a very small amount of mold sitting at the top.
Gross. Really gross.
And then some neurons started to fire in my brain. A new connection hit as I was rinsing my dishes. Placing them in the dishwasher, putting in soap and starting a new cycle.
THIS is what happens in my life when I fail to see those poor choices I often make in how I treat others and myself (and yes, I'll say it even my cat) resulting in chaos. When I claim that I have freedom to do whatever I damn well please just because I can. And then I look around I wonder why things aren't working out. I'm not talking of the accidents or the normal life problems or even the results of others' choices affecting me. I'm realizing how the judgements I pass, the relationships I ignore, and the choices to put my own needs above others are the piles of shoes all over the floor. The laundry that is waiting to be finished and rehung. The closet that has a pile big enough the door will not shut unless I kick the pile higher and deeper.
The mess that occurs when I place doing what I want (which sometimes is good) over what is best. All for the sake of my freedom. Of my right to choose. Sometimes that choice only affects me. My anger at a driver who cuts me off in traffic. I yell and imagine how I would love to ram my SUV right into the back of their bumper and push them off the road. That anger is limited mostly to the confines of the vehicle with a few curse words and visions of revenge. But even those limited moments of expression can lead to a growing anger that can affect an entire day at work or taking focus out of time with family or friends. And if I continue to let it fester, that anger could lead to road rage or just an genearal sense of anger and resentment to anyone who decides to assert their own rights to do what they please. I wish I could say that every time I reacted to a car that cut in front of me needlessly without signals or concern for safety did not bleed into the following moments. But left unchecked, its those piles of papers that build up until a bill is missed or a family member I snap 10 minutes into a drive to celebration dinner because I didn't chose to just allow that car a few extra feet of space.
Sometimes I wait until my place is so messy I can't find things, or my wardrobe is so bare I'm having to do a last minute load of laundry so I have a pair of jeans I can wear. Or maybe someone is coming over and I scramble to make my place presentable enough. Enough that I can say "Forgive me. It's just a little messy" when I'm really thinking "if you only saw the pile I shoved into my closet" or "good thing you didn't show up 10 minutes ago".
How many times have I done this in my life? How often do my words say "I have my issues but I'm doing okay"? What I often mean is "you couldn't stand it if you really knew what bad choices I've made" or "at least my life isn't as messy as that person's".
What choices to assert my freedoms do I hide in the closet pretending no one can see. Waiting to see when that pile becomes so large that it pours out into my bedroom. When I have to keep others out of my life because I don't think they could stand the things I've done.
"No one would love me if they knew/all the things I hide." (Caedmon's Call).
These words hit to the core when I hear them.
And my one relief as I spent a quick fifteen minutes attacking the last of my kitchen and living room (besides knowing that when I woke up and got ready for work that I wasn't in danger of tripping and had clean dishes to eat breakfast)...
...that I didn't have to clean things up by myself. My responsiblity was saying "I was wrong." And there was someone to help change the rest. Someone who could change my heart.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
jaws...
The picture on my shoulder is not who I am. But it expresses a part of me.
A love for an animal that has come to represents a change in me.
A change in how I see God.
How I see Fear.
How I see myself.
It represents grace and danger.
Something to respect and stand in awe.
As I child I feared them. A look in those black eyes would cause me to turn away. Even when behind the glass in an aquarium. When I moved back to San Jose, I discovered a love for hockey. And it so happened that the local team had a mascot I used to fear. Somewhere in learning about off-sides, icing, interference and slashing I started to love the shark as the animal. I continued to learn the rules of a graceful yet often violent game--cheering on a good fight as much as a sweet goal--I also started discovering about the lives of some fish
Fish that have a bad reputation.
Its the balance of how peaceful they can swim and how dangerous they can be when they're doing exactly what they're supposed to do.
And the more that is known about them, the more questions about them arise.
The death they cause brings them their life. The blood is part of what they're supposed to be.
Old and simple yet they're still a mystery.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Needful Things
"Everybody loves something for nothing...even if it costs everything." Stephen King.
Stephen King. The king of horror. Known for his gruesome stories, many of which have been made it to movies (although must fail to translate well on screen with a few exceptions). But I don't think the monsters in his stories are what is the scariest (yet I still have a hard time watching Pet Cemetery). Its the understanding he has of humanities weakness for evil. The picture he can paint of how an ordinary person can make those small choice that can lead to disastrous outcomes is terrifying. And its not always because of what the characters actually end up doing. The act that is so many of his cases leads to murder is not what scares the hell out of me. Its that each one of us is capable of making those choices that can lead to death. That I can make those choices.
My mom read Needful Things quite a few years ago. She was so frightened by the book that she put a chair under the door in the hotel room where she stayed in Kansas. She swore she'd never read another one of his books again. That was almost my dare to read it. It took me about 10 years to complete the dare. About 2 weeks to read the 700 plus page story. I didn't put any chairs under doors. But it was scary.
What is the cost of my soul? What would I pay for happiness? What happens to a community when people start caring more about objects that provide temporary fulfillment but ultimately lead to hate, violence, destruction and death? What does it look like in my life? In the real world, what temporary pleasures will I try to fulfill at the expense of loving God and loving others?
Villains in King's stories don't start out usually as mass murderers. Well, some do. Some look like the new guy in town working down the street with a green awning and smooth talking. They alter themselves to seduce their victims in choosing to do acts many of the characters may have sworn they wouldn't compromise. They were just doing "tricks" in the novel. Tricks that set of the destruction of a community. The nice man with the green or brown or gray eyes finds the weakness of the individual and feeds half-truths and attractive lies. The evil spreads but often starts covered in sugar. But something changes. New villains emerge. The normal person makes a choice to put themselves greater than others. Greater than their family, friends or neighbors. In the horror stories, small choices lead to more choices that grow to frightening results. Monsters arise.
