spirit stick summer.

It’s about the end of summer. School has been going for a few weeks, both in the high school world and the college world. While my stepson kicks around his campus trying to learn, 55 miles north my husband and I stagger around ours trying to teach. We converge at home in the evenings and our little house becomes a sanctuary for family, familiarity, rest, and good food.

It’s about the end of summer, but it hasn’t felt like it outside. It was a long and hot summer, and I as a non-native Oklahoman was relieved to find out that everyone else thought it was hot, too. This week still boasted temperatures in the 100s, and we Oklahomans gritted our teeth like we normally do, continued to pray for rain, and went about our business – sweating and squinting.

The end of summer also means that I’m starting to experience things “again.” For instance, this is now the second fall I’ve been inOklahomafor. The second start of school. I can add a whole new set of thoughts and words to my thinking because I remember “what it was like last year.” That’s a good feeling. Good thoughts. Steady, grounding thoughts that make my soul smile as I feel my roots gently pushing their way down.

And in all of that experiencing, I realize that the things that are the most precious to me are those that make me feel like I’m home. Strangely, all of those things are…small. I’ve been thinking about this a lot through the summer, and it kind of went like this: the more at home I felt, the more I found I was enjoying and rejoicing over smaller things. It culminated at Youth Camp.

Every year we take a group of Jr. High and High Schoolers to camp for a week. It’s usually a really good and really crazy time – everyone gets to hear good speakers talk about God, sing loud songs, play weird games and get very little sleep. And while I love our youth group and while we have a fantastically good time, we are never the group that’s jumping around during worship or games. We are never the group that dresses up in bizarre costumes, that comes up with crazy chants, or that’s ever the loudest. We just aren’t. And because of that, we never, never win the spirit stick. This elusive award goes to the most enthusiastic group during the game times every day. And because of who we are – we never win.

But this doesn’t mean that we don’t have fun. We have perhaps more fun than anyone out there. Nor does it mean that we are not enthusiastic. All things being equal, we are the most enthusiastic group out there. The key to all of this – and what the leaders who give out the spirit stick could never see within the confines of a week – is that it looks different for us. And so we put out our best efforts. The students this year were more than gracious in the 115+ heat, they all participated and did their best and had amazing attitudes. And yes, they did want to win the spirit stick, but at the end of each day, when we found out yet again that we didn’t win it, it did not deter their conversation about how much fun they had and how they were ready to do it again tomorrow.

They really were having fun. They really were gracious; it wasn’t just a show. They really were good sports, even when they were disappointed. And they really didn’t win all week. Every one of us sponsors were far more upset than the kids were. I have to admit, I even prayed for the spirit stick.

See, my husband and myself and the other adults that are committed to this youth group really love them. We really want to see them succeed and they really are up against some of the worst this world has to offer. Every year there’s new teen pregnancies, new abuse, new stepparents who aren’t nice…and here in the middle of nowhere, it can feel like there’s no way out. I used to think that was a cliché, but now I understand. I live among them and see them in school and talk with them and look at their eyes. And sometimes our best efforts go completely unheeded. Most of the time we have to fight for every square inch of credibility, even when what we have to say is incredibly important – and would change their life. It’s so hard to keep going in these circumstances. So hard. So challenging when all you see is mistakes you feel like you could have prevented. So defeating when your best words of passion and truth are met with nothing but a blank stare.

And so when we take kids to camp and see them trying something, participating in something, you see a glimmer of hope that they might get it. They might see a better life, even if they see that in stupid games. And you desperately want that to be recognized by someone else other than yourself.

But, just like always, we don’t get the spirit stick. Night after night. Week after week. Youth group after youth group. Year after year. And you’re continually confronted with the discrepancy between solidly knowing that what you’re doing and teaching is right and good and needed – and the seeming absolute lack of change or impact. Night after hot, sweaty night.

Until the very. Last. Night.

And when the camp leader came through that door with the spirit stick on the last night of camp…I have never heard cheers and clapping and yelling and screaming like I did that night. I yelled along with them…and then turned and ducked my head because, honestly, I was crying. Finally.

Finally.

Someone sees. I know this doesn’t actually make what we do valuable. I’m not claiming to have some kind of monopoly on difficult situations or on discouragement or even on unique youth groups. Anyone who knows anyone faces this. Anywhere in the world. But for a few minutes (and even now in this moment), someone saw these kids besides us. Someone saw what up until now, only we saw. And someone acknowledged.

In that spirit stick was represented everything small. Everything small that we work so hard for, everything small we pray for because only we know, everything that seems small to the outside but is monumental on the inside. We have never asked for fame or recognition on some grand stage.

All we wanted was the stupid spirit stick.

Because if we had that, everything we’ve done is somehow confirmed. In a spirit stick, every question we’ve had about is this right? Is this worth it? was answered. And I cried.

After I collected myself, I went out into the rejoicing throng and found another youth leader, Joe. “Joe, I have to admit,” I said chuckling, “that I cried just then when they brought that in.” And Joe replied “…yeah…me too…” I turned my head quickly again, as tears sprang to my eyes. After blinking hard, I looked back at Joe…

…and tears were rolling down his cheeks. We both shrugged and cried.

Small things.

No Small People.

mom.

I have been doing some study recently on Biblical Feminism (I don’t think it exists, by the way), Egalitarianism, Complementarianism, etc. In short, women’s roles as taught in Scripture, especially as it pertains to marriage and the church. In this process, which has only been going on for a week or two, I have become increasingly frustrated, which alternates with a sense of guilt for not liking words and concepts like “submission”, “helper”, and even “domestic” at first blush. I mean, I’m a Christian woman. I’m head-over-heels dedicated to the truth of God’s word and upholding and teaching it no matter how counter-cultural it happens to sound. But here I was also getting upset along with everyone else – and what’s worse, my righteous indignation started sounding an awful lot like a temper-tantrum.

