Divine suspension

Why did you doubt?

2008-08-05T19:22:00.004-05:00

This past week I used a slow work day to finally get to that task I had been avoiding: copying my Word files to my new laptop (or newish, since it's been several months!). Unable to shed my file pack-rat tendencies, I keep nearly everything I've ever written--work, personal, and college documents alike. Perhaps I simply enjoy the nostalgia of browsing through my old thoughts. Or maybe it's akin to the feeling I get when I hear about people who read books and then promptly sell them to the nearest used book store or on half.com. In any case, I have trouble letting go.

As I was sorting and categorizing the messy wake of my college files, I came across a writing assignment that really spoke to where I've been in the last months--full of doubt about God's ability to navigate me through the foggy future. And with no other blogging topics niggling at my mind, I thought I'd at least post something to not let myself get out of the habit. (And that's the lovely thing...you are always free to plagiarize your own work freely! Though, of course, it wouldn't be plagiarism in that case.) So here it is:

Why did you doubt?

Matthew 14:22-33

You wouldn’t expect those who are already walking on water to doubt. They appear to be feeling the water under their feet like a concrete sidewalk, doing what most people only dream of. They are the firm foundations I look to as heroes. While they may do heroic, noble things, it is still important to remember they have the same type of problems I do.

It’s easy to read the story of Peter walking on the water and judge him for his lack of faith. At this point, Peter had seen Jesus raise a young girl from the dead along with many other miracles. Presently he was already walking on the water, there were no if’s; he was doing it. Yet, he still doubted. “Of course,” I think to myself, “I would have never doubted like that.” The whipping surf and black thunderheads would have all faded into mere background static as I confidently walked toward Jesus, my eyes firmly fixed on his face. But before my pride solidifies, I remember how soon I too look away from Christ to watch the turmoil around me. He, not the wind and waves, fades into the background, and I can’t recall what faith feels like. I might appear strong, even look like my feet are boldly skimming over the water, but inside I’m sinking and seeing only waves.

I’m not sure what I would say to the question, “Why did you doubt?”. There doesn’t often seem to be a logical answer, not with all I have heard and experienced of God’s power and faithfulness. I guess the only answer would be that I focus on the things around me; the wind and waves are often easier to listen to than the truth I know. Trials seem to give me spiritual Alzheimers, and that which is so familiar to me escapes my memory. My answer to the questions most often is that of Peter. “Seeing the wind, [I] bec[o]me frightened” (14:30) and the water no longer holds me up. I live the paradox of believing, yet still say, “Help my unbelief” (Mark 9:24). Yet, Christ offers grace for those times I doubt, I just must not become too prideful to say, “Lord, save me!” (14:30).

Sweet Million

2008-07-28T09:01:00.003-05:00

This morning I walked out on our balcony to see that our tomato plant was now stretching more than a foot above its stake. The sprawling Sweet Million cherry tomato seems bent on living up to its name; it sends out new branches every few days and is increasingly pregnant with tiny green orbs.

This tomato is the behemoth of our balcony garden, outshining our other attempts to augment our lack of a back yard with khaki-colored plastic pots. The companion tomato plant dwindles in a neighboring pot a mere quarter of the size of its gigantic cousin. Two pumpkin plants poke up near the railing, small but determined—despite their lack of vines, they already have buds (which my farm-boy husband informs me are the male flowers, first to appear but full of only pollen, not fruit, potential). Behind and to the left, tiny melon plants wiggle in the breeze.

As I pollinate tomato flowers with my fingertip, I'm reminded of my parents' vegetable garden back in Wisconsin. We had one every year--a black-earth sprawl bursting with vegetation to feed a family of ten and weeds--so many weeds yanked from the ground by me and my siblings. Oh I hated it--hated the shivering dryness of the dirt on my hands and bare feet and the endless, shadeless rows always waiting expectantly--ironically, as much as I now long for something more alive than this balcony fading into muted gray wood grain. Oh how things change...

Murky

2008-07-24T10:29:00.005-05:00

Conversations whirl around me as I work from my corner of Caribou Coffee, blending with the soothing, though all-too-familiar strands of the store’s music CD. It’s the same one they played yesterday and the day before.

I know because this is day three of work-in-the-coffeehouse week. It’s nearing the end of month 2 of my stint as a contract writer, and I’ve migrated here from home office to couch to dining room table, each stop an attempt at an environment conducive to productivity. The growing files have put me ahead of schedule, bringing my fevered pace down to a leisurely dabbling punctuated by perusing the latest headlines on foxnews.com or an attempt to resurrect my long-neglected blog. I should feel, I don’t know…accomplished or satisfied with the positive feedback from my client and my first check newly center-pieced on our dining room table, but they do little to quell my growing restlessness.

