Devastation. Heart-rending misery. A fire rampant, destructive, laying waste to all in its path. The effects of living on planet earth. We are the wounded. The ones who have believed the lies for so long. The lies whispered in the dead quiet stillness of night. That we are weak, unwanted, abandoned, ugly, dumb, empty, worthless.
The lies whispered boldly- that we aren't thin enough, not sexy enough, not smart enough to be worth that job, that commitment, the marriage we have always dreamed of, a kindred spirit.
And we feel it- the pulling on our souls as we fight the losing battle with self-talk and camouflage. If we hide long enough, maybe they won't realize who I really am. Maybe they will let me be useful without asking me to be real. They only think they want the real me.
The most glorious trees of the forest are claimed in the fires along with the undergrowth and weeds. The fires are not descriminating- they will devour everything in their path.
The fires of oppression burn bright and hot in a world where feminism is seductively powerful but feminity is as much under attack as ever. Women are to be strong and resilient. We are to be mothers, warriors, efficient and untouchable. Whatever happened to quiet beauty and the strength that holds families together? It is still there I suppose, but feminism has brought it more enemies than allies.
And yet there is a beautiful glory to the devestating fires that ravage the earth on all levels and in all arenas. Eventually the fire smolders and turns to ash. Under the ash comes new, tenacious, beautiful and dependant growth. Out of the ashes comes a promise of new life. Of beauty. Of hope.
It is always this way. In the book of Jeremiah, chapter 32, the prophet was told by God to buy a field. The land was on the verge of being captured and claimed by the ruthless Babylonians. And God was allowing it to happen. Yet he called Jeremiah to buy land that was soon to be claimed by the enemy. Why? Because the enemy would not win forever. He may win the battle, but God was not finished. In fact, he was disciplining his people and plotting his victory. In the midst of the seige came the promise that God would be faithful. That one day fields would be bought and sold again and that God would not only restore the people to their land, He would restore the people to himself. He would be their God and they would be HIS.
HIS.
There is one answer to the lies of Satan against not only the women but every citizen of earth. You can take heart and take up sword because you were created to be HIS. You are loved. You are beautiful and Strong. You are precious, unique, creative, smart. But most of all, you are Loved and you are the Bride of a King that will not stop until he has YOU. You, my friend, are pursued by the most perfect lover of all. Jesus.
Take heart. There is an enemy that is after your soul but their is a King who has already paid the ransom and set you free. He continues to fight for you. And when the fires burn their brightest, he is preparing the way for new growth, new beauty and a hope that will never fade.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Sweet Sundays
On our latest library scavenging trip, Hank and I browsed the Christian books section looking for resources for a retreat we are leading. While I scanned the rows of all too familiar titles, my eyes landed on a tiny book by Kathleen Morris, titled "The Quotidian Mysteries." The title grabbed my attention and I was fairly certain I had heard of the little tome.
I plopped it haphazardly atop the stack of new arrivals and best sellers I was checking out and Hank and I headed off to check out our precious finds.
As I began to read the book later that week, I found that this book, while tiny, would not be a 'quick read.' Wooh. I had to read most of the sentences twice in order to digest them.
Morris was a latecomer to Catholicism, happening upon the tradition in a rather unorthodox way. She describes watching her first wedding mass and the shock and awe she felt seeing the priest wash the dishes used for the communion.
Morris describes the low place given to the monotaneous tasks like house work and child rearing. She talks about the cultural shifts that have landed Americans with the attitude that menial tasks are for the poor or uneducated and we were meant to achieve more or accomplish more with our lives.
While I am only a few pages in, I have been deeply convicted. I hate laundry. I do not enjoy housework in general. In fact, I am perfectly happy letting my husband take out the trash AND wash the dishes. Lately Hank has started to ask that I perhaps take over dish duty a few nights a week. I knew the day would come but that didn't stop me from selfishly hoping I had married Mr. Clean and would never have to stoop to scrubbing dishes ever again. After all, Hank always washed dishes when we were dating... HAHAHA. And I was sweet, docile and always in the mood then too...