--What choices do we make? Do I make? Choosing myself over others? It may seem small. But at what point will many small judgements lead to hate? White lies lead to outright deception? Taking what is rightfully mine lead to stealing? How many small decisions to assert false superiority lead to slavery or racism or even genocide? Where does it stop? But most often the more important question seems to be, where does it start? What is my part in where we are in our world? What is each of our parts in how we gotten to the sadness in our world? And how can we bring back good or redeem our world?
The heroes of Stephen King's stories...Often people with faults who have recognized their part, their faults in the story. Not masked avengers with capes and super powers. Humans. Broken humans. Who have also made mistakes. Who have maybe been a part of the problem during part of the story. But have figured out the lies of the villains and their own part. The heroes that have decided that their community, family, and neighbors are worth saving. And as impossible as their choices are, these heroes choose the possibility or even reality of injury and/or death to give others life.
--Will I be the person that recognizes the lies I've believed? Will I be the person who can see beyond my needs and weaknesses and chose things that will bring life to others? Will I make sacrifices in my life for my neighbor? What would it look like if more people chose to be this kind of hero?
The king of horror. A teacher in what makes us human. The stories are a mirror for our propensity for evil, our potential for good. Not for the faint of heart. But the stories remind me of who I am, who I could be, who I should strive to be. And they get those chemicals in my brain and body that bring fear and in a bizarre way a little bit of pleasure. On to some other stories for now though!
Stephen King. The king of horror. Known for his gruesome stories, many of which have been made it to movies (although must fail to translate well on screen with a few exceptions). But I don't think the monsters in his stories are what is the scariest (yet I still have a hard time watching Pet Cemetery). Its the understanding he has of humanities weakness for evil. The picture he can paint of how an ordinary person can make those small choice that can lead to disastrous outcomes is terrifying. And its not always because of what the characters actually end up doing. The act that is so many of his cases leads to murder is not what scares the hell out of me. Its that each one of us is capable of making those choices that can lead to death. That I can make those choices.
My mom read Needful Things quite a few years ago. She was so frightened by the book that she put a chair under the door in the hotel room where she stayed in Kansas. She swore she'd never read another one of his books again. That was almost my dare to read it. It took me about 10 years to complete the dare. About 2 weeks to read the 700 plus page story. I didn't put any chairs under doors. But it was scary.
What is the cost of my soul? What would I pay for happiness? What happens to a community when people start caring more about objects that provide temporary fulfillment but ultimately lead to hate, violence, destruction and death? What does it look like in my life? In the real world, what temporary pleasures will I try to fulfill at the expense of loving God and loving others?
Villains in King's stories don't start out usually as mass murderers. Well, some do. Some look like the new guy in town working down the street with a green awning and smooth talking. They alter themselves to seduce their victims in choosing to do acts many of the characters may have sworn they wouldn't compromise. They were just doing "tricks" in the novel. Tricks that set of the destruction of a community. The nice man with the green or brown or gray eyes finds the weakness of the individual and feeds half-truths and attractive lies. The evil spreads but often starts covered in sugar. But something changes. New villains emerge. The normal person makes a choice to put themselves greater than others. Greater than their family, friends or neighbors. In the horror stories, small choices lead to more choices that grow to frightening results. Monsters arise.
--What choices do we make? Do I make? Choosing myself over others? It may seem small. But at what point will many small judgements lead to hate? White lies lead to outright deception? Taking what is rightfully mine lead to stealing? How many small decisions to assert false superiority lead to slavery or racism or even genocide? Where does it stop? But most often the more important question seems to be, where does it start? What is my part in where we are in our world? What is each of our parts in how we gotten to the sadness in our world? And how can we bring back good or redeem our world?
The heroes of Stephen King's stories...Often people with faults who have recognized their part, their faults in the story. Not masked avengers with capes and super powers. Humans. Broken humans. Who have also made mistakes. Who have maybe been a part of the problem during part of the story. But have figured out the lies of the villains and their own part. The heroes that have decided that their community, family, and neighbors are worth saving. And as impossible as their choices are, these heroes choose the possibility or even reality of injury and/or death to give others life.
--Will I be the person that recognizes the lies I've believed? Will I be the person who can see beyond my needs and weaknesses and chose things that will bring life to others? Will I make sacrifices in my life for my neighbor? What would it look like if more people chose to be this kind of hero?
The king of horror. A teacher in what makes us human. The stories are a mirror for our propensity for evil, our potential for good. Not for the faint of heart. But the stories remind me of who I am, who I could be, who I should strive to be. And they get those chemicals in my brain and body that bring fear and in a bizarre way a little bit of pleasure. On to some other stories for now though!
Monday, May 4, 2009
Just a piece of a bigger song.
"Date night?"
"Of course."
Sunday nights after meeting with some friends for dinner and discussion (aka Bible study), I usually head over with a friend to the theater at Oakridge or sometimes Campbell for coffee and a movie. We joke about it being our date night but it's just two friends hanging out. Although it's not "just" anything. It's become a time I see as sacred. A time to share and process and live and grow. A time that I have learned to be myself. A time I feel safe to be vunerable. And some weeks it's just silliness. But most often I come away with plenty to reflect on from both the movie we chose and/or the converstaion before and after. So it goes with tonight's choice. The Soloist.
My head is still working through all of the movie. It echoes previous conversations. It echoes some life themes. At least my life--if only in the emotions not the context. Although suprisingly even a few pieces of the movie share a context.
One of my favorite bands is the David Crowder Band. They led worship at the church I attended in college. They still do when they're not on tour and I miss that church. At the end of their album "Collision or (3+4=7)", David recorded an interview and was discussing "The Lark Ascending". The song starts with simple chords then keeps growing into this rich song of variations on a theme (their whole album also does this). Like a orchestral piece. A song that keeps growing from many instruments playing variations on a theme. The richness of a piece comes from how it all comes together.