I feel like I’m in some sort of mid-twenties mid-life crisis, which sounds too dramatic to even my own frustration. But the description fits—I’m stuck in a career that uses my degree but bores me to tears (literally). And my recent move to North Dakota does nothing to move me toward a career more in tune with my interests. As I scroll daily through health care and engineering job postings, I feel out of place with a head full of the writing theory, literature, and the ability to massage words into a pleasing hum of rhythm, syntax, and connotation.

As I wake up next to my husband, I know I wouldn’t change any of the complex web of choices that brought me to this new apartment in this wind-swept prairie city. Some things even my dream career can’t eclipse. Yet I wonder sometimes whether the path I’ve chosen will ever loop back. I have to hope that there will be something that tastes of the satisfaction I sipped as an undergrad sprawled in a professor’s office discussing literature and writing theory.

This week I've been able to trust, to remember that God is sovereign, that he is Father and his plans are not for calamity, his will good, pleasing, and perfect. But lately my gaze is less than steady and the wind and waves make my footing on the water shaky at best. So I wait with something less than patience, hoping with imperfect faith that my next step will materialize in this murky present.

scraping

2007-05-07T22:28:00.000-05:00

A week ago I read through the paper of the woman I'm tutoring through her master's program--it's the story of her life, re-constructing the journey of her personal development, bricks of her experience mortared together with theoretical constructions of psychologists. Her life, summarized in ten white pages, is an eloquent picture of God's intervention & protection--her present faith solid, a wall of confidence in his ability to provide for every need, despite the hurts and darkness of the past. I stop looking for comma splices to wonder how to get to this point where having faith seems like breathing.

My faith seems more like having an asthma attack. One day I think, "Wow, I've got it, this breathing thing..." It's just in and out, in and out; my lungs feel light, full of air. But the next minute I'm scraping the air for oxygen. Leave me alone with my thoughts for two minutes and my fears fill my lungs with concrete. "Oh ye of little faith..."

I read her paper and I'm envious of this surety--does it grow like this eventually, if you keep trying long & hard enough?

I think of my Grandma Florence, a veritable amazon of faith, speaking life into people so fully & frequently that we were lucky to not catch a busy signal when we tried to call her house. I miss her now, wish I could dial her number, ask her how she got there. What was the secret that made her words strong & resonant like the voice of a prophet?

Today, as the rain breaks against my windshield, blurring tail lights into soft red on 694, I think of all the things I can't see the end of, and I remember that it's daily..."take up your cross daily," and I'm oddly comforted by the thought. Maybe faith is found in the building up of days upon days of cross-bearing, burden-casting, continual asking, and waiting. Perhaps it isn't ever happened upon suddenly and is more like a far-off scene slowly being brought into focus.

a few scattered thoughts

2007-04-25T21:27:00.000-05:00

I pull out three folded purple post-its from my purse, filled with scribbled words I thought breathed of poetry at 10 am when my mind strayed from the job aid I was eeking out in scattered keystokes. Unwrapping them now, I search between the lines for inspiration but the thought is gone, energy emptied in three meetings between 1 pm and 3, typing one-line emails to my coworker in a neighboring cube. I'm restless...

My writing lately has accumulated into a pile of creased post-it notes, five lines stashed in the upper left corner of Word documents saved in my "misc." folder. The story I'm working on sits with paragraphs of scene summaries, but the strands of plot seem like stray threads that pull out when I tug at them.

I wonder if other recent grads feel like this: like I'm thirteen again, all angst and acne, trapped in a body I can't quite figure out, filled with warring desires for the past simplicity of childhood and the autonomy of growing up.

a toast to Eliot

2007-04-12T18:34:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking about time...mostly about not having enough of it, I suppose. My work day blows away in a midst of papers and key-strokes, sometimes drags in between bleary eyed computer stares and counting the birds perched on the power lines outside my window, but the work piles up the same. I think in cliches: so much work, so little time.

I'm left with the longing for time to just sit, just think, just spend some hours to process all the whirling changes, the tangled knots of life that only get more twisted everytime I shove them back in the "later" box that I'll open when I have more time.

I remembered a "floaty," metaphysical paper I wrote about the relationship of time & Christ's death as portrayed in several of T.S. Eliot's major works--the whole point of it being that in his poetry time is presented as one of the things redeemed by Christ's death, time itself, as well as humankind from it. A few lines from The Four Quartets keep running through my mind:

"If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present. "

and

"But to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time is the occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given
And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love."