Dishes just aren't romantic. I pictured married life filled with the smells of fresh bread, kitchens that magically absorbed the floury gunk that gets glued to the countertops, and mornings spent staring dreamily at one another over steaming cups of coffee and plates filled with perfectly cooked eggs and bacon. My dad asked me two months into our marriage whether I was still making breakfast for Hank as I had declared I would do. I admitted I had only done it once and had no great ambitions to make the dream a reality. Oatmeal and cereal seemed nearly as romantic when compared to the value of sleep.
Hank is a servant and I can easily take advantage of that. We have certain tasks that we usually do. While he washes dishes, I dry them and put them away and put all the food away. While he takes out the trash, I try to keep laundry going. But sometimes I slack off and return to my college habits of waiting to wash clothes until I'm nearly out of underthings and then leaving said clothes in the dryer until they are wrinkled beyond belief.
So, after feeling particularly convicted by Morris, I set out to catch up on housework today. I finally attacked the mold that had flourished on the ceiling in our bathroom, swept up the floors and even did TWO WHOLE LOADS of laundry. Someone say "Praise the Lord."
And while I feel mighty good about my thirty minutes of labor, I know that this won't make me a better person or give me the perfect marriage. Within the daily doing of the tasks that must be done, there is a bit of transformation that I am hoping for. There is a slow learning (because I am not a quick learner when it comes to cleaning- ask my mother). It is in the menial and monotoneous, Morris says, that true thinking and inspiration occur. So I am going to try to 'lower myself' (HA!) to these tasks in the hopes that I might just learn to see the beauty in them.
I plopped it haphazardly atop the stack of new arrivals and best sellers I was checking out and Hank and I headed off to check out our precious finds.
As I began to read the book later that week, I found that this book, while tiny, would not be a 'quick read.' Wooh. I had to read most of the sentences twice in order to digest them.
Morris was a latecomer to Catholicism, happening upon the tradition in a rather unorthodox way. She describes watching her first wedding mass and the shock and awe she felt seeing the priest wash the dishes used for the communion.
Morris describes the low place given to the monotaneous tasks like house work and child rearing. She talks about the cultural shifts that have landed Americans with the attitude that menial tasks are for the poor or uneducated and we were meant to achieve more or accomplish more with our lives.
While I am only a few pages in, I have been deeply convicted. I hate laundry. I do not enjoy housework in general. In fact, I am perfectly happy letting my husband take out the trash AND wash the dishes. Lately Hank has started to ask that I perhaps take over dish duty a few nights a week. I knew the day would come but that didn't stop me from selfishly hoping I had married Mr. Clean and would never have to stoop to scrubbing dishes ever again. After all, Hank always washed dishes when we were dating... HAHAHA. And I was sweet, docile and always in the mood then too...
Dishes just aren't romantic. I pictured married life filled with the smells of fresh bread, kitchens that magically absorbed the floury gunk that gets glued to the countertops, and mornings spent staring dreamily at one another over steaming cups of coffee and plates filled with perfectly cooked eggs and bacon. My dad asked me two months into our marriage whether I was still making breakfast for Hank as I had declared I would do. I admitted I had only done it once and had no great ambitions to make the dream a reality. Oatmeal and cereal seemed nearly as romantic when compared to the value of sleep.
Hank is a servant and I can easily take advantage of that. We have certain tasks that we usually do. While he washes dishes, I dry them and put them away and put all the food away. While he takes out the trash, I try to keep laundry going. But sometimes I slack off and return to my college habits of waiting to wash clothes until I'm nearly out of underthings and then leaving said clothes in the dryer until they are wrinkled beyond belief.
So, after feeling particularly convicted by Morris, I set out to catch up on housework today. I finally attacked the mold that had flourished on the ceiling in our bathroom, swept up the floors and even did TWO WHOLE LOADS of laundry. Someone say "Praise the Lord."