When I got home I realized despite the movie title as "The Soloist", much of the music was still set within the background of an orchestra. Often it was implied in the characters' head or there for the audience's benefit. But the beauty of the music was the individual playing in the context of many others in the same song.
Which brings me back to date night and the discussions that my friend and I have. So many times we have these running themes in our discussions. Sometimes it's obvious because it's based on life situations. Sometimes it may seem more random but themes keep popping up. They run through the context of an evening out, time at a coffee shop, quick emails within a week, or even outside our own conversations. It's these life lessons that are so much richer in the context of living life with others--in community. Living my own story in the midst of other people stories. My "solo" becomes a piece in an orchestra. I gain meaning in the messiness of life by seeing the beauty in other people's stories. Where details may be completly different, the emotions I go through may be far closer to the main theme than I would have previously imagined.
So these movie and coffee nights have become those muscial phrases that repeat and build. In the couple of years since we've been friends, these converstations have become deeper, more fun, more intense, more freeing. Others have been a part of the conversations too. And this has added to the beauty in my life. Even when things get messy. I've learned how valuable that song has become.
And I came out of the movie thinking that I really need to go see a symphony sometime soon.
...And coming out of the movie thinking, I am so thankful of those people in my life that enrich the phrases in my life. That echo the lessons I keep learning.
"Of course."
Sunday nights after meeting with some friends for dinner and discussion (aka Bible study), I usually head over with a friend to the theater at Oakridge or sometimes Campbell for coffee and a movie. We joke about it being our date night but it's just two friends hanging out. Although it's not "just" anything. It's become a time I see as sacred. A time to share and process and live and grow. A time that I have learned to be myself. A time I feel safe to be vunerable. And some weeks it's just silliness. But most often I come away with plenty to reflect on from both the movie we chose and/or the converstaion before and after. So it goes with tonight's choice. The Soloist.
My head is still working through all of the movie. It echoes previous conversations. It echoes some life themes. At least my life--if only in the emotions not the context. Although suprisingly even a few pieces of the movie share a context.
One of my favorite bands is the David Crowder Band. They led worship at the church I attended in college. They still do when they're not on tour and I miss that church. At the end of their album "Collision or (3+4=7)", David recorded an interview and was discussing "The Lark Ascending". The song starts with simple chords then keeps growing into this rich song of variations on a theme (their whole album also does this). Like a orchestral piece. A song that keeps growing from many instruments playing variations on a theme. The richness of a piece comes from how it all comes together.
When I got home I realized despite the movie title as "The Soloist", much of the music was still set within the background of an orchestra. Often it was implied in the characters' head or there for the audience's benefit. But the beauty of the music was the individual playing in the context of many others in the same song.
Which brings me back to date night and the discussions that my friend and I have. So many times we have these running themes in our discussions. Sometimes it's obvious because it's based on life situations. Sometimes it may seem more random but themes keep popping up. They run through the context of an evening out, time at a coffee shop, quick emails within a week, or even outside our own conversations. It's these life lessons that are so much richer in the context of living life with others--in community. Living my own story in the midst of other people stories. My "solo" becomes a piece in an orchestra. I gain meaning in the messiness of life by seeing the beauty in other people's stories. Where details may be completly different, the emotions I go through may be far closer to the main theme than I would have previously imagined.
So these movie and coffee nights have become those muscial phrases that repeat and build. In the couple of years since we've been friends, these converstations have become deeper, more fun, more intense, more freeing. Others have been a part of the conversations too. And this has added to the beauty in my life. Even when things get messy. I've learned how valuable that song has become.
And I came out of the movie thinking that I really need to go see a symphony sometime soon.
...And coming out of the movie thinking, I am so thankful of those people in my life that enrich the phrases in my life. That echo the lessons I keep learning.
Friday, April 24, 2009
It's just a game...but one I LOVE
It's been told to me (and repeated myself over and over)--"It's just a game". But it still hurts when the team I rooted for didn't play like I wanted them to last night. And while it is just a sport, hockey is something in the last 5 years I've come to LOVE. Each year, I've poured more emotion into the season. And each year, the end comes down to "there's always next year". The moments of joy in a game when the battles were won and the "W" comes at the end of a 60 or more minute game are fulfilling. The well fought losses are frustrating but understood. And those games where you wonder what happened to a team that is so talented, fast, strong and capable? Those games I want to cry or hit something or both. Those games I threaten to find a different team to give my loyalty. Those games I wonder why I even care about 23 men and 1 mission.
But I do. Hockey fascinates me. The smell of the rink, the sounds of the blades on ice, bodies hit against the boards, the crowd yelling and chanting. Fights, penalties, the sin bin. The Zamboni! Having a common hate with other fans--the officials or Chris Pronger. The stories of players who worked so hard to get to their moments of glory. A player who has continued to train intensely despite an injury that cost him a season of playing a game he loves far more than I do. Stories of comebacks and overcoming obstacles. Names that are entertaining to say--Cheechoo, Kopitar, Wisniewski, Ovechkin, Khabibulin. The fact that nifty is a cool word to say--deke even cooler. Singing the Canadian and American anthems with an arena full of people. Spoiled by announcers who seem to bring peace to my soul when I turn on a broadcast. Yes, I care. And without any other words to describe it--I feel a alive in my passion for the game. As my hometown team the Sharks are my boys. Jumbo Joe, Patty, Pickles, JR, Torrey...my sports heroes. Sharks themselves have become an animal that I am fascinated with, inspiring a new tattoo soon to come.
Hockey has become a context, an analogy for life. Maybe that's why I take a loss like last night so personally. But they didn't lose to upset me. They don't know who I am. Just another fan of an intense sport.
Sadly, against my usual rants about sticking with my team until the end of the game, my friends and I watched some clips from Inside the Actor's Studio instead of the last 7 minutes. Watching Liza Minelli and Cameron Diaz use their favorite swear words hit the spot--as Anaheim scored another goal. Some time at the gym, averting my eyes from any sports channels, also helped.