But…Whhhhyyyyy?  I whined to myself. Why can’t I teach men in the church? I have a theology degree, of all things. I’ve been to school. I’m educated. What’s more, the truth I would teach is not gender-specific! And it’s essential! Everyone needs to know it; does it really matter whether or not it comes from a woman? And I can teach, after all…Whhhhyyyy nooooootttt….???

Anyway. Through all of my parenthetical arguments with myself (to which I will gladly give you the conclusions…when I reach them), I have tasked myself with reading a wide range of authors on this subject, determined to bend my stubborn will into sub…submi…to align my will with what God has established as truth. This task is currently leading me through articles by Christian women on Christian womanhood. Which has been really enlightening, and is slowly chipping away at my cynical exoskeleton.

I just read an article on teaching daughters biblical femininity (not to be confused with biblical feminism), which was riveting in part because I now have a daughter to teach biblical femininity to. Well, a step-daughter. But as she told me the other day in her sweet, innocent, 13 year-old way that often causes tears to spring to my eyes: “Sarah, I don’t like the word stepmom.” When I asked her why, the conversation went like this.

“Why don’t you like that word, sweetie?”

“Well, some friends and me were talking at school the other day about stepmothers, and Tory said ‘Jentry has a stepmom’.”

“And…?”

“And I said ‘no, I don’t.’” Jentry giggled a little.

Surprised, I stopped washing dishes and laughed with her. Our family is still adjusting.  “Did you forget?” I asked.

“No…well, kind of.” she giggled again, her eyes bright and a little embarrassed at herself, then continued.

“I just don’t like the word ‘stepmother’. I don’t think of you as my stepmother…”

I have to admit, at this point I was a little disappointed, as I wondered what she meant.

“…you’re just so much…more than that. ‘Stepmom’ means something different, like I don’t know you or you don’t like me or something. And it’s not like that.”

I was remembering this conversation last night when I kissed and hugged my daughter good-bye after her softball game. She quietly just leaned into me and laid her head on my shoulder and was still for a long time. “I love you, Sarah.” She whispered. And like that time in the kitchen I smiled, sniffed back a tear, and thanked the God of the universe for…her. And…this. And his grace in the life of my family.

To add to all of this, a couple of days ago it was Mother’s Day. My first Mother’s Day as a step-mom. And as I confessed to my husband, Mother’s Day is weird for step-moms. I understand that for many women and families, it’s really painful and very awkward at best. But the kind of weird I’m talking about has to do with my son (okay, okay, step-son). Unlike his younger sister, Justus lives with us all the time. I cook for him, I clean up after him, I listen to him, I drive him to school and ask about his grades and get all worked up at his basketball games and laugh with him and scold him for leaving his dirty clothes at the front door and ask him to clean his room and pray for him and tell him I love him and wonder with him about college and…and…and…and I did not give birth to him. Nor was I there for the first 14 years of his life. I only slightly entered the picture when he was 15, and not permanently until he was 16. We are still learning about each other and how to press each other’s buttons and stay out of each other’s way…which I give myself a lot of credit for, because that’s hard with the most normal of circumstances with a teenage boy-man. But I love that boy-man with all of my heart and would take a bullet for him. He makes me worried and swell with pride both; I have a lot invested in him. So what’s Mother’s Day for moms like me? I’m a mom without the biological claim.

It turned out like a lot of things in my life in the last couple of years: small, sweet, unassuming and strangely perfect. The men of the church throw a Mother’s Day breakfast before morning service, which Patrick and Justus went early to help with. When I showed up to eat, Justus picked out a red carnation to pin on my jacket, Patrick dished up a plate for me, and then Justus pulled out my chair and seated me, complete with the napkin placed on my lap. He put his arm around my shoulder and patted it, Which happened multiple times that day, including the time I returned to our pew from playing a song during church and there he was, sitting with a rose to give me, just like all the other kids had done for their moms. I carried it around all day.

All (and I do mean all) of this has been underscored with memories and vignettes and straight-up hallucinations of my own mom. She lives inAlaskaand I haven’t seen her in a long time. But in the area of being in her image, from her flesh, and nurtured by her spirit, that really doesn’t matter. Like at all. I have been so overwhelmed since becoming a mom myself with how much I am my mother’s daughter. And what she’s taught me. And how I’m like her. And I couldn’t be more proud. Or well-equipped.

Every time I wrap my arms around my kids and they lay their heads on my shoulders, I feel my mom. She’s so close I can almost smell her, which as many of you know is the most comforting smell in the world. When I laugh I hear her, and see the way her eyebrows raise as if she wonders if she’ll recover every time she laughs.

Some of the things that come to mind quickly when I think about mom is how hard she tried, how hard she worked. And how many times she allowed herself to fail in front of us. And as I feel this sacred burden of motherhood on my own shoulders, I see more what an enormously transparent way of life my mom has. I want to be more like her.

My mom has always had this innate ability to touch people at their most honest and vulnerable place; those who are most hurting are strangely drawn to her. I guess they just see in her the things they have come to think are to good to be true: that she accepts them as they are, that she loves them with their flaws, that she won’t hurt them further, and that she has the water of life for their parched souls. I desperately want to be like this, to be known as this person. Not because I need to be needed, but because I have been given the water of life.

