Finally Prided and Prejudiced

I picked up Pride and Prejudice for the first time a couple of Saturdays ago, when a visiting friend and Jonathan and I strolled by a used book shop in downtown Lodi. Pathetic for an English major, maybe, but I even did a report on Jane Austen in high school and still never read the book. I think I was put off by its popularity. I'm amazed when I go to the bookshop or the Netflix website and see fifty variations on Jane Austen's best-selling title like the Bollywood version "Bride and Prejudice," a movie about a Jane Austen book club, books made up of Elizabeth's imagined correspondence from Pemberley, books about Jane Austen lovers who take Jane Austen tours in England, and sadly even a vampire take on the Lizzy-Darcy saga, and on and on and on (Does Twilight have to take a bite out of everything?)

I'm on page 186 now, but Austen had me at 1. I finally get it.

And I'm so happy to report that the obsessions aren't overrated! Part of me wonders if it's so easy to get caught up in it because I've seen two movie versions. I watched the updated, shorter one with Keira Knightly when it came out, and I watched the 6 hour BBC production with my English friend's mom in her Cambridgeshire living room when the rest of the house had gone to bed. And of course the book is even better. Having seen the movies, it's easier for me to picture the scenery, but I am so loving the understated sarcasm and the intelligent critique of the culture and society of the time... and with the exception of the language that's maybe just a bit more flowery than ours, it's timeless.

Here's a few favorite quotes so far:

"what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains?" - on being invited for an excursion to The Lakes

Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked forward with impatient desire, did not in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment.

"But surely," said she, "I may enter his county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me." - on visiting Pemberley for the first time

By-The-Sea

This would be my cottage and tea house! That is, if I lived in Carmel-By-The-Sea with a cottage-by-name like Windemere and enjoyed tea and scones everyday at the Tuck Box.

Someone forgot to tell me that California could be a bit English.

(Although I wonder if they knew...)

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.

1. Pocket Knife 2. Maxi Pads

For all you men out there who hate buying feminine hygiene products for your ladies...

. . . here's a handy tip for you.

Two words.

Survival Kit.

When you walk down the shop aisle, attempting to hide the little pink box somewhere-ANYwhere- (don't lie--you took the blue brand even though your wife said she wanted the pink) and another man walks by with a smirk, go ahead and tell him it's for your survival kit.

Yes, your ultimate manly survival kit that you will take with you on jungle explorations and 007 missions. And you can say the same thing to the cashier who winks at you as she passes the box over the scanner and you swear you smell flowers. Now you can smell sweat and adrenaline and musky pine wilderness air because you will put the Maxi Pads in your survival kit along with your swiss army knife and gauze.

I never would have known about this useful piece of trivia until, out of proper wraps, my husband bandaged up my wound with a piece of a Maxi Pad and told me that the military keep them in their kits. I perused the web to see if what he said was true and found this..

It's always helpful to know a bit about Maxi Pads and their alternative uses.

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!

Housesitting...

...this weekend. Invited good friends to share it with (or, "with which to share it" as she would like me to say). Spent Friday and Saturday in and around the pool, hot tub, soaking and swimming under the waterfall, slipping down the slide, playing a game of water volleyball or two, dunking their spunky toddler, kayaking on the lake, walking around the lake, throwing the ball for two good dogs, enjoying late breakfast and grilled dinners, wine in a vineyard, plucking plump berries from the strawberry patch and snipping off basil and thyme for pasta tonight--

this just in: hummingbird spottings in the rose garden!

--and best of all, renewed friendship with good friends. Note to self: you can never be too thankful for good friends.

Feather

Travel--any sort, but especially flying if only because it's one of the extreme forms of transportation (not counting ziplines or bungee jumping) is risky. Stuffed with surprise, shock, suspense. New locations multiply the number of uncontrollable factors.

But it is also a relief. The very fact of kinetic energy destined towards an end is a promise of purpose, the hope of better to come. Exhilaration. Careening down a runway, building speed against the traction of rough gravel, wheels crunching hungrily for lift off and finally, heart jumping into the throat in anticipation, breathless, rising weightlessly into the air, faith placed entirely in the engine, pilot, mechanics we know nothing of.

I can't imagine life without travel, without experiencing new cultures and the people and locales around them. Growing outside myself, expanding my interests, being challenged to think and speak differently, never content with my state of being.

The sense of adventure is heightened by time. Knowing it has to end eventually, in some way, increases my sense of ambition from the start of the trip and I even play unintentional mind games. Every hundred feet ascended into the air I watch a slow-motion movie of failure. A distant popping noise like the firecrackers that sound like guns, scaring me for just a second until I laugh nervously. The pop and then deflating and twisting, the twisting and ragged turning until the engine sputters out its final stale exhale, and we're left hovering in its fumes. . . and then dropping. Dropping. Sinking to the earth for the final time.

To not travel outside oneself is to become too comfortable in a worldview. Its end is my own righteousness. It's breathing without a perceivable meaning, except my own physical life which will eventually disintegrate into dirt again.

How can we live believing that the meaning of life is us, is for us, is circled around us? This life ends too quickly, floating through the air and into the earth as weightlessly as a feather.