Once again a revelation hit. Being passionate about something (or someone) also means there is a risk of disappointment. I could stop caring so the next let down wouldn't hurt so much. Become a fair weather fan. But where would the flip side of excitement come. I've been numb to experiencing things my life too long because of fear of failure and disappointment. So at 12 AM last night, sweating on the elliptical machine I decided that these nights of sadness and frustration were worth it. Whether it's a hockey game or own goals in my life, I'll take the risk of believing with the potential and likelihood of future disappointments. Because when the Cup is won or what I want most finally comes into play, I want every scar, drop of sweat, and every emotion to count.
Today however I'll process. A little quiet. A little sad. A very small hope that the overwhelming disappointment those guys must feel themselves wouldn't prevent the last efforts they have within them. And hope that in my own life, while mourning over disappointments that may/will come, I'll still brush it off and keep trying. Keep waiting for that SOMEDAY. Because sometimes this is really about that.
But I do. Hockey fascinates me. The smell of the rink, the sounds of the blades on ice, bodies hit against the boards, the crowd yelling and chanting. Fights, penalties, the sin bin. The Zamboni! Having a common hate with other fans--the officials or Chris Pronger. The stories of players who worked so hard to get to their moments of glory. A player who has continued to train intensely despite an injury that cost him a season of playing a game he loves far more than I do. Stories of comebacks and overcoming obstacles. Names that are entertaining to say--Cheechoo, Kopitar, Wisniewski, Ovechkin, Khabibulin. The fact that nifty is a cool word to say--deke even cooler. Singing the Canadian and American anthems with an arena full of people. Spoiled by announcers who seem to bring peace to my soul when I turn on a broadcast. Yes, I care. And without any other words to describe it--I feel a alive in my passion for the game. As my hometown team the Sharks are my boys. Jumbo Joe, Patty, Pickles, JR, Torrey...my sports heroes. Sharks themselves have become an animal that I am fascinated with, inspiring a new tattoo soon to come.
Hockey has become a context, an analogy for life. Maybe that's why I take a loss like last night so personally. But they didn't lose to upset me. They don't know who I am. Just another fan of an intense sport.
Sadly, against my usual rants about sticking with my team until the end of the game, my friends and I watched some clips from Inside the Actor's Studio instead of the last 7 minutes. Watching Liza Minelli and Cameron Diaz use their favorite swear words hit the spot--as Anaheim scored another goal. Some time at the gym, averting my eyes from any sports channels, also helped.
Once again a revelation hit. Being passionate about something (or someone) also means there is a risk of disappointment. I could stop caring so the next let down wouldn't hurt so much. Become a fair weather fan. But where would the flip side of excitement come. I've been numb to experiencing things my life too long because of fear of failure and disappointment. So at 12 AM last night, sweating on the elliptical machine I decided that these nights of sadness and frustration were worth it. Whether it's a hockey game or own goals in my life, I'll take the risk of believing with the potential and likelihood of future disappointments. Because when the Cup is won or what I want most finally comes into play, I want every scar, drop of sweat, and every emotion to count.
Today however I'll process. A little quiet. A little sad. A very small hope that the overwhelming disappointment those guys must feel themselves wouldn't prevent the last efforts they have within them. And hope that in my own life, while mourning over disappointments that may/will come, I'll still brush it off and keep trying. Keep waiting for that SOMEDAY. Because sometimes this is really about that.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
word
"See I'm all about them words
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards
More words than I had ever heard and I feel so alive" Jason Mraz
"Words are alive; cut them and they bleed." Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Without knowing the force of words, it is impossible to know men." Confucius
"Words differently arranged have a different meaning and meanings differently arranged have a different effect." Blaise Pascal
Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me...
My undergraduate degree is in Communication Sciences and Disorders. There were only 2classes in my current field of audiology- most of the classes taken in speech pathology. And to learn how something is disordered or abnormal, one has to learn what normal looks like. So I learned in classes all about speech development. I learned a lot about langauge. Morphemes. Phonemes. Words. Language. Semantics. Pragmatics. Sitting in one of the downstairs lecture rooms our department shared with the student athletes, I can recall a specific lecture talking about words. Specifically I remember talking about our favorite words. And learning that I am fascinated by them. It explains why I love reading. Why I'm better in english than math. In groups, we had conversations about what our favorite words were and the ones we liked simply for how they sounded. Since my sophmore year in college, I have added to my list of words I love. There was a movie awhile back in which one of the characters had a whole journal full of words he loved. I've always meant to start my list and keep track. But for now it's just a mental exercise. Some of the ones that are at the top--coagulate, friggot, marshmellow, cheechoo (quite a few hockey names get placed in my mental tally), Chechnya. And a few new ones I've added--fruition, fortitude, deke, nifty, demonstrative. It doesn't matter what they mean. Just that I can entertain myself just by saying them.
Sunday I was standing in Starbucks and noticed the words being used to describe their coffee. "Bold and Adventurous." "Friendly." "Comforting.". It's coffee. And it's advertising. But it started a process of thoughts regarding the power of words. No new concept. Just a tie in to somethings that I've pondered about in the past. The power of words. How they can convey so much, either written or spoken. The context the words are spoken, tone, connnotations of words. As well as who speaks or write the words and those who recieve and interpret the words. That night while talking with friends about a passage of John in the Bible, I looked down to see the words were in red. Again no suprise to me as I've seen this before. But some new connections happened with this highlighting of Jesus' words. And these words changed in my understanding of them, simply by who spoke the words. And who recorded those words, where they fell in the context of the story that was being told. And how those same words have been used by others in so many various ways. Including being referenced on a sign at sporting events, or on protestors signs in front of events or abortion clinics. From the right person, right movitation, and right context, those words are freeing, loving and profound. And yet so many times those words have been used to express judgement and hate.