I have my mom’s idiosyncrasies, too…stuff only she would “get”. I still have to catch myself from telling my kids to stop smacking their food when they chew, because I realize they’ve just never been taught that. I definitely have preferences when doing the laundry – I figure, if I’m going to touch and handle all your smelly, sweaty clothes, then you can give them to me promptly and in the manner I prescribe. I do not want to unfold all your dirty socks from the ball they come in. That’s just gross. I even find myself singing my mom’s old song…”laundry, laundry, how I loathe thee/how I do thee o’r and o’r…” I don’t like the floors dirty and I don’t like waking up to a dirty kitchen. I love to cuddle with my kids and sometimes I need my husband to just say “honey…honey…it’s okay.” I love the feel and smell of dirt on my hands when I am gardening. I love to eat dinner together as a family at the table. I like to sit and just talk with friends, and perhaps no one will ever know what happens between me and God when I am alone with him.

I desperately want my kids to love God with all their heart, and find myself weary (in a good way) at the end of the day from trying to find new ways to talk about him and creative ways to teach them truth. I see my shortcomings so much clearer when viewing them through my kids’ eyes, because I realize what’s at stake.

I guess in short, I have learned a lot about what exactly my mom was (and still is, in many ways) up against. I know what it is to come home exhausted and have twenty minutes to get dinner on the table for seemingly insatiable appetites. I know what it is to go through my whole day wanting to do just one particular thing…and three meals, four loads of laundry, two conversations, a swept floor, and some paperwork later,…the day is gone. And it was all given to someone else.

It’s only been a year for me; my mom is still doing this, still giving her life on behalf of others. It’s amazing to me. I hope my mom gets some pleasure and some reward by knowing that, finally, someone knows what she has done. Maybe not to the full extent, but almost. I hope she can lean back while I lean forward and say…wow. Now I get it.

Thanks Mom. I love you.

parousia.

It is Advent. Adventus. Parousia. The Coming.

I trapse through the backyard of my home, hacking at briars and crunching through a season’s worth of dry copper leaves. My 16-year old stepson Justus and I are looking for a little cedar tree to use for our Jesse Tree. When I first mentioned doing a Jesse Tree for Advent, Justus looked at me with this cynical eye-roll he does. (I’m learning this eye-roll means that he probably likes the idea, he’s just not sure it’s worth sacrificing his cool dignity for it yet.) We leave our path and go into the uncharted woods, making trails and heading toward an old wooden barn. A good clearing causes me to wander into memories of my childhood, when a good clearing would captivate me until my hair and hands smelled like leaves and moss and trees and cold and I would run home at dusk, keeping the lights and steamy windows of my home in my sight as it got dark.

Now, I look ahead to my tall, dark stepson…skinny and athletic, quick-witted and inquisitive, he is the epitome of still waters running deep. Despite his initial reaction to an Advent tradition, he has asked me four times today about getting a little tree for our project. This is our first Christmas as a family; I know he’s never done anything like this before and I wonder what he’s thinking. And like the somewhat scary, somewhat exciting future of our Christmas together, the anticipation for the coming of the One who will save us comes daily like a drumbeat in the distance. 

He is coming. He. Is coming.

There is only one that can save us. Only one that can get us out of this mess we’re in. Only one. And he has to be a very particular kind of person. He has to be just like us. And he has to be just like God. He has to be us. And he has to be God. Us to be our representative, and God to be our advocate. That’s impossible. It’ll never happen. Up until now we’ve only know either us or God. And never in the same place, much less the same…person…? We are doomed. Our rescue is impossible.

“Sarah, look at this…” Justus and I arrive at the barn and peer inside. Besides the rustic, weathered old wood, the barn is home to some dust covered odds and ends. Things that make you wonder how they got here, and convince you that however they got here, they’ve been here for a while. We wonder whether a pile of scraps is an old blender, laugh at Justus’ dog Blondie as she digs a giant hole in the dirt floor, and rescue a flower box that may realize its potential back at the house.

Our rescue isn’t impossible. Such a God-man is coming. Not only does he exist, he is coming. It creeps up to a crescendo of perpetual excitement and in ecstasy bursting into the holy morning, glittering and humming with beauty and brilliance.

Justus and I come into a little grove of seedling pines and cedars. “You think this one will work? I don’t know what kind you need…” Justus calls from the other side of the grove. I walk through waist-high pines to a little cedar he’s holding up. “Yeah, I think that’ll do it.” “Be sure and clip it as close to the ground as you can,” Justus instructs me authoritatively. I smile and do my best, feeling a little sorry for the tree – it has no idea what it’s being selected for…

It now leans humbly in a glass of water on our kitchen counter top, recieving every night our childish but meaningful ornaments that symbolize the scripture reading of the day. It watches over our fragile, new Advent tradition. Every time I look at it or catch a delicate scent of cedar, a little spark inside me flames up. He is coming. He is coming. He is coming.

Advent is upon us.

And our hearts can only watch in wild wonder.

He so loved us that, for our sake,
He was made man in time,
although through him all times were made.
He was made man, who made man.
He was created of a mother whom he created.
He was carried by hands that he formed.
He cried in the manger in wordless infancy, he the Word,
without whom all human eloquence is mute.

-Augustine, sermon 188,2

everhow you’re fixin to say it.

