Him

Who do I live to please?

I've never had to consider this question so seriously before. Or, should I say I've never realized I should consider this question so seriously before.

It's a really important question. It's the springboard for my heartthrobs, tears, successes, failures.

Who do I live to please?

My boss? Coworkers? Hero? Friends? Family? Myself?

Whoever it is, they will be my heaven. When they are disappointed with me, I will cry tears of disappointment. When they laugh with me, I will wear the same smile for days. When they tell me what to eat and where to go and who to love, I will obey with the full velocity of lovers running into each other's arms after a decade of separation.

Because when I've found acceptance, I've found love.

There's only one who never fails to accept me, to hold me, to love me, even when I disappointment Him. If I could just wake up every morning thinking of Him, of only Him, would I be so selfish to fill up my mind with ideas of how to please anyone else? Would I waste my energy fulfilling empty rituals, knowing that the most important thing I could ever do is to be His?

No.

Because being loved by Him means--already loved. Not having to please... getting to please.

When you decide to make a banana cake...

... your husband will become sick the same night and not be able to eat it. (Especially because the last time you enjoyed banana cake together was at your wedding and you didn't even get to take home the top tier and eat it a year later because the drummer was shoving it in his goofy grin on his way out of the reception.)

When you've finally recovered from a three month sprain and can run, you will slice the other foot with a steak knife and be reduced to limping again.

These are important life lessons--the talk of bedside tucktime with parents, and visits to the wise old woman on the hill.

"What could they possibly teach me?", you ask.

I will tell you what they can teach you, because they have taught me this:

EAT YOUR CAKE.

Limp to the store, buy fresh saltines to replace the stale, boil a chicken for homemade soup (you hear the fat cures respiratory ailments), bandage your wound, and head to the guestroom for another solitary night of fever-less sleep until your husband recovers.

But before bed, when the trees outside are whispering and the baby next door is crying and the man outside is plucking dissonant guitar strings, eat your cake. Savor it. And imagine that moment four years ago when you smeared it all over your new husband's face (or, at least tried).

Then all the illnesses and fluke injuries from the past few months will melt away like the gooey maple frosting dripping from your nose. And you will be thankful.

*****
Dear Huzzy, here's to sickness and health. I'll be happy to take whatever comes next as long as I have you!

Not Just Another Hopeful Thought (I hope)

It is becoming increasingly difficult for me to continue living the way I have been cultured to live, and to continue to call myself a follower of Jesus.

I have begun to hear, as from a very muffled, fuzzy, static distance, the sound of weeping. I don't know who it is yet. My ears have only just begun to open after years of numbing deafness, and since I've only been tuned in to myself, it is probably my own whimpering I hear.

But the Grace in my faith acknowledges that Jesus promised his Spirit to be in us, and that he alone makes it possible for me to share in his pain--but that it is possible--to feel a tiny bit of his overwhelming lament for poverty, loneliness, consumerism, homelessness, hunger, etc. etc. etc.

If it isn't Jesus I hear, I pray that I will hear him soon, that my good intentions won't fossilize as intentions, but will germinate into practical action and I can be a useful part of the Body. That I won't be so selfish anymore. That my service could help to bring the Kingdom of God here, now, instead of my money used to continue to feed the American dream (even the Christianized version, which doesn't appear all that different sometimes...)

For the first time in my life (sad it's taken me this long), I think I've finally grasped the forever nature of eternity--it really is forever!-- in comparison with this temporary, dusty, earthly life. And for the first time, I think I've begun to sense the urgency of love in this life.

Honestly, I don't really know what's next. This is a new road for me. One that, God-willing, doesn't fulfill me, but empties me. I've been putting some thought into it. Will hopefully have a plan of action soon.

it's the little things

It's 4:40 am and I'm eating a bowl of honeyed cheerios. I haven't slept. I've spend the past 4 1/2 hours turning and turning (but not tossing. I haven't been tossing anything up in the air or to anyone. Where in the world did that phrase come from anyway?) Not too long ago I had a similar night to this one, and now I feel the need to blog about it. Because it was sort of a momentous occasion for me.