And while I feel mighty good about my thirty minutes of labor, I know that this won't make me a better person or give me the perfect marriage. Within the daily doing of the tasks that must be done, there is a bit of transformation that I am hoping for. There is a slow learning (because I am not a quick learner when it comes to cleaning- ask my mother). It is in the menial and monotoneous, Morris says, that true thinking and inspiration occur. So I am going to try to 'lower myself' (HA!) to these tasks in the hopes that I might just learn to see the beauty in them.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tilling up Holy Ground
It was evening on one of those absolutely beautiful days when I just needed to be outside. Needed to soak up the last rays on sunlight as they slanted strong and glimmering into our backyard. Hank and I started a garden at our little rent house because, certainly we want fresh veggies knowing we helped produce them, but also because being outside reminds us to simply breathe.
Tilling the soil and getting rich, brown dirt under my fingernails reminds me where I came from. Not in a dust to dust sort of way, but back to my roots (pun intended!). Back to that house on the hill in the Texas Hill Country where my Opa came and taught us how to plant a garden when I was a youngster. Back to the sight of his work and time worn hands digging deep with a chunk of potatoes, eyes growing out everywhere, to show us the magic in planting.
Opa was a home builder but a farmer first and he never forgot the magic of the harvest, how it teaches you to wait, toiling with the hope that one day you will put the most delicious tomatoes off the vine and feed it to all your family with some left over. It was just another way he loved and lived, planting seeds and waiting eversopatiently as they sprouted and bore fruit.
He sowed seeds in his family too. Wisdom seeds given as he wrote commonsense truths on the little notepad in his pocket. Sharing how he had observed and learned and communicating it with the wisdom of the sage that we was. He was a farmer, a teacher, a good man in the truest sense of the phrase. His word was always good and he was known to give generously with a near loathing for any praise or thanks. He worked hard, quietly, with no complaining.
His blood flows in my veins and so it is not surprise that I find the truest peace just walking outside and staring at the trees and how they stand out stark against the early morning sky, or the beauty of a water tower when the soft light of dusk hits it at the right angle. Or the way that I get giddy watching seedlings grow and mature in the little garden we have.
Oh it is good to have such roots.
Tilling the soil and getting rich, brown dirt under my fingernails reminds me where I came from. Not in a dust to dust sort of way, but back to my roots (pun intended!). Back to that house on the hill in the Texas Hill Country where my Opa came and taught us how to plant a garden when I was a youngster. Back to the sight of his work and time worn hands digging deep with a chunk of potatoes, eyes growing out everywhere, to show us the magic in planting.
Opa was a home builder but a farmer first and he never forgot the magic of the harvest, how it teaches you to wait, toiling with the hope that one day you will put the most delicious tomatoes off the vine and feed it to all your family with some left over. It was just another way he loved and lived, planting seeds and waiting eversopatiently as they sprouted and bore fruit.
He sowed seeds in his family too. Wisdom seeds given as he wrote commonsense truths on the little notepad in his pocket. Sharing how he had observed and learned and communicating it with the wisdom of the sage that we was. He was a farmer, a teacher, a good man in the truest sense of the phrase. His word was always good and he was known to give generously with a near loathing for any praise or thanks. He worked hard, quietly, with no complaining.
His blood flows in my veins and so it is not surprise that I find the truest peace just walking outside and staring at the trees and how they stand out stark against the early morning sky, or the beauty of a water tower when the soft light of dusk hits it at the right angle. Or the way that I get giddy watching seedlings grow and mature in the little garden we have.
Oh it is good to have such roots.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Heartbroken
I didn't know my heart could break for people I have never met. This past week I have been reading a book by one of the leaders of the Tianenmen Square movement that preceded the Tianenman Massacre in June of 1989. I was two when this happened and I honestly don't remember it at all.