According to my northern friends, my recent acquisition of residency of the great state of Oklahoma has led to a drastic turn in events as to the way I talk. I, of course, beg to differ. “Drastic” all depends on who you talk to. If you talk to my good friend Lyndsay, she’ll crack up and tell you I have a full-blown southern accent. But if you talk to my good friend Crystal, she will, in her thoughtful and diplomatically precise way, say “Mmm…you don’t have an accent, but…you have a way and a rhythm of talking now that sounds like them.” These conversations were unparalleled in the way they amused me for quite some time until a couple of days ago I met my husband’s old college baseball coach. “Whoa!” he said. “Where exactly are you from? Because you’ve got a twang that tells me you’re definitely not from here…” Not the first realization I’ve had that I’m the one with an accent down here, but definitely the first time said accent has been referred to as a “twang.” I could hear Crystal and Lyndsay both in my mind, hopelessly reduced to giggles, and it took all I had in my to say “look who’s talking…”

 While the subject of my actual accent is apparently still up for debate, the words I now use are definitely different. They say funny things down here (I’m still new enough that I can refer to my own family as “they” and my own home as “down here”. Don’t rush me). Cutting ends of words off, having compound words switch the order in which they are…compounded, and adding in letters every now and then are only the beginning. The real fun begins when they use words you thought you knew…and now they not only mean something completely different, the word functions as a completely different part of speech. I know you’re dying for a few examples.

- The title of this post is a good one. “Everhow” comes in more useful than its actually existing cousin, “however.” I haven’t pinned down the exact rules for when one uses each word (both are used), but “everhow” they are used seem to be fairly efficient.
- “Fixin’ to” is a good example…I’ve had discussions ever since I was young about the difference between “fixin’ to” and “figurin’ to”. I guess that must be a Texas thing, because here they say “fig’rin’ on”. Completely different.
- One of the first things Patrick ever said to me was to ask me if I was “slummin’”. Slumming, I think, is the word, and it means to come down a social class or two, to hang with the low-life. He asked me that about my moving to the back row in our graduate class…not, of course, to sit by him. The view was just…better.
- “Kindly” is one of the most useful words I’ve heard. If you are not quite sure about the details of the story you are telling, a little unconfident in your skills as a story-teller, just want to give the impression that things weren’t as clear as they seemed, or are just a downright indecisive person, this word will work wonders for you. It will allow you to say things like “I don’t kindly like that”, is, being translated: “I’m too polite to say that may have been the worst thing I have ever tasted/heard/seen – but I have to say something or I may taste/hear/see it again and I may die.” Or “She kindly said to me”, which means: “She may or may not have said this (or anything remotely similar) but it fits and I want to ascribe the best possible situation to her.” “I don’t kindly know” is a common one, and means: “I haven’t the foggiest idea and particles of a memory are floating around here somewhere, but I don’t want my complete forgetfulness to make you feel desperate or that I don’t care about what you’re asking.” Pretty handy, as you can kindly see.
- “I reckon” and “plumb strange” are just hilarious. I’ve officially used them both multiple times, in what I believe to be are accurate ways. Although “I reckon” is very efficient, given it eliminates a whole word in the equivalent phrase “I guess so”, “plumb strange/off/broke/” is perhaps my favorite. It’s just so funny. Nothing really surprises these people; they are some of the most even-keel individuals I have ever had the pleasure of being around. But when something unexpected does happen, the use of the word “plumb” somehow means they really are shocked. And every time someone says “Heck fire! That roof blew plumb off!”, it reduces me to giggles almost immediately.

This recent discovery of a change in my dialect (which can be downright disturbing, if you think about it too long) has come hand-in-glove with discussions my husband and I have been having about words and what they mean. Which, of course, came itself hand-in-glove with a discussion of Christianity and the church, because…well…that’s what we’re always talking about. It’s one of the things I love about our marriage. Patrick is in the middle of a series at church on Sunday evenings on Comparative Religion. He’s going through first the essentials of the Christian faith – what defines it, then going to look at major cults of Christianity and then World Religions. As he is wont to do, he has been very thorough on covering the essentials of Christianity, because most of the cults and religions that we are going to examine use the exact same words and phrases to describe their faith. Things like Jesus, God, the, the Son of God, Heaven, Hell, Sin, Sin Nature, Scripture as God’s Word, etc. can all be found almost across the board in other cults and religions. The question then becomes not one of finding the right words, but of being sure of the meanings of these words. When I say Jesus and a Jehovah’s Witness says Jesus, we are talking about two very different people.

I almost can’t explain to you how important this is. We, the church, need to know what these things mean. Maybe first of all I should ask if we know the major tenants of our faith? I mean, what makes Christianity Christian and capable of solving man’s major problem and providing him with his major, essential needs? How do we know we’ve got it right, especially when all these other groups and beliefs are saying the same thing – and using the same words? It’s kind of scary when you think about it.

Really scary, actually. We read and hear about these people and groups that embrace a false religion based on, at very best, shoddy facts and thickly iced personal opinion. We read about them and read critiques of them and think, How could anyone actually believe this. I just finished reading The Heresy of Orthodoxy, by Kruger and Kostenberger. It’s a refreshing critique of (most recently) Bart Ehrman’s philosophy of the unreliability of the orthodox claims of Christianity, most specifically the reliability of Scripture. Ehrman bases his arguments on a lack of scribal faithfulness in copying the original autographs (which he claims is due to simple copying errors as well as theologically-driven changes) and also a lack of a cohesive orthodox substance to Christianity until much later after the earthly life of Jesus. After reading (and being very unimpressed by) Ehrman’s book Misquoting Jesus, seeing the well-researched and respectful critique of The Heresy of Orthodoxy was encouraging. And also a little unsettling. Because of Ehrman’s easy-going style and rhetoric (as well as false dichotomies and faulty logic), his views are very compelling to the New York Times Bestseller List reader. A closer look and maybe a trip to the library for a couple hour’s research would easily dismantle most of Ehrman’s arguments and illumine most of his shady facts. But no one does that research. We just take it as we find it, and allow those words to shape our thinking. How powerful are our words, and how weak is our thinking to simply accept clear contradictions and flimsy arguments. (More on this in another post. It’s getting bigger in my head than I can expound on here.)