That day I sat at the kitchen table and wrote the first honest thing to God that I've said in months. It went like this:

I think I'm forgetting how to trust you. I think I doubt your love. I'm not sure why . . . maybe it has something to do with growing up and seeing more of the bad in the world? The older I get, the more uncertain I become that you have a plan for everything and everyone. I've begun to believe that you don't step in as often--that more often than not we're left to the consequences of our own sin and choices. Is this a hazard to my faith? That I don't expect miracles? Or that I don't pray believing you'll answer in the way I want? My prayers have become so small.

So that night I woke at 1 am, wide awake, with nothing to think or do. It clicked in me like a light bulb to start reading Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz again. It's one of my favorite books and it had been awhile since I read it. I took it to bed and switched on my headlamp so as not to disturb Jonathan, and then I ended up moving to the kitchen table. Finally, at page 86, back in my bed again, God's love took hold of me in one of the most powerful ways it ever has. This is what I read: "Self-discipline will never make us feel righteous or clean; accepting God's love will. The ability to accept God's unconditional grace and ferocious love is all the fuel we need to obey him in return. Accepting God's kindness and free love is something the devil does not want us to do. If we hear, in our inner ear, a voice saying we are failures, we are losers, we will never amount to anything, this is the voice of Satan trying to convince the bride that the groom does not love her. This is not the voice of God. God woos us with kindness, he changes our character with the passion of his love."

Ever since that night, I've been praying more. And I tell you, God has been answering the funniest little prayers. Last week I went to the library and was told that I returned a DVD without its disc. The library woman graciously checked it back out to me so that I could take it home and find the disc, but when I went home, it wasn't anywhere, and I prayed it would be at the library so I wouldn't have to pay £15 for a DVD I didn't want. After a few days I went back and explained to another woman that I couldn't find it, and lo and behold, it was filed in another case.

The other night, Jonathan made a mistake while restoring his iPhone, so that he thought he lost all of his data, including his sporadic notes he takes every day. He prayed that he would get it all back, and suddenly, without explanation, his iPhone restored from nothing.

On Friday I prayed for my parent's safe driving to Seward and back to Denver (to take my brother Andrew to college for the first time). Today they told me that they went to a mechanic when they got back, and he said their tires and ball bearings should not have carried them safely all the way home. But they made it safely and without any accident, praise God.

So, maybe these prayers don't stop wars or global warming or world poverty, but maybe it means enough to Him that I start believing that prayer changes the world--and me. Maybe that's why he sent the little miracles that I told him I didn't believe in anymore.

I know one thing and it alone changes me: I am loved.

Dear Mom

Although most of me (the emotional part) is upset, I'm also really confused about your news. i've racked my brain for the last day and a half trying to figure out what good this is doing anyone, especially considering you've already had the most stressful year of your life. i know it's not for me to ask why, and i know i'll never know why... but WHY? i want to be able to know exactly who/what this is benefitting because you've suffered more than many people ever will even once in their lifetime.

the other part of me (the deeper, rational, thinking part of me) realizes that God did not cause this--we caused this with our sin and by virtue of the fact that we live in a fallen world. which means that God's only role in this is intervention--with grace. so this other part of me is awed and amazed that he loves you so much that he steps in and hires doctors to speak and act on his behalf so that you're cared for in the best possible way.

i also wonder about the coincidences--that in the past couple of years, the music department, you, and lisa have all undergone incredible spiritual attacks, and i wonder if this is just another one. which leads me to a completely different question--what amazing things is God planning to accomplish through you that satan is so threatened by? even if it's not a Peace music plan, but a family plan, or a whirled peas plan, or any other kind of plan that will change the Kingdom for his purposes, all of this seems to point to one conclusion:

there must be something that you're doing right.

even if that one thing is just trusting him and then telling everyone you know at every chance you get what amazing things God is doing through these situations, it's a powerful thing. worship is about proclaiming God's goodness, power, faithfulness and love. and you've had more chances to do that within the last eight years than probably ever before.

now, don't hear me wrong--i'm still completely disillusioned by your news and still confused and will probably still ask "why" even after it's over and done with. but more than anything, I'm thankful that I have a mom like you who, after experiencing two bouts of breast cancer, having the worst year of her life (and separated by an ocean from her only daughter and son-in-law), and then, on top of it all, hearing that she needs brain surgery to remove a tumor, says to me, "I feel loved by God." honestly mom, nothing has changed my perception of suffering and God's love and challenged my faith more than those words. i wish i had your faith, but am so humbled that i can have a first-row seat to witness it.

i love you, mom. my prayers and heart are with you, even though I can't be there in person. but soon, very soon, I will see you!

amy

Boswell's Cafe:1

The fruits of a writing exercise over cream tea and scones (in which we chose three random objects from our purse and the table and wrote about each one for ten minutes). . .