What I do remember is standing in that square in June of last year, staring in awe at the massive monument to Chairman Mao, the beautiful statue to the people, the expansive space filled with hundreds of gawking Chinese tourists who had likely spent their life's savings to come to the famed capital city.
I remember knowing somewhere in the back of my head that something absolutely terrible had happened in that place. You know there is a spiritual dimension to the physical. I think that a space can have a spiritual feeling and the feeling in that square was somewhat oppressive.
While one of my friends there was a history major, we all knew that one could not speak of the Massacre in public. In fact, it was best not to speak of it at all. To do so would be to jeopardize our status in China and the status of those who brought us.
Now, as I read Chai Ling's "A Heart For Freedom," my heart breaks for the pain, the oppression, the anguish that I conveniently ignored.
And while I am saddened to hear the details of the Massacre and how easily it could have been prevented, I am devastated because I know that the policies, culture and hierarchy that caused the massacre are still in existence. My heart breaks because there is still oppression but it exists below the surface, known but not acknowledged by the common people.
Because while hundreds and perhaps thousands died on one day in June, every 2.5 seconds a baby is aborted in China. Every day a massacre happens under the guise of three politically correct words: One Child Policy.
I know students whose parents had abortions because they simply couldn't afford the outrageous fines given them by the government if they were to keep the child. I know students who grew up feeling worthless and unloved because they weren't born with a penis.
I know students whose parent are still paying the consequences for keeping their second and third child. In China, not only do the parents incur fines, but they are refused the allowance given for raising a child. One-child homes recieve a stipend to help cover the (outrageous) costs of education, food, clothing needed to raise their little emperor or empress.
I know girls who are still slaving away in college so that they can prove their worth to parents who wish they had been boys.
The devastating truth is this: the one child policy has become so interwoven in chinese culture and so normalized in the Chinese mind that many women do not realize they are being forced to have an abortion. As Chai Ling says, the power of shame, family and government pressure is enough to force a women to give up the life of her child.
In China, couples must have a birth permit to have a baby. This birth permit can not be attained by a single woman. Instead, when a young college student finds that they are pregnant (and birth control is not taught in China, so pregnancy is hardly avoided) they must get an abortion. There is no option.
If they keep the baby they lose their chances of graduating and consign themselves to the life of a low-class laborer. This means they lose all chances for a good job with which they can bare the unweildy burden of supporting both parents in their old age, and they consign themselves to a life of shame and poverty. Not only this, but the child they bear will have little chance of succeeding in the world. They will be poor, possibly denied an ID card and thus not allowed to attend school, ride trains, be treated at the public hospital or participate in society as a whole.
My heart aches for the faces that I carry around in my heart. I see these beautiful faces of the women in my class and haunted eyes peer back at me in my mind. You see, only 14% of women in China will NOT have an abortion. 40% will have two or more. That means that nearly all of my precious girls will experience this pain. Worse, they will be forced to bear the burden alone and silent. You see, these things aren't really talked about AT ALL.
It is a huge loss of honor to admit you had an abortion. In a culture where honor is everything, silence reigns and women are forced to deal with the pain following abortion. Their culture tells them this is normal, that this is the right thing to do if they are good citizens, that this is what they must do if they love their families. No one talks about the baby or the pain the mother will experience.
No one talks about the 500 women who die of suicide daily in China. (?)
So here I am and I am not quite sure how to proceed. I honestly want to board a plane and go hug all those precious students and whisper into their ears this truth: Jesus Loves them and He alone can heal their hearts and set them free. This is the heart cry of Chai Ling, who came to faith after moving to America. The cry is not simply, "God will forgive," but "God Loves and Heals."
It is his kindness and mercy that draws us in, not his justice. His justice was satisfied on a cross where my sins were nailed right along with the government officials who ordered the massacre and the women who still bear the grief of unborn life.
What I do remember is standing in that square in June of last year, staring in awe at the massive monument to Chairman Mao, the beautiful statue to the people, the expansive space filled with hundreds of gawking Chinese tourists who had likely spent their life's savings to come to the famed capital city.