My senior year in college I took a Women in Christian History class for one of my upperclass electives. For the first lecture,Dr. Beck placed up about 10 words for us to journal on and then discuss. Submission was one of those words. Submission. Like others (in a class of about 25 there was two males that day, the next lecture there was only one brave soul), my immediate reaction to the word was negative. Cringing. Sumbmission is not a word I wanted to hear. But we had a good discussion about it that morning and I've had many more since. In the last month in partiuclar it's come up. And while in the wrong context it still has very negative connotations, I am also learning how positive that word can be. How being submissive out of a person's free will is an huge act of love. How without the submission of a son to his Father's will, grace and mercy wouldn't have the meaning it holds. How submission of my life to something bigger than who I am--or could ever hope to be--can actually give me life (not take it away).
Submission leading to love. As an expression of love. What is love then? A word that itself is filled with meaning. Used in good ways and bad. Thrown out at times with little care to what it holds and at the same time being the most simple statement that can change a life. In approaching the Easter celebrations, I'm trying to spend some time thinking about how this holiday is one of the greatest celebrations of love. How it was expressed. And how we (as the collective church and as individuals) should carry out that meaning of love. Too bad most of the year we mess it up so much.
"In the begining was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God." John
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards
More words than I had ever heard and I feel so alive" Jason Mraz
"Words are alive; cut them and they bleed." Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Without knowing the force of words, it is impossible to know men." Confucius
"Words differently arranged have a different meaning and meanings differently arranged have a different effect." Blaise Pascal
Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me...
My undergraduate degree is in Communication Sciences and Disorders. There were only 2classes in my current field of audiology- most of the classes taken in speech pathology. And to learn how something is disordered or abnormal, one has to learn what normal looks like. So I learned in classes all about speech development. I learned a lot about langauge. Morphemes. Phonemes. Words. Language. Semantics. Pragmatics. Sitting in one of the downstairs lecture rooms our department shared with the student athletes, I can recall a specific lecture talking about words. Specifically I remember talking about our favorite words. And learning that I am fascinated by them. It explains why I love reading. Why I'm better in english than math. In groups, we had conversations about what our favorite words were and the ones we liked simply for how they sounded. Since my sophmore year in college, I have added to my list of words I love. There was a movie awhile back in which one of the characters had a whole journal full of words he loved. I've always meant to start my list and keep track. But for now it's just a mental exercise. Some of the ones that are at the top--coagulate, friggot, marshmellow, cheechoo (quite a few hockey names get placed in my mental tally), Chechnya. And a few new ones I've added--fruition, fortitude, deke, nifty, demonstrative. It doesn't matter what they mean. Just that I can entertain myself just by saying them.
Sunday I was standing in Starbucks and noticed the words being used to describe their coffee. "Bold and Adventurous." "Friendly." "Comforting.". It's coffee. And it's advertising. But it started a process of thoughts regarding the power of words. No new concept. Just a tie in to somethings that I've pondered about in the past. The power of words. How they can convey so much, either written or spoken. The context the words are spoken, tone, connnotations of words. As well as who speaks or write the words and those who recieve and interpret the words. That night while talking with friends about a passage of John in the Bible, I looked down to see the words were in red. Again no suprise to me as I've seen this before. But some new connections happened with this highlighting of Jesus' words. And these words changed in my understanding of them, simply by who spoke the words. And who recorded those words, where they fell in the context of the story that was being told. And how those same words have been used by others in so many various ways. Including being referenced on a sign at sporting events, or on protestors signs in front of events or abortion clinics. From the right person, right movitation, and right context, those words are freeing, loving and profound. And yet so many times those words have been used to express judgement and hate.
My senior year in college I took a Women in Christian History class for one of my upperclass electives. For the first lecture,Dr. Beck placed up about 10 words for us to journal on and then discuss. Submission was one of those words. Submission. Like others (in a class of about 25 there was two males that day, the next lecture there was only one brave soul), my immediate reaction to the word was negative. Cringing. Sumbmission is not a word I wanted to hear. But we had a good discussion about it that morning and I've had many more since. In the last month in partiuclar it's come up. And while in the wrong context it still has very negative connotations, I am also learning how positive that word can be. How being submissive out of a person's free will is an huge act of love. How without the submission of a son to his Father's will, grace and mercy wouldn't have the meaning it holds. How submission of my life to something bigger than who I am--or could ever hope to be--can actually give me life (not take it away).
Submission leading to love. As an expression of love. What is love then? A word that itself is filled with meaning. Used in good ways and bad. Thrown out at times with little care to what it holds and at the same time being the most simple statement that can change a life. In approaching the Easter celebrations, I'm trying to spend some time thinking about how this holiday is one of the greatest celebrations of love. How it was expressed. And how we (as the collective church and as individuals) should carry out that meaning of love. Too bad most of the year we mess it up so much.
"In the begining was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God." John
Monday, March 2, 2009
A welcome detour.
If I were a character in a novel, I'm currently in the chapter where I've headed off on a detour on my journey. Or maybe in the middle of a few chapters. The scenic route. It still gets me to where I want to be (or at least where I think I'm headed). And it's that special chapter that changes the core of who I am. In fact, while it could appear that I walked off the course, I'm beginning to think this time off the common path was really more planned all along. Th at special story line that some may skip over but it adds the richness and beauty of the character development.
It's the chapter that brings in new friend who brings clarity, redemption and appreciation for other relationships. A lot of laughter. Serious discussions. Honesty. Accountability. Silliness. A catalyst for what others view as trouble. Grace. Lots of coffee. A closeness that some misinterpret (and much more laughter about that). But something I cherish beyond what I can express. It's been a comfort. A learning experience. It's one of those rare relationships in life that I know where ever I go, the impact of the time so far will have lasting effects. And while paths can always change, I hope it's the character that remains in my story for a long time.