Curiously Strong Mints

Not just any kind of mint, but "curiously strong" is how the refreshingly green, tin box defines its contents. And I wonder, as any curious person wonders, where did the idea for breath mints originate?

I picture a stately, English gentleman, dressed in a tweed overcoat and twirling a handlebar mustache. He has just escorted his lady friend to her home and they are situated awkwardly under a square doorframe holding square books that smell of dust. She's dressed in silk and he reaches out to finger the material that brushes against her wrist. He begs her affection with a gaze, leans in, closes his eyes, and in the moment of apprehension before the ecstasy he is surprised by a gasp! She jumps back in disgust, eyes wide in despair.

"But sir!" she cries with the womanly air of discretion. "Your mouth!"

"Whatever is wrong, my sweet?"

"It's your breath, not the books, not the grimy doorframe or the soddy streets. It's your pungent, rotten breath that has given me this unbearable headache!"

And she gathers the folds of her heavy skirt in her hands and escapes through the door.

With a sob of anguish, he rushes home and concocts the greatest love potion of all time: the curiously strong breath mint.

Germ X Hand Sanitizer . . .

. . . every OCD's dream. . . except that many people who truly suffer from the psychological condition have no need of the sanitizer since they wear gloves in public places, or otherwise find ways to prevent their skin from touching public objects like bathroom handles and subway rails that have the remains of snot, sweat and other bodily liquids left from years of stranger's fondling.

Blech. This is why I use hand sanitizer--because I am not OCD and do not wear gloves, and yet still want to do everything I can to avoid contracting public illnesses through the pores of my skin. It's also nice to have on hand (no pun intended) after I use the public toilet. Most of the time public facilities offer the very least that they're required; ice cold water in the dead of winter, bars of soap that last for months and collect dirt in their deep crevices (making my hands worse than they were before the use of the toilet), reusable cloth towels, and hand dryers that barely provide enough of a breeze to blow my small knuckle hairs. So I pull out my trusty hand sanitizer and am saved from the horrors of public toilets.

But I must confess, I haven't pulled it out as often as I would like, even when I acknowledge all of the above benefits. And why, you may ask? Because I fear that people will hear me open the stall door and walk out of the toilets without turning on the water or using the handryer. They'll think that I am one of "those people"--those people who don't wash their hands--because they won't know that I used the hand sanitizer instead!

So when I leave the stall I feel a strange urge to try the subtle approach and yell, "I am so glad I can use my hand sanitizer now!"

Pepper Mill

When I see a pepper mill I don't see the one that's physically in front of me; instead I see a mill that's tall, translucent, lean and full of brightly colored beads, the one that sits on our family table planted firmly next to the salt shaker. Around the pepper mill and salt shaker I enjoyed meals, conversation, devotions and laughter with my family of six in Colorado. It's where we savored mom's strawberry pie, homemade pizza with Valentino's style crust and colorful pasta. It's where we celebrated Christmas with brunch and ate cheese-braid and breakfast pizza. It's where I learned to like grown-up stuff like coffee and wine and mushrooms and pepper. And it's where I learned to like grown-up conversation when relatives and company came over, and my three brothers left the table to play like boys downstairs, and I remained seated with the adults, priding myself on my maturity.

Today the pepper mill and salt shaker still sit on our family table. The two companions exist on an ever-evolving oak tabletop, sometimes flanked by fresh flowers and sometimes by piles of mail or newspapers or left-over breakfast dishes. Placemats and napkins have regular places, but even they're evolving. Instead of the original six placemats there are now four, and there will soon be three when my middle brother goes off to college in August. And then, quicker than we realize, in two years my youngest brother will forge his way into the world, leaving only two placemats.