I remember knowing somewhere in the back of my head that something absolutely terrible had happened in that place. You know there is a spiritual dimension to the physical. I think that a space can have a spiritual feeling and the feeling in that square was somewhat oppressive.
While one of my friends there was a history major, we all knew that one could not speak of the Massacre in public. In fact, it was best not to speak of it at all. To do so would be to jeopardize our status in China and the status of those who brought us.
Now, as I read Chai Ling's "A Heart For Freedom," my heart breaks for the pain, the oppression, the anguish that I conveniently ignored.
And while I am saddened to hear the details of the Massacre and how easily it could have been prevented, I am devastated because I know that the policies, culture and hierarchy that caused the massacre are still in existence. My heart breaks because there is still oppression but it exists below the surface, known but not acknowledged by the common people.
Because while hundreds and perhaps thousands died on one day in June, every 2.5 seconds a baby is aborted in China. Every day a massacre happens under the guise of three politically correct words: One Child Policy.
I know students whose parents had abortions because they simply couldn't afford the outrageous fines given them by the government if they were to keep the child. I know students who grew up feeling worthless and unloved because they weren't born with a penis.
I know students whose parent are still paying the consequences for keeping their second and third child. In China, not only do the parents incur fines, but they are refused the allowance given for raising a child. One-child homes recieve a stipend to help cover the (outrageous) costs of education, food, clothing needed to raise their little emperor or empress.
I know girls who are still slaving away in college so that they can prove their worth to parents who wish they had been boys.
The devastating truth is this: the one child policy has become so interwoven in chinese culture and so normalized in the Chinese mind that many women do not realize they are being forced to have an abortion. As Chai Ling says, the power of shame, family and government pressure is enough to force a women to give up the life of her child.
In China, couples must have a birth permit to have a baby. This birth permit can not be attained by a single woman. Instead, when a young college student finds that they are pregnant (and birth control is not taught in China, so pregnancy is hardly avoided) they must get an abortion. There is no option.
If they keep the baby they lose their chances of graduating and consign themselves to the life of a low-class laborer. This means they lose all chances for a good job with which they can bare the unweildy burden of supporting both parents in their old age, and they consign themselves to a life of shame and poverty. Not only this, but the child they bear will have little chance of succeeding in the world. They will be poor, possibly denied an ID card and thus not allowed to attend school, ride trains, be treated at the public hospital or participate in society as a whole.
My heart aches for the faces that I carry around in my heart. I see these beautiful faces of the women in my class and haunted eyes peer back at me in my mind. You see, only 14% of women in China will NOT have an abortion. 40% will have two or more. That means that nearly all of my precious girls will experience this pain. Worse, they will be forced to bear the burden alone and silent. You see, these things aren't really talked about AT ALL.
It is a huge loss of honor to admit you had an abortion. In a culture where honor is everything, silence reigns and women are forced to deal with the pain following abortion. Their culture tells them this is normal, that this is the right thing to do if they are good citizens, that this is what they must do if they love their families. No one talks about the baby or the pain the mother will experience.
No one talks about the 500 women who die of suicide daily in China. (?)
So here I am and I am not quite sure how to proceed. I honestly want to board a plane and go hug all those precious students and whisper into their ears this truth: Jesus Loves them and He alone can heal their hearts and set them free. This is the heart cry of Chai Ling, who came to faith after moving to America. The cry is not simply, "God will forgive," but "God Loves and Heals."
It is his kindness and mercy that draws us in, not his justice. His justice was satisfied on a cross where my sins were nailed right along with the government officials who ordered the massacre and the women who still bear the grief of unborn life.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Providence
Yesterday morning I got in my car around 8:24 prepared to rush off to work. Twenty minutes earlier, while trying to make my lunch, I spilled nearly the whole bowl of quinoa and black bean salad I had made the night before. My nerves were tense and I had already run inside a few times to grab various items I had forgotten. With little thought, I plunged my key into the ignition with all the force of my anxious impatience and cranked the engine. It turned and then nothing happened.