It's the chapter that I can no longer imagine what the destination could look like without this character in my life. It's forever changed how I will finish off the story. And while as the character in my own story, who I am will dictate the rest of the story. But I hope the author doesn't change this companion on my destination. There is a new sense of excitement and joy of new chapters to unfold. What time and experiences may bring. And as characters come and go, I hope this particular one sticks around for a long time.
It's the chapter that brings in new friend who brings clarity, redemption and appreciation for other relationships. A lot of laughter. Serious discussions. Honesty. Accountability. Silliness. A catalyst for what others view as trouble. Grace. Lots of coffee. A closeness that some misinterpret (and much more laughter about that). But something I cherish beyond what I can express. It's been a comfort. A learning experience. It's one of those rare relationships in life that I know where ever I go, the impact of the time so far will have lasting effects. And while paths can always change, I hope it's the character that remains in my story for a long time.
It's the chapter that I can no longer imagine what the destination could look like without this character in my life. It's forever changed how I will finish off the story. And while as the character in my own story, who I am will dictate the rest of the story. But I hope the author doesn't change this companion on my destination. There is a new sense of excitement and joy of new chapters to unfold. What time and experiences may bring. And as characters come and go, I hope this particular one sticks around for a long time.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Pancake Day 2009--first annual:)
A few random notes before I start my reflections...
~I LOVE my friendships. I love the joy they bring in my life. I love that shared history, good and bad, brings us closer, like a family. I love sharing meals with them. I love the laughter that filled my small little place tonight!
~I'm writing this from my laptop in my bedroom! Normally this would be no big deal. But my wireless has not been connected correctly for months now. Thanks to Rob and Steve, I now can travel any where in my small little condo and still be connected.
~Inviting friends over and then making them cook is a fantastic idea!
I'll spare you of a few other thoughts. But I'm content tonight. Well, more filled with joy. Blessed by where I'm at even when there are still things to do, change, experience. I'm thankful.
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I often miss the season of Lent. I didn't grow up in a church that participated in Ash Wednesday. Sometimes Lent was discussed but often it was missed, or not explained very well. So many times I couldn't figure out why so many people had dirt on their foreheads. This year I wanted to learn more about the tradition. Learn the basis for it. Was there something to this season worth participating for myself? And I came across Pancake Day. Celebrated in Britian and Ireland (and a few other countries), it's similar to Fat Tuesday. I love pancakes.
I invited friends over and we enjoyed pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit and some chocolate covered strawberries. Conversation. Laughter. Community. I forget sometimes how much I love having people over. Life has sped up to a near frantic pace at times. And while I have a lot of fun, I have become tired of trying to do too much. And I've had to stop doing things and say no to a lot this year. But sometimes I have cut the wrong things out of my life. Tonight was a reminder that besides the tax benefits and the roof over my head, my quiet little condo also must be shared. I love quiet moments with just Thornton (my cat) and I. But I also love to have people to enjoy my time here.
After dinner a few of us remained to watch Chocolat. Set during Lent, it was a perfect movie to kick of this season. Full of grace for those who need it the most. And a reminder that sometimes love looks different than the rules and expectations we place on it. What struck me most was how much love was expressed outside the church. How unconditional love looked from one woman could be who refused to follow rules that were no longer about God but about power and control. To bring joy and happiness into a simple world. And the antithesis of her grace was the hate and nonsense from the town church. That God became a burden to his followers and the joy and freedom Christ promised was absent. It weighs on my heart that the church so often is not the expression of Christ's love as intended. Although it still can be found. I still see it. But I find myself angry and bitter so often at those who call themselves Christians. (and still remind myself that I too am broken, bitter, and full of that which does not reflect God's love either). What if the church could look at God with longing for peace and compassion? What would it look like if the church could remember that Christ came for all, and most importantly for the the sick not the self righteous and "perfect"? Where would Christ most likely be today? Probably not in a fancy church building. More likely in the streets, with children and orphans, the outcasts, those we make quick judgments about their worth based on the clothes they wear or the car they drive. What happened to the example Jesus showed in three years of ministry? Can we remember what Christ was preparing himself for in the days to come?
There is a scene that showed the crucfix above the mayor of the city who had spread the hate and fear to those in the church and town. "Look, I've been off this cross for 2000 years" is the comment from a friend. That brough laughter but a moment of truth as well. Christ's suffering didn't mean that we were supposed to remain in death during our live times. He conquered death so that we could all have life. He didn't need to remain nailed to the cross any longer. An empty tomb on Sunday means that we can also come out of our tombs and truly live. What would our lives look like if we had more joy? more love? hope? acceptance and encouragement? I'm not willing to give up on this. And while somedays I'm first to curse the sillness, hate, ignorance, and often stupidity of some within the church, I also see those who exhibit those qualities Jesus lived, died and conqued the grave for. He loved the church with and unconditional love. Loved his people and continued time and again mercy and grace when we least deserved. A parent accpeting a child. A lover calling his beloved home. A friend forgiving. A creator who is redeeming his creation.
I start this Lent off giving up something. This year it's trash TV. well more of the extra hours I spend watching mindless episodes even where there is nothing on. Or watching Real World or Real Housewives of Orange County--because who really needs to watch them anyway. I'm doing it to use that time to so something more honoring to God in these next 40 days. But watching this movie tonight, there is a peace that I give it not as a burden, but a willing sacrifice to invest in my relationship with God. To sit and listen to his still small whipsers. To talk. To restore the brokenness I have caused. To know that in the end my giving up something is so small. But opening my heart, letting it be transformed is really what God desires the most. He wants me. Loves me. Sacrificed more than I can imagine and calls to me over and over again. Despite my faults and failures, my hypocricy, my own hate, selfishness and greed, He still opens his arms wide and comes running to me. And only through that love for me can I learn to love others. May I come closer this Lent season to being a better reflection of Christ. And may their be joy in my offering.
~I LOVE my friendships. I love the joy they bring in my life. I love that shared history, good and bad, brings us closer, like a family. I love sharing meals with them. I love the laughter that filled my small little place tonight!