But no matter how the oak table top revolves, the placemats, like the pepper mill and salt shaker, are constant companions, situated caddy corner to each other, close enough for knees to touch, glasses to clink, and meals and life to share together.

Myself as Character

For the past few weeks my fiction class has been learning about characterization. One of the principles my lecturer has taught us is the need to discover our character's Grand Trio: the character's deepest need, greatest flaw and greatest strength. While the grand trio isn't an end all to characters (there will be times in a character's life when the 'grand trio' seems to contradict itself) these three things are often what motivates a person, whether the person exists on a page or in the real-life time and space of our tangible universe.

Consequentially, I've found myself picking out the grand trio in myself. My strengths and flaws have seemed to change over the years, but I'm fairly certain that my greatest need has remained the same: to be validated. I've always known I was a people-pleaser, but never realized it went so deep--that it's at the core of my motivation. It's as if I've never felt quite good enough on my own and use the people around me as a mirror to gauge my self-worth. When I'm relocated to a new phase or location of life (physical or emotional) I have a tendency to set down roots by pinpointing the familiar landmarks I need--people I designate as my worth-giving idols. I set them as the standard I strive for. And when it's time to move my nomadic life again, I pack the idols in my bag and carry them with me to the next phase of life. It certainly isn't the easiest way of going about life. I sweat and shake under the weight of my luggage and when I finally arrive in my new home, it's too cluttered with chintzy ideals to set up anything of substance. It's a scary thing to acknowledge my fragile dependency; one harsh word or criticism has the power to send my identity toppling to its death. Funny how the things we're most afraid of happening must happen for our own good.

A few months ago the unthinkable happened: I fell. The people I had relied on to validate my feelings, actions, and worth were gone. Some of them were out of reach, some of them disappointed me, but mostly I grew up and realized I had placed my hope in imperfect people and standards. I thought I would lose everything.

As I spun through the air, that's when God reminded me who he was. He told me he loved me and that he always would, and he asked me to trust his arms. At first I didn't want to. I'm stubborn and always will be, and God knew he had to get my attention in a big way. As the ground drew nearer the air blew by faster and one by one he gently peeled back my fisted fingers, asking, pleading me to let go and when we were inches from the canyon bottom I finally did; I let go. I looked down at my hands in amazement and saw that they weren't empty--enclosed in them were his hands, holding me safely above the ground.

"So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal." 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

The Emptying Qualities of Marriage

I hope it doesn't appear that I'm being lazy by posting quotes instead of writing my own, but this thought in particular is quite a gem:

"A life lived to please one's self is empty, and the journey to become one will finally lead you to empty yourself for the sake of one another." --To Become One, by Seay and Keager (thanks to Alaina who gave me the book :)

For those who are either considering marriage, hoping for marriage, or in marriage, I pray that one day soon, you will take joy in the sanctifying qualities of a selfless "oneness".

Grace Is Not. . .

I feel judged when I try to obey Christ. Now, before that's interpreted as an egotistical, Pharisitical phrase, let me clarify and say that my frustration has absolutely nothing to do with my attempts to live a perfect life. It has everything to do with my trust in a Savior that enables me to lean on grace. And as an example of my need for mercy, sometimes I have angry words I need to get rid of, and now's one of those times.

Heaven forbid I try to live my life to please Christ, to bear fruit, lest it be considered as an effort to attain salvation!

I think my frustrations came about when my eyes were first opened to the differences in denominational beliefs, and the different attitudes that came about from a particular emphasis or perspective on God. I suddenly noticed that cheap grace does exist. People actually lift up what they call "works" to a place of sin, almost making the assumption that if anyone makes an effort to bear fruit in their life, to obey Christ, then they don't have a proper understanding of grace. Has it gotten to the point that, I hate to say it, but, obedience is sinful? If so, what does it mean to suck the blood of Jesus and live by his flesh, if nothing changes as a result of him in our life?

I am motivated by love, therefore I seek restoration. Grace is both my reason and strength, but it is not the end. It is what holds the universe together, but it is not the meaning. It is the solution and power that enables us to keep on keeping on, to persevere, to encourage, to be strong . . . but when grace comes to its full fruition, it is because we have come to understand love in its fullest, most eternal capacity: we will worship face to face with our Creator--the God of the Universe, the God of us, the God of Love.