Our words are very powerful. They are almost the only tools we have for communicating. I was an English major in college, and so spent the better part of $80,000 learning the importance of words. They have been developed, threatened, changed, morphed and solidified, and they are so part of our daily personhood that we hardly take notice of the tools we have.

Let us be precise, people of God! Let us not take a stand for a faith that is on principle only. Let us understand what the faith says, and let that understanding strengthen our personal faith and promote our courage and boldness to learn more and thus be even more committed. Just as I am learning to fit in in this culture and language and dialect, using the right words at the right times and learning what words are especially funny or meaningful, we should be serious students of our own faith. There is no excuse for not knowing the essentials of the hope of the world.

should be.

The church should be like…a hospital room. I’m sitting in my mother-in-law’s room now; the glow of the computer screen fits right in with the IV machine, the lights on the bed, and the cars going by outside. Ruth has broken her back, and for the last week her children have taken turns staying the night with her in this hospital that’s 90 minutes away from home…tonight it’s Patrick’s shift, and I’m here too. For the last week she has never once been alone, save a quick run across the street to get food while she’s asleep. I am amazed at the instantaneous acceptance of roles and responsibilities by her children and am happy to see her finally sleeping peacefully here across the room. Listening to her breathe, I’ve tried to come up with more than the normal cliches of spiritual associations and analogies with hospitals. Because that’s not what I’m thinking. This blog is supposed to be (mostly) about the church, and I’m thinking it should be like a hospital room. Not because of the care or the sympathy or the love, but because of the reality. The reality that hospital rooms force us to recognize and to respectfully nod toward is what drives us to this level of care, compassion, and dignity, drawing upon reserves of selflessness like almost nothing else can. We don’t conjure these things up; anyone who’s tried to “be nice” for long could tell you. Lauren Winner talks about Christians being called to live in the “really real”. Because we hold and adhere to the ultimate truth. It’s the realization of this truth – and sometimes it takes a hospital room and all that goes on in it to remind us – that drives us to say things we never would have said, to do things we never would have done, and to reprioritize on the drive home…if you’re the one that gets to go home.

The church should be like…a manhunt. The good kind of manhunt. Where you’re looking for someone who is lost. A local elderly pastor had gone out on horseback and not returned, so one Sunday afternoon I found myself in a line of people I didn’t know, hacking my way through 98 degrees and the thickest brush I’ve seen since I lived in the islands. And as I sweated and yelled and spat bugs out of my mouth, I thought about the people I was with…Even in the most tragic, scary and urgent of circumstances, Oklahomans go about things like they always do. In a way it’s yet another tribute to the fact that bigger and louder isn’t always better. They move about slowly, methodically, exchanging handshakes and “how are ye”s like normal, never forgetting anyone. And it’s the strangest thing – just when you think that they’re taking up way too much time, or that they have little concern for the situation at hand…everything is finished, and in plenty of time, and when you look back on it you wonder if really it could be done any better way. They move about ina unit, in an organism almost, with individuals exiting out every once in a while. But never should there be any misjudgment about their seriousness or sincerity in times of trouble. One look at anyone’s eyes will tell you almost instantly their level of concern – and will leave little doubt as to their commitment to someone else’s well-being. These are good people…who buy and bring excessive amounts of food unbelievably quickly and without questions, who know their place and, mostly, how to use it well. They live apart from each other, tucked in the trees and hills and creeks, and venture out to get groceries and the mail – their two staples. But when they need each other…well, a 400 square-foot stone church in the middle of nowhere is overridden with more than 200 people in a matter of an hour to look for a missing man. I think Someone else said something once about leaving the masses to search for the one. Identify what you have in common, get on the same page, and Go.

The church should be like…a new house. A house and the things in it are supposed to be…used. Used hard. Sure, there’s a certain amount of responsibility that goes with keeping and caring for your possessions, but really the purpose of a house is to be used. Especially a house with a man and a 16-year old boy live. And especially when juice carton tops get left on the counter. And when shoes forgot to be taken off. Again. And when the laundry piles up – in three hours. And especially, especially when I forget that I live with a man and a half. A house is meant to be used, or it doesn’t become a home. The other day we walked in from being gone for a couple days, and I was tickled to find out that our family and our house is beginning to have a “smell”. You know…the kind where you can tell who’s lost and found garment it is by smelling it -smell. The church should be like that. Used and smelly.

The church should be like…a wedding. The kind where grace and love meet, where emotions are off the chart in all directions, where somehow we stumble around and in the chaos give it to God, and where all of it is against the stunning backdrop of silent, wise mountains…who probably have seen all this before.

rules of engagement.

we’re looking for the music
in the music box
tearing it to pieces
trying to find a song

I think I’ve always been the kind of person that constantly looks for deeper, hidden meaning in the things that happen to me, the things I do, the people that are in my life, and the music I hear. I think I am like this because I think we all are like this. It’s somewhat staggering that we are such meaning-ful creatures that we desperately need our lives to count…and yet, based on the number that seem to be running headlong and with heartbreaking ambition toward that which will assimilate and undo them…no one seems to know this.

Anyway. I partly because I think in some ways my life is and will be a reclaiming of this return and redemption of meaning (hint, you lose yourself to find yourself), I thought I’d write a little about my engagement. Because it means something (duh).