~I'm writing this from my laptop in my bedroom! Normally this would be no big deal. But my wireless has not been connected correctly for months now. Thanks to Rob and Steve, I now can travel any where in my small little condo and still be connected.
~Inviting friends over and then making them cook is a fantastic idea!
I'll spare you of a few other thoughts. But I'm content tonight. Well, more filled with joy. Blessed by where I'm at even when there are still things to do, change, experience. I'm thankful.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
I often miss the season of Lent. I didn't grow up in a church that participated in Ash Wednesday. Sometimes Lent was discussed but often it was missed, or not explained very well. So many times I couldn't figure out why so many people had dirt on their foreheads. This year I wanted to learn more about the tradition. Learn the basis for it. Was there something to this season worth participating for myself? And I came across Pancake Day. Celebrated in Britian and Ireland (and a few other countries), it's similar to Fat Tuesday. I love pancakes.
I invited friends over and we enjoyed pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit and some chocolate covered strawberries. Conversation. Laughter. Community. I forget sometimes how much I love having people over. Life has sped up to a near frantic pace at times. And while I have a lot of fun, I have become tired of trying to do too much. And I've had to stop doing things and say no to a lot this year. But sometimes I have cut the wrong things out of my life. Tonight was a reminder that besides the tax benefits and the roof over my head, my quiet little condo also must be shared. I love quiet moments with just Thornton (my cat) and I. But I also love to have people to enjoy my time here.
After dinner a few of us remained to watch Chocolat. Set during Lent, it was a perfect movie to kick of this season. Full of grace for those who need it the most. And a reminder that sometimes love looks different than the rules and expectations we place on it. What struck me most was how much love was expressed outside the church. How unconditional love looked from one woman could be who refused to follow rules that were no longer about God but about power and control. To bring joy and happiness into a simple world. And the antithesis of her grace was the hate and nonsense from the town church. That God became a burden to his followers and the joy and freedom Christ promised was absent. It weighs on my heart that the church so often is not the expression of Christ's love as intended. Although it still can be found. I still see it. But I find myself angry and bitter so often at those who call themselves Christians. (and still remind myself that I too am broken, bitter, and full of that which does not reflect God's love either). What if the church could look at God with longing for peace and compassion? What would it look like if the church could remember that Christ came for all, and most importantly for the the sick not the self righteous and "perfect"? Where would Christ most likely be today? Probably not in a fancy church building. More likely in the streets, with children and orphans, the outcasts, those we make quick judgments about their worth based on the clothes they wear or the car they drive. What happened to the example Jesus showed in three years of ministry? Can we remember what Christ was preparing himself for in the days to come?
There is a scene that showed the crucfix above the mayor of the city who had spread the hate and fear to those in the church and town. "Look, I've been off this cross for 2000 years" is the comment from a friend. That brough laughter but a moment of truth as well. Christ's suffering didn't mean that we were supposed to remain in death during our live times. He conquered death so that we could all have life. He didn't need to remain nailed to the cross any longer. An empty tomb on Sunday means that we can also come out of our tombs and truly live. What would our lives look like if we had more joy? more love? hope? acceptance and encouragement? I'm not willing to give up on this. And while somedays I'm first to curse the sillness, hate, ignorance, and often stupidity of some within the church, I also see those who exhibit those qualities Jesus lived, died and conqued the grave for. He loved the church with and unconditional love. Loved his people and continued time and again mercy and grace when we least deserved. A parent accpeting a child. A lover calling his beloved home. A friend forgiving. A creator who is redeeming his creation.
I start this Lent off giving up something. This year it's trash TV. well more of the extra hours I spend watching mindless episodes even where there is nothing on. Or watching Real World or Real Housewives of Orange County--because who really needs to watch them anyway. I'm doing it to use that time to so something more honoring to God in these next 40 days. But watching this movie tonight, there is a peace that I give it not as a burden, but a willing sacrifice to invest in my relationship with God. To sit and listen to his still small whipsers. To talk. To restore the brokenness I have caused. To know that in the end my giving up something is so small. But opening my heart, letting it be transformed is really what God desires the most. He wants me. Loves me. Sacrificed more than I can imagine and calls to me over and over again. Despite my faults and failures, my hypocricy, my own hate, selfishness and greed, He still opens his arms wide and comes running to me. And only through that love for me can I learn to love others. May I come closer this Lent season to being a better reflection of Christ. And may their be joy in my offering.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
my visual brain....
Last Monday night, I joined Kindle and Steve for sushi. Always good conversation with these two. (And who would have thought I'd enjoy eating raw fish?)
Kindle was sharing about one of the students at the learning center she works. He had a huge success at learning to read after 10 weeks. Kudos to the people who brought this ability into this little boy's life!
The skill to read--something I take for granted. I read ALL of the time. I almost always have a book in my purse, usually one in the car, one on my night stand, and sometimes a few others I've started laying throughout my place. Even when it's not a book...it's a blog or an email, a articles, or a cereal box. My eyes are always scanning to read something. My bookshelves overflow with both read and unread novels. I drool over book stores and have banned myself this year from buying new books until I read what I already have. When I was younger, I was always the child with the flash light under the covers long past my bed time (I blame my poor eye sight on that "bad" habit). I often forget that many people don't read like I do for whatever reason.
So I was fascinated to hear Kindle talk about the research about how the brain reads. All of the functional MRI data that shows the differences of what is working when different people read. And how typically people who read a lot have a lot of activity in the occipital lobe.
Ah ha! A connection...reading for me is such an escape. It's my ability to jump into another world and visit new people and places. My imagination while reading is always very vivid. No wonder I like to read so much. Those neurons in my occipital lobe must be firing at incredible rates. I wonder what the functional MRI would look like on my brain as i travel through time, visit imaginary lands, gain perspective on the past, dream about the future. The money I've spent on books in my lifetime probably could pay for quite a few vacations (which hopefully I can still take). But I can open the pages of a book and in minutes be transported to something beyond myself. I do this with non-fiction as well. Something new (or even familiar) to experience that is available just about anytime I want.