Bigger But Not Better

The plant outside our kitchen window in California. It's a bit larger than our London plant. And it attracts pretty dragonflies! One of these days I'll take pictures of the luscious vineyards and strawberry stands we get to drive by everyday.

Denver will always have my heart, but nothing beats California vegetation...

Whatever Hippie Means

Due to the allowance of a particularly revolutionary and yet not so revolutionary book in my house (which I brought in myself, so no excuses here) I'm decided to reorient my personal time continuum with the divisions "BHA" and "AHA," or, "Before Hippie Amy" and "After Hippie Amy." Not because I recycle a lot more or try to hang dry my clothes as much as possible or wear dreads (cuz I don't actually wear dreads) but because I'm thinking a lot more about living in a commune these days, or at least something that looks more like a commune. What I mean is a commune that looks more like an Acts church where we share everything. Doesn't that make so much sense--economically, relationally, spiritually?

This irresistible book is called the Irresistible Revolution by Shane Claiborne. It took Shane's words to help me understand certain areas of the Bible that I've been ignoring. Maybe it's better to say I chose not to highlight those areas. I'd been hearing rave reviews for awhile, but the idea of reading it myself unnerved me a little. I knew it would be convicting and life changing. And it was true. And I'm not even finished with it yet.

Mostly it has me asking lot's of questions. Like, how can I implement Biblical ideas of communal sharing practically while living in a small town of northern California in the twenty-first century? Practically, what does that look like? I don't think I could take it so far as to share a house with people. Maybe if I was single, but not so much as a married person. But there are other ideas. Can it mean sharing household items with people in your neighborhood? Having a co-op type "store" in your church where people could leave things and borrow things? Forming a babysitting service and helping neighbors around the house with handyman stuff? Probably all of the above and whatever else God's blessed us with--including possessions, money, and time. Time. Now that's a challenge.

I guess what I'm asking is how can I be more generous? That'll be my new definition of hippie.

Half Moon Bay

Plucked for a moment--

rootless, breathless--

for one gaze

of the beauty that would drown her.

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.

Funny about that word 'actor'

I can see this is becoming an unfortunate pattern--these few and infrequent blog posts of mine. When I had all the time in the world I would get frustrated when my favorite blogs went un-updated. The empty spaces loomed over me laughing, a symbol of what I didn't accomplish when I wasn't blogging. But now it's just a blog. I'd like to blog more, but there is life to live too. And I quite like life.



Thankfully my thoughts have not mimicked my blog these past few weeks. If you took a picture of them you would see something like a skillet of half-scrambled/half-cooked eggs with partly melted cheddar goo-ing through the mush. (Ah, the multi-functional Janzow cheesy eggs... good for high cholesterol, New Testament jokes and brain metaphors...) This is due in part to books, podcasts, discussions with friends and family (too many to list here) and in part to my own writing.

But probably what's cooked up the most is what I hope is righteous anger, not just narcissistic ranting, toward the topic of American Christians, especially leaders, lying by omission instead of speaking the hard truth. My mind was opened to this when I started listening to Mark Driscoll at Mars Hill Church. If you haven't heard of him, he's the main pastor at a church that started mid-90's in Seattle that has grown like crazy, mostly made up of Gen Xers and Yers and a lot of new Christians who I guess you would call hipsters (I dislike the buzz word, but I guess it's the best word to describe the people there). Driscoll is also one of the founders of Acts29, a church planting network.

Driscoll is pretty controversial and in the media often because he's not a pastor who speaks niceties and vague wishy washy faith to give the Christian public what they want to hear. He holds himself and the church accountable to handling sin, prayer, Bible study, finances, stewardship, leadership, community involvement, gender relationships, sex, etc. to God's standard. He even visits local coffee shops and restaurants around his church on Sunday afternoons and asks the managers if Mars Hill members tipped well after their meal. If they didn't, Driscoll takes out his wallet and pays the difference himself. But it's not a law based church. It's not a fire and brimstone church. It's a church motivated by God's love to glorify God in the way they live, and they're dedicated to holding each other accountable for it.

My point is not that Mark Driscoll is my new favorite Christian hero. My point is that recently I've heard of quite a few American churches with leaders who ignore the Spirit-driven courage to speak the difficult truth. Whether it's confronting a member or a staff member who is living in sin, or motivating a congregation to move outside the four walls of the church into the community, or teaching about God's standard for love, sex, marriage and gender roles within marriage, too often church leaders avoid the difficult parts of Scripture. And this is because we preach the Gospel (yes, this is the most important part--don't misread my theology) but then we stop there.

Lying by omission stalls the church and shuts our ears to God's desires. We do not lack motivation. Nothing is more motivating than knowing that God humbled himself to become one of us to save us when all we wanted was our own glory. But after a person sees how much they need God and gives their life to Christ, what comes next? How can you tell a new Christian he or she has to give up his un-married sex, his binge-drinking weekends, his selfish living without giving him anything to replace it?

The point to all of this: I believe the American Church is shrinking because we are not being given a mission. Maybe it's better to say that we are given a mission (especially if Christians are reading their Bible) but it's not taken seriously enough, and the Church is not teaching us how it can be accomplished practically. Or, we are not being held accountable to it.

The Church is begging for a call to action. We are the Church. What does the call look like for you and how can it be accomplished in your community?