I am recently and happily engaged to be married to the love of my life. I will spare you the shouting it from the hilltops and running through the halls like a crazy person…and instead tell you that of all the events and seasons in my life, nothing has spoken more of God’s love and care for me than this.

rule 1: I was drawn to you in ways I can’t explain.

Now this…this is really true. Of all the explaining I do on a daily basis and seek after when I’m confused, this one defied all explanation. I realize this can be (and is for me sometimes) a little disconcerting – after all, this is one of the biggest happenings of my life. But I don’t mean that there are so many differences between my fiancé and I, or that he’s so not what I expected and this is why I can’t explain it. I mean that it was, and is, perfect. I never, never knew that someone and something could fit so perfectly. This is not to say that he is perfect, and heaven knows I am not. I think it’s funny that when looking for perfection, we only look in the good, easy, happy places. For the most part, we find it there. But I think perfection lies quietly elsewhere…in our weaknesses, in our vulnerabilities, in our longing to know, in our commitment to learn, in our persistence to love, in our mistakes in all of the above. And this is how we fit.

And this is what God sees. I am drawn to God in ways I cannot explain, but as I am learning more about Him, I know that I am drawn because He is the only place I fit perfectly. Even my weaknesses fit – and when we’re talking about a Holy God folks…that’s pretty gracious.

rule 2: Fought like crazy but I couldn’t stay away.

Mmm. Can I get an amen? I see that hand. (What? I’m marrying a Baptist.) I work with college women (heck I live with college women) and I have had this conversation I think three different times this week. These walls we put up to guard the things we are afraid of others knowing are ridiculous, and almost completely prevent anyone from really knowing us. What’s really crazy is that we are simultaneously desperate for someone to scale or even destroy these walls. Just tonight I had a student come into my home in tears, saying “no more walls, no more”, and then proceeded to tell me everything. Love is like that. Love believes all things. Love is not naive, but love will fight like crazy for the good. I am learning that fighting for the good, relentlessly assuming the good and pure is like breath. It is like breath. When I speak to my beloved and he believes me…this is breath to my spirit. It is like life. It causes my heart to unfold in ways no one has ever, ever seen. Like someone testing out shaky ground, I step lightly and tentatively on to trust, and find life in the truth. Love fights for this. Love fights to give this.

And God did this. I was reading Colossians the other day a bit teary-eyed, because I came across the passage in chapter 3 that talks about God cancelling the debt that stood against us. He fought what was against us, when we were against Him. The way the man I love loves me shows me this. He breaches my walls and breathes life into my spirit, believing the best about me when I fight him, when I frantically throw up walls and run away from him, and when I am uncertain about all else.

rule 3: Better than our promises is the day we get to keep them.

My friends. This is probably what scares me and makes me most excited about loving someone. So easy is it when things are good, when things are smooth, when things work out, when we understand each other, when we are able to look each other in the eye (which is not often, we are 1,000 miles apart), when we laugh at the same things, when we both want to be nice to the other…and that’s when we make our promises. And rightly so: the love in those times is real too. But…in a few months I’m going to stand in front of him and a couple others and make him promises. And in a few more months, I’m going to have to keep them. But this is where I am thankful almost beyond words that I get the chance to show the man I love that yes…see?…I meant it. He has done this to me in spite of my huge insecurities. They don’t seem to faze him. He doesn’t laugh at me and he doesn’t give up.

The idea of covenant has fascinated and encouraged me since I began studying it in college. A covenant is an agreement made between two parties that both costs and benefits them. Both sides are responsible for upholding the covenant, and their word is their promise that they will indeed do so. In the same way, God has made a covenant with His people – this has been so since Abraham. But the crazy thing about this covenant is that God makes it with man. God, the holy and immutably strong, makes a covenant with man, the flighty and hypocritically weak. So…getting it? God pretty much has to hold this one up when man inevitably fails. And as soon as man fails, God is no longer responsible for His end of the bargain either. And yet…He does keep His end of the bargain. And ours too.

That’s all for now. If you just skip to the end of this lengthy post, know this: I think, that from being loved like this, I am learning what love means. I think that someday, because of this man (and this Man), I will know what love means.

can i belong to you?

Jem was staring at his half-eaten cake.

“It’s like bein’ a caterpillar in a cocoon, that’s what it is,” he said. “Like somethin’ asleep wrapped up in a warm place. I always thought Maycomb folks were the best folks in the world, least that’s what they seemed like.”

“We’re the safest folks in the world,” said Miss Maudie. “We’re so rarely called on to be Christians, but when we are, we’ve got men like Atticus to go for us.”

(from To Kill A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee)

My thoughts on God talking to us are going to have to wait. In thinking about that, I got on a tangent about why Christians think the way they do about God, about each other, about church, about learning, and about why it’s so hard to get Christians to change – or in more spiritual terms, renew their minds. Although I think there’s a lot in there, I wonder if one of the biggest culprits isn’t belonging.

Have you ever been in a group of people that are given instructions to do something together? What happens when the instructions are complete and the action is supposed to begin? There’s this moment (and the longer it is, the more awkward it is) where everyone looks at everyone, without managing to make eye contact with anyone, and waits for someone to make the first move. This is especially observable at any kind of buffet meal. No one wants to go up first and start the line. If a couple people do, however, or better yet – the group decides as a whole, then it’s all good. (Some call this the lemming effect.)

This is the case I think because we don’t do things alone. Chalk it up to insecurity, to straight up fear, to whatever. But pivotal in there is this sense of wanting – needing – to do things together. To feel in place, not out of place. To fit in, not stand out. To belong. We don’t even have to be the funniest, the smartest, the prettiest…belonging to a group with all of these characters covers a multitude of things.