Just like that I was car-less, anxious and in a hurry. Can you spell d.i.s.a.s.t.e.r.? Hank and I hurriedly moved my stuff to his car and off I went. On the way to work my mind was moving almost as fast as my tires. I was stressing out about how much it would cost and whether I would be late to work when I just sort of stopped and realized how futile and silly my train of thought was.
First of all, I had so much to be thankful for. The car could have stopped working the day before or the day after when Hank had to use his car for work. As it was, he was working from home Friday and didn't need it. Second, we have been taking a Dave Ramsey course at a local church and just got our $1000 emergency fund finished. We know where the money will come from to fix my car. I finally know what financial peace feels like. God is good and his timing is not lost on me.
Thirdly, Hank and I are taking Monday off to go to the local stockshow and rodea and were going to work today (Sat) to make up for it. Fortunately, I was able to call my boss last night and he was able to go to work with his vehicle while I basked in the beginning of a needed three day weekend.
Hank flew to Brenam this morning and I am slightly jealous of the hamburger he had for lunch. We have been doing a cleanse this week and cutting out certain (MOST) foods in order to get our bodies in check. It has been good and I find I am enjoying the benefits of eating uber healthy, but MAN, Sometimes I just need chocolate! More on the Cleanse later.
Peace.
Just like that I was car-less, anxious and in a hurry. Can you spell d.i.s.a.s.t.e.r.? Hank and I hurriedly moved my stuff to his car and off I went. On the way to work my mind was moving almost as fast as my tires. I was stressing out about how much it would cost and whether I would be late to work when I just sort of stopped and realized how futile and silly my train of thought was.
First of all, I had so much to be thankful for. The car could have stopped working the day before or the day after when Hank had to use his car for work. As it was, he was working from home Friday and didn't need it. Second, we have been taking a Dave Ramsey course at a local church and just got our $1000 emergency fund finished. We know where the money will come from to fix my car. I finally know what financial peace feels like. God is good and his timing is not lost on me.
Thirdly, Hank and I are taking Monday off to go to the local stockshow and rodea and were going to work today (Sat) to make up for it. Fortunately, I was able to call my boss last night and he was able to go to work with his vehicle while I basked in the beginning of a needed three day weekend.
Hank flew to Brenam this morning and I am slightly jealous of the hamburger he had for lunch. We have been doing a cleanse this week and cutting out certain (MOST) foods in order to get our bodies in check. It has been good and I find I am enjoying the benefits of eating uber healthy, but MAN, Sometimes I just need chocolate! More on the Cleanse later.
Peace.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Plowing on Patient
Ever been in a place where you desperately want to know the answers to the future? It sort of helps me understand ouiji boards and future tellers a bit more. If I didn't know that it was all in God's hands and in his timing, I might be tempted to consult one of those mediums.
As it is, I have taken up pleading prayers that I might have discernment for the days ahead. It is scary when those dearly held dreams don't seem to be working out so dreamily in real life.
I am feeling the need to let go of the well thought out plans I had for my life and just trust that Papa knows my desires, my dreams, my skills as well as my weaknesses, the things I can't stand and would loathe doing.
He knows it all and more. He has made me lots of promises and He never breaks them. He has promised this one familiar one, that he has GOOD plans for me. He has plans to prosper this marriage, this girl, this home, our ministry, my job.
Several years back I read a book by Elizabeth Elliott. I highly recommend her books (especially Passion and Purity for teens). She talked about how the Lord called her to put her hands to the plow and not turn back. To focus on His will and His call no matter what obstacles got in the way.
You probably know that she had a few obstacles. In fact, she had some that would absolutely knock me flat and make me seriously consider crawling, no running all the way back to my comfort zone. Her husband was killed by indians she later went to share the Gospel with. Dang. That is a real woman.