But somehow this visual reading wasn't always transferred in to reading the Bible. Something sucked the joy out of jumping into that world. Actually people did that, and I went along with the idea that there were just a lot of rules, static history, and completely irrelevant to what I was experiencing. There were times the stories came alive, but often it was pushed aside for another book--even books about the Bible. Yet, now I'm finding excitement again as I step into the stories with new eyes. Picturing Paul as he wrote letters to churches from jail cells, Moses leading people through a dessert, Isaiah telling his countrymen of how they led themselves into exile and about the coming hope of salvation. It's not always easy to swallow a lot of what happens in this collection of books. But this love story has so much to say about who God is, who we are, and a redemption that surpasses any other story (as well as the murder, deceit, affairs, seduction...). Arguments are made all the time about how to interpret the Bible...liberal or conservation, fundamental, in the context of evangelizing, or just a collection of myths and parables. There is room for these conversations and shouldn't be thrown out (although at times those discussions/debates/fights can be ridiculous and more about power and control then really about God or Jesus).
How exciting it is to rediscover this world again. Thousands of years ago, at specific times, to specific people. I can transport into another time and place about a people who I can relate. Sometimes I hurt with them, the pains of life, the devastation that forgetting God can bring, the loneliness, oppression, anger, injustice. Other times I rejoice, when someone has received mercy, justice has won out, love was shown to another. Some passages I just can't wrap my head around or just can't fathom reading (really Numbers? really? I can hardly pronounce the names yet alone care about this list).
But when I read other books I usually don't go in with the intention of judging but of learning. How humbling it is to come to this often difficult book and want to experience the good AND bad. To look at the big picture and then dive into the specific books, chapters, and characters. Oh if I could understand Hebrew, Greek and Aramaic to actually read these in their original languages with all the context of the time or the poetry of the writers (even understand their own lives and biases). Or maybe I really should just read more in English though!
Can I engage in these stories like I do other books? Maybe then I can open my heart to them as I open my head to visualizing these often confusing concepts and stories. Can these stories jump out in color instead of the black and white letters on thin sheets of paper?
Kindle was sharing about one of the students at the learning center she works. He had a huge success at learning to read after 10 weeks. Kudos to the people who brought this ability into this little boy's life!
The skill to read--something I take for granted. I read ALL of the time. I almost always have a book in my purse, usually one in the car, one on my night stand, and sometimes a few others I've started laying throughout my place. Even when it's not a book...it's a blog or an email, a articles, or a cereal box. My eyes are always scanning to read something. My bookshelves overflow with both read and unread novels. I drool over book stores and have banned myself this year from buying new books until I read what I already have. When I was younger, I was always the child with the flash light under the covers long past my bed time (I blame my poor eye sight on that "bad" habit). I often forget that many people don't read like I do for whatever reason.
So I was fascinated to hear Kindle talk about the research about how the brain reads. All of the functional MRI data that shows the differences of what is working when different people read. And how typically people who read a lot have a lot of activity in the occipital lobe.
Ah ha! A connection...reading for me is such an escape. It's my ability to jump into another world and visit new people and places. My imagination while reading is always very vivid. No wonder I like to read so much. Those neurons in my occipital lobe must be firing at incredible rates. I wonder what the functional MRI would look like on my brain as i travel through time, visit imaginary lands, gain perspective on the past, dream about the future. The money I've spent on books in my lifetime probably could pay for quite a few vacations (which hopefully I can still take). But I can open the pages of a book and in minutes be transported to something beyond myself. I do this with non-fiction as well. Something new (or even familiar) to experience that is available just about anytime I want.
But somehow this visual reading wasn't always transferred in to reading the Bible. Something sucked the joy out of jumping into that world. Actually people did that, and I went along with the idea that there were just a lot of rules, static history, and completely irrelevant to what I was experiencing. There were times the stories came alive, but often it was pushed aside for another book--even books about the Bible. Yet, now I'm finding excitement again as I step into the stories with new eyes. Picturing Paul as he wrote letters to churches from jail cells, Moses leading people through a dessert, Isaiah telling his countrymen of how they led themselves into exile and about the coming hope of salvation. It's not always easy to swallow a lot of what happens in this collection of books. But this love story has so much to say about who God is, who we are, and a redemption that surpasses any other story (as well as the murder, deceit, affairs, seduction...). Arguments are made all the time about how to interpret the Bible...liberal or conservation, fundamental, in the context of evangelizing, or just a collection of myths and parables. There is room for these conversations and shouldn't be thrown out (although at times those discussions/debates/fights can be ridiculous and more about power and control then really about God or Jesus).
How exciting it is to rediscover this world again. Thousands of years ago, at specific times, to specific people. I can transport into another time and place about a people who I can relate. Sometimes I hurt with them, the pains of life, the devastation that forgetting God can bring, the loneliness, oppression, anger, injustice. Other times I rejoice, when someone has received mercy, justice has won out, love was shown to another. Some passages I just can't wrap my head around or just can't fathom reading (really Numbers? really? I can hardly pronounce the names yet alone care about this list).
But when I read other books I usually don't go in with the intention of judging but of learning. How humbling it is to come to this often difficult book and want to experience the good AND bad. To look at the big picture and then dive into the specific books, chapters, and characters. Oh if I could understand Hebrew, Greek and Aramaic to actually read these in their original languages with all the context of the time or the poetry of the writers (even understand their own lives and biases). Or maybe I really should just read more in English though!
Can I engage in these stories like I do other books? Maybe then I can open my heart to them as I open my head to visualizing these often confusing concepts and stories. Can these stories jump out in color instead of the black and white letters on thin sheets of paper?
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