We are so rarely called upon to be Christians. The church is caught smack in the middle of that awkward pause between instruction and action. Everyone is halfway-risen off their chairs, sheepishly grinning at the group in particular, waiting for everyone else to make the same decision at the same time. So we have someone else – the missionaries, the visionaries, the passionate worship leaders, the teachers who can’t contain their excitement – go for us. We are the safest people in the world.

I have a really hard time continuing to belong to this group. But I can’t leave it. I understand my fellow church-goers better after my reflections the past couple days. I understand the people that believe what teachers have to say is true simply because they know and like the teacher. I understand that halfway-off-the-seat feeling, waiting for someone else to join me. Waiting for reassurance that even in this new action my belonging to the group is not threatened. I think we are the sheep Jesus wept over.

I need to belong. I need to belong. I need…to belong. Somewhere. Give me somewhere, someone to belong to. Not on a card-carrying level – but on a soul level. I have found this compulsion to be the impetus for cults, for affairs (both with people and with the church), for the making and breaking of a multitude of relationships that were meant to be reassuring. This need, this gnawing keeps us looking, hungering, searching, loving, swearing allegiance to, burying ourselves in things bigger than we are. And like patches on a scout uniform, we collect, organize and display our identity.

Oh Christian, belong to those who are belonging to the wrong things. Don’t look at the rest of the people in your group, waiting to get up when you do. Look at the people outside, who are wandering. Belong to them.

no one’s laughing at God

One of my favorite musical artists, Regina Spektor (just her name makes you want to listen to her sing), is very good at saying very offensive things very clearly. Like in a way that you hear them, couched cleverly in happy, chimey songs laced with her lilting voice that…goes all over the place and you think: hm. I am very offended because this chimey lilting lady just called me on the carpet. But I think I’m going to continue listening. Because what she’s saying is kind of true.

There’s this song she sings about…well, about God. And it’s absolutely stinging, to both sides – the ignorant and arrogant.

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one’s laughing at God when they’re starving
Or freezing or so very poor

But God can be funny
Like at a cocktail party when listening
To a good God-themed joke…
God can be funny
When told He’ll give you money if you pray the right way
And presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
God can be so hilarious

I mean…what the. Yes. No. I want to both cheer for her candidness and hide from the mirror it puts up in front of me. It’s the best well-thought out mockery with legitimate reasons I’ve ever seen.

And so it makes me ask: What do we expect out of God? Who do we think He is? Better yet, who do we think we are? We don’t laugh at God when the chips are down. We don’t laugh because we want to believe that He exists…because we might need Him. This is the part that Christians hear and say to themselves “I don’t doubt that God exists. In fact, God and I are so close that He’s a part of my day-to-day life.” And then they listen to the second part. Really. So let me guess: your day-to-day life consists of cocktail parties, where your problems can be contained in witty sayings and graceful social niceties. God’s pretty lighthearted there, isn’t He?

See, neither party is innocent here. When it counts, when it matters, when the rubber meets the road, when the choices are few and the implications vast, when it directly affects us is God’s communication with us. We seem to think we can get away with believing a variety of things regarding God’s existence, but when it comes to times when we need to hear from Him or want Him to hear from us, both parties seek to have God right where they want Him.

I’m scared this is also the case when teaching our young people. I work at a college, and just recieved in my mailbox a flyer about seminars, etc. on choosing a career. This being a Christian college, the concept of calling is very much incorporated, and rightly so. But somehow this has turned into a flyer that says on the front, in big letters, “Can you hear Me now?” I was livid. How has the calling of God on a young, talented, enthusiastic believer’s life transitioned from “how has God wired you? What are you passionate about? What do you know about God?” to “are you listening to God good enough?” People, don’t sit around waiting for God to specifically tell you what to do. I’m afraid you’ll never move if you wait like that. I think we expect to hear God far too specifically in our individual lives, and I’m not sure He talks to us like that.

Why not, you ask? That’s a whole other post. I think we have to recognize the weird ways we seem to think we “hear” the voice of God first, then talk about how He really does communicate. I just think that what we think of as God being able to do anything – like talk to us specifically about specific details of our life – is actually more of a limiting idea than we think it is.

Don’t stone me yet. Listen to this song instead.

Oh, Your love is a symphony
All around me
Runnin through me
Oh, Your love is a melody
Underneath me
Runnin to me
Your love is a song
Your love is my remedy

(-”Your Love Is A Song”, Hello Hurricane by Switchfoot)

novartis, lot 102069P1

Over the past several months, there have been so many things that I have wanted to write about…those of you that have blogs know what I mean. You’ll come out of a meeting, walk across the parking lot after work, put your books away after class and have that feeling of needing to write about something. Something you heard, felt, or saw just has become very clear to you and you need to describe it…and then you get home and…well. There you have it. The next time you start a post you begin with “over the past several months”…

I decided this had to stop yesterday. Yesterday all of these moments came together and I stood still and looked at the ceiling and said to myself “…okay.” Most anyone that reads this knows I’m on staff at a small private Christian college, and yesterday was the long-awaited arrival of the H1n1 vaccine for our campus. Yesterday myself and a bunch of my colleagues spent hours in the student center with our two amazing nurses, organizing and running a mass-immunization effort. And there I was, finding myself holding a clipboard, calling names to “come on back”, checking paperwork, getting signatures, handing out immunization records, rubbing my arm where I had got the vaccine, and writing “novartis, lot 102069P1″ on a bunch of forms, indicating the manufacturer and lot number of the vaccine. I also ran and got more from the fridge, shaking my head at how much we’ve heard and gotten wigged out over these little bottles of novartis lot 102069P1. And no matter how much you think this flu thing has been blown out of proportion, the fact remains that it’s pretty crazy that I can “run to the fridge and get more” while there are millions asking for more. I know it will all iron out in the end. But still. I told the nurse I was working with that this would be something I would tell my kids someday. She nodded and gave me a smile that said she knew what I was talking about but oh honey, there will be so much more you’ll tell your kids.