Lately I am hearing that gentle refrain. To keep going. To not turn back. I don't plow these fields of life alone. Jesus walks with me and honestly, he pushes the plow most of the time. When I let him.
So while I wait to find out exactly what will happen with my job and dreams, I am going to keep plowing in the ways I know to. I will seek to worship even if it is just in the car on my way to work. And I will seek His face- even if it is just a few minutes before rushing off. Because He keeps me going down the long rows of furrows and fallow.
And he knows what I need each step of the way.
As it is, I have taken up pleading prayers that I might have discernment for the days ahead. It is scary when those dearly held dreams don't seem to be working out so dreamily in real life.
I am feeling the need to let go of the well thought out plans I had for my life and just trust that Papa knows my desires, my dreams, my skills as well as my weaknesses, the things I can't stand and would loathe doing.
He knows it all and more. He has made me lots of promises and He never breaks them. He has promised this one familiar one, that he has GOOD plans for me. He has plans to prosper this marriage, this girl, this home, our ministry, my job.
Several years back I read a book by Elizabeth Elliott. I highly recommend her books (especially Passion and Purity for teens). She talked about how the Lord called her to put her hands to the plow and not turn back. To focus on His will and His call no matter what obstacles got in the way.
You probably know that she had a few obstacles. In fact, she had some that would absolutely knock me flat and make me seriously consider crawling, no running all the way back to my comfort zone. Her husband was killed by indians she later went to share the Gospel with. Dang. That is a real woman.
Lately I am hearing that gentle refrain. To keep going. To not turn back. I don't plow these fields of life alone. Jesus walks with me and honestly, he pushes the plow most of the time. When I let him.
So while I wait to find out exactly what will happen with my job and dreams, I am going to keep plowing in the ways I know to. I will seek to worship even if it is just in the car on my way to work. And I will seek His face- even if it is just a few minutes before rushing off. Because He keeps me going down the long rows of furrows and fallow.
And he knows what I need each step of the way.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Honestly...
A look at what I am currently learning
Upon reading Calvin Miller’s memoir I am finding a deep realization sinking in amidst a hard week of struggling to feel at peace with my two current jobs. I can love Christ and not NEED the church. He is everything I need and Christian employment and involvement will not complete me.
Upon reading Calvin Miller’s memoir I am finding a deep realization sinking in amidst a hard week of struggling to feel at peace with my two current jobs. I can love Christ and not NEED the church. He is everything I need and Christian employment and involvement will not complete me.
Ever since I was in high school, I have found a lot of validation in Christian service. I was an odd ball at my high school who wore clothes that were too big on an oddly shaped awkward body. I didn’t listen to the same music or watch the same movies and I generally felt a little tense walking down the halls of my high school because I knew I was surrounded by wolves. Not that these kids had a bigger sin nature than me but I knew they would defend their popularity no matter the cost and if I was to offend or endanger that popularity I would be put down in order for them to climb up.
I know this because I was a wolf in my preteen years and every once in a while I find my wolf like tendencies come out again. I can even be wolfish in my marriage. “No honey, we can’t do that! Do you know what they will think of us?” More than half the reason I didn’t kiss or have sex before marriage is because I had a rather prudish and overly spiritual reputation to keep up.
I am a people pleaser. I come by it honestly as I am one of a long line of people pleasers. My great grandmother never stepped out of the house without a girdle and a face full of clay. My grandma still thinks she is overweight at probably 130 pounds. While I love these ladies I can see how ridiculous their obsession is and yet I have justified my own for so long.
In college, I went to a small church and I loved it, mostly. Yet I also had this niggling fear that I would one day screw up and they would realize that I am wholly imperfect, have all sorts of wrong thoughts, can be extremely judgmental and all in all just don’t have it all together.
By the grace of God, I married a man who doesn’t worry about these things like I do. He is somehow his own unique, beautiful and flawed human being a he is ok with people knowing it. He doesn’t have to be the coolest person and he is not afraid to make a fool of himself. He even sings loud and off key in church while I worry about what the people in front of us are thinking. He is worshipping and I am worrying.
When I graduated, I had no doubts I would work in some sort of holy job. I went to China and lived in a community of sinners and I learned that forgiveness is more important than appearances. One of my teammates would frustrate me so and I learned to ask forgiveness even when she didn’t know I needed. I learned that quick forgiveness is much more freeing that austere perfection.
Yet I returned to the states and some of those hard lessons seemed to melt away. I still needed to keep up my reputation, to impress and to show the world just how good of a person I was. Funny thing is- Jesus didn’t come to save the good. He came to save the broken and I was certainly that. I just didn’t want to admit it. So we went to church at the same place after marriage and my beloved learned first hand how poisonous my obsession with reputation was. The majority of our early arguments were not about sex or even money (although we have had a few of those) they were about being late to church.
We sat through a good many worship songs brooding about the fight we had and not really focusing or worshipping.
Again by God’s grace we moved to Houston. It isn’t that I don’t love that little church, it is that I needed a new fresh and white canvas. Hubby and I needed a new start where I wasn’t so bound my people’s expectations. Its been marvelous and painful. I feel the need to find a church because I crave the community. At the same time it has been wonderful to find our own rhythm. We can sleep in if that is the healthy option and I don’t whine and complain about what people will think if we aren’t there. We can garden on Sunday and worship God in the absolute splendor of his creation.
But there is still one thing that I haven’t fully surrendered and perhaps it is the hardest one. As I said, I thought I would certainly work in some sort of holy career where I could save thousands of people from the pit of hell, have lots of spiritual children and make everyone’s life a little better.
Last week I started working at an Christian ESL school. It is an uncomfortable and uprooting process but I have felt so many of my precious and tightly held presuppositions cracked, shattered and blown to smitherines. We have students from all over the world with every religion you could possibly imagine thrown into the mix. It is a true melting pot. It should be my dream job but I starting to wonder if such a thing really exists.
I feel like I don’t belong. I am trying to be what they expect of me but I guess I am sort of tired of putting on airs. So I don’t always laugh at their jokes and I see the problems of disorganization and poor management and I can’t help but want to change them. It isn’t ok with me that this is how they have always done things. I see the injustice and for once I am slowly losing my affection for a good reputation.
All I can see is the opportunities being squandered. I can feel the tension in the classroom, in the whole building. There are high hopes from professors to shed the light of Christ on these pagan students. And yet, I am looking in their eyes and seeing true joy, hope, light. I always thought non-believers would have dead eyes- no joy. I was wrong. And I am struggling with this: They don’t seem to really need what I have to give. From a theological standpoint I know they do. I am still unyielding in my belief that Jesus is the only way to true Life. The problem is that it is getting harder to reconcile my theology with my experiences. I know what they say: You must let your theology define your experiences and not your experiences define your theology. But they are all sitting in comfortable offices teaching truths that are much harder to live.
They haven’t met my incredible refugee students that I teach in the apartment complex downtown. You have never seen such open-faced gratitude, such simple child like joy and contentment. They have been through hell living in refugee camps and now starting over in a foreign country, yet they laugh with sweet abandon when I act-a-fool trying to explain English.
I wanted to do something Holy, Great, Meaningful with my life. I wanted to be the Texas Mother Theresa. Yet I am realizing her work wasn’t really very glorious. It was stinky and frustrating, tiring and heartbreaking. It was probably pretty mundane and people probably thought she was crazy. Here I am filing more papers than I ever cared to and trying to figure out exactly what I am supposed to be doing and finishing eleven hour days with sore feet and not much in my tank (emotional, spiritual, physical and gas tanks).
So I am praying and seeking to find if this current job is really the place where I am to stay. Meanwhile, I am trying to figure out how to be content being me, or Me and Jesus and Hank, for the timebeing.
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