But finally sitting down to write a blog is, as many of you know, akin to the WalMart Principle. Similar to trips to the library or movie store, you finally get there and promptly forget everything that was on your list to begin with. You should see me these days going into WalMart…I repeat my list to myself while I’m walking from my car to the store entrance, which probably convinces the Salvation Army Bell-Ringer-People that I’m certifiably nuts.

Speaking of which: The Salvation Army Bell-Ringer-People are out. ALREADY. I know, I know – every year I make some kind of comment about how early Christmas-y things come…everyone does. But seriously people. Last year, it was the first weekend in November. This year – the day after Halloween. I mean really. Besides the early date, I really don’t think the unseasonably warm PA “winter” is helping things. It literally feels like a cool summer day most days. Only thing different is that the leaves are gone – but grass is still green, sun’s still out, moisture still in the air…well, there’s always moisture in the air to this Alaskan girl.

But back to the Salvation Army Bell-Ringer-People. As I get older and discover that I’m…an adult (which will also be something I tell my kids someday), I’m finding that I have my own personal traditions. Like on Valentine’s Day, I often give roses to those my friends. Near Christmas, I have a pact with myself that everytime I go past the Salvation Army Bell-Ringer-People, I have to empty whatever change and $1 bills I have on me at the time. Sometimes it’s a few stray pennies. Sometimes it’s several dollars. Sometimes I avoid the door they’re at because of this self-imposed tradition.

All of these things, things that make me write, things that I will tell my kids someday, are things that are shaping my view of life. And I really do think that Life is bigger and smaller than we think it is. Everything we do means something and nothing we do means anything. All at the same time. I think my next set of thoughts will be about God speaking to us and about our choices and actions meaning something eternally…but until then, I rejoice in the freedom to say I will tell my kids about this later. If Novartis Lot 102069P1 will let me live that long.

why i love teaching.

1. Because I Can’t Replicate That Lightbulb Look.
So usually when I walk into the class of freshmen that I teach, their hands are already up, ready to interact and ask questions about the reading for that week. I know. Weird. Seriously I could write a post about how strangely alive this group is. They are English and Writing majors, and usually (sadly) they fit right into the mold that the stereotype leaves them. But for some reason this year they are eager, vocal and inquisitive. I love them.

Anyway, I walked into class yesterday morning and they were not excited. The reality of college and homework has started to settle in, and they were tired. The held up their chins with their hands and kind of giggled sheepishly when I came in. “Man, guys, what’s wrong with you today? Everything okay?” They tried to rally a bit but only halfway succeeded. I thought maybe talking about some things unrelated to school would help, but after a few minutes of conversation I could tell they were simply dreading the invitable – talking about the articles.

Now in their defense, the reading for this week was difficult, long, and not easily applicable. We were studying about the foundations of Christian higher education, and how Geneva has gone about trying to incorporate all these things into their program. We started in, but after a little bit of discussion it got real quiet. Then, all of a sudden, the giant organ started playing in the auditorium next door. All heads came up and those inquisitive looks I have come to love flickered across the faces of the students. We talked about how cool it sounded. Then, after asking a question they seemed to be thinking about, I interrupted myself. “Hang on a second. While you think about that, I’m leaving.” And I headed for the door.

I went to check out the balcony of the auditorium, which was open a few doors down from my classroom. I returned and poked my head in the classroom door. Against my very best judgment, I said “Okay. If you’re quiet, you can come and listen.” They kind of shrugged collectively and walked down the hall with me. We stood and listened quietly for a minute and although I was enjoying hearing Bach fuges, I was kind of starting to wonder if I settled. If I let them win, not having enough confidence in the material to be engaging, not expecting them to engage with it, and instead playing hookey down the hall with the organ.

To try and assuage my conscience, I gathered them around me and said, “I want you to listen and consider what this music says to you. What you do feel when you listen to it? How does it make you feel in your mind, your heart and your gut? What does it make you think of?” And let them scatter throughout the balcony again. I watched them listen, and…it began to happen. Eyes closed and chins lifted a bit, breathing slowed and shoulders relaxed. Then noses and foreheads scrunched up as they thought hard and listened intently. After several minutes, we returned to our room.

What followed was one of the most amazing things I have ever been a part of. The same students who had been falling asleep and completely glassy-eyed earlier were now alert and not only attentive to me, but to their classmates. A young man who doesn’t ever say much said “If that music had a color, it would be…silver.” And a girl who is relatively closed teared up as she described how it reminded her of home. Words like grand, majestic, ominous, dissonant, waves and surrounding came from a group of students who most often limit themselves to words such as like, feel and huh. And all of a sudden they were learning. The foundations of Christian education became as real to them as the bass notes of the organ, and the dissonance and resolution of Bach’s genius now gave them courage and confidence to try new things in college and to find their own way.

I can’t replicate that bright-eyed look of realization anywhere else.

2. Because I Learn More Than I Teach.
In this Bible study I’m a part of with some of my closest friends, I am supposed to come with insights about the passage we’re studying every week. And although I love studying and learning about the Scriptures, I always, always, always learn more than I teach. I am continually silenced by how much new insight I gain by listening to these women who just come to the Scripture expecting to hear from it. Simple. And then they do what it says. Simple.