And...this is the part of the post where I'm perhaps supposed to ask poignant questions, draw some conclusions about how this poetry intersects with my life right now...but honestly I don't have any (conclusions), so I'll just throw some Eliot on the screen & some of my own uncollected and somewhat tangled threads of thoughts...

one form, stage, or style to another

2007-04-03T22:32:00.000-05:00

Transition:
Webster says it's "passage from one state, stage, subject, or place to another, CHANGE;
a movement, development, or evolution from one form, stage, or style to another,"
and even he feels ambiguous at best to this thing I'm trying to navigate. I remember being warned about the "real world," but any words of wisdom on how to navigate it are lost somewhere in this passage from one state to another, a state that feels tumultuous in a frozen, sluggish sort of way, like a hurricane painted in still life.

I try to get used to this:
daily drive to work, cup of coffee (two, three...) to warm my hands, chilled by the the vent that never fails to blow above my window, whether in the snows of early April or the streaming sunlight of the weeks before. I've got it down--how to write in:

succinct,
yet detailed,
bullet points;

I've got objectives mapping out the next 8 months; I'm learning to plan out my day, prioritize...the scattered papers across my disorganized desk an objets d'art to something delightfully irregular.

But I haven't mastered the CHANGE, the move from a day filled with words and philosophers to a life of "personal development plans" and people arguing about whether to source cream cheese or peanut butter. Somehow I can't, don't want to, make myself fit there.

The work world never seemed glamourous; I'm not that naive, but I imagined those "free nights" with eagerness born of too many nights huddled over my computer screen, scraping words from a mind more like a wrung-out dishrag than a sponge. But they came then, the words that seem to elude me now, during free nights not filled with last-minute papers, dark-mooned eyes trying to eek out what the heck was so great about Aristotle.

I'm still trying to find movement, evolution from one form to another.

loved anyway

2006-08-07T18:44:00.000-05:00

Hooray for the internet...and having it at the place I live again. It's been almost a year since I've had that, and I'm realizing how much I've missed it. I've decided it's my valid excuse for not blogging in 300 years--it's hard for me to write these when I can't immediately post when I'm in a "blog writing mood."

This weekend I went to Wisconsin to visit my family and go to my little sister's bridal shower--it was fun, but the drive home felt more lonely than it's ever felt before. Now, I've never considered myself one to get homesick; I was always the kid who loved overnights, camp, missions trips...I was ready for anything, and missing home was at the bottom of my list. There were too many adventures to have to waste energy on homesickness. But now...

Now that that I've graduated, home seems like even more elusive than it did in college. Maybe it's that my expectations were that the temporary feeling of college would end upon graduation, that life would feel more solid when I put my cap and tassel into storage. It's strange for me to feel more homesick now than I ever did as a college freshman--in my 4 hour drive back to my Twin Cities apartment (that I'll leave again in 4 1/2 months), I wonder what it would be like to be able to hang out with my siblings whenever I wanted, to come home to family, to have a place that I know I'll be at longer than the time it takes to become familiar before I have to move again.

I thought about something I'd read this week in Don Miller's In Search of God Knows What. He talks about how Jesus had no fear of intimacy and wonders, "if the greatest desire of man is to be known, and loved anyway." I think he's right--and I don't know if I had ever thought about it along those lines. I would have said that we all desire to be loved--but the most secure sense of love is that in which we feel truly known, and yet, still loved inspite of all our brokenness. It's family love. My family may not know everything about me, but they've seen my worst--when I'm moody, angry, annoying, nagging, sobbing, lost control... They know the flaws in me, even the ones you'll only notice by getting up close and staring for a while. But I'd never question whether they'd still be there; they're my family, and they'll never quit being it. There's security in that, that feeling of family, that sense of home.

It makes me marvel at the fact that it is one of the most frequent metaphors God uses to describe our relationship with him. We are his children; he is our Father; it's family. In Christ, we are known, and loved anyway.

:)

2006-06-10T13:30:00.000-05:00

This is the world's shortest post, but...dun dun duhhhh!!! I got the Caribou job!!!! :) yay-ness!

:) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

the big, bad worry monster

2006-05-30T16:43:00.000-05:00

It's over now--the big interview with Caribou. I thought it went as well as possible, and now the only thing to do is continue waiting, the verb that seems to define every aspect of my life at the moment--from employment to house hunting to my aspirations for a "dream career" to any sort of plans I still want to scrounge up for this summer. Jen's blog really captured the feelings a lot of us recent grads are probably having...a longing for security and stability. Having my life be post-graduation gives me not only a lot more time to think but a lot more time to worry...about the future, finances, things I can't control (but would sure like to get my little mitts on).

Sometimes I feel like I have to make "trust God" my little mantra--something to repeat to myself anytime the big bad worry monster rears it's slimy, tickling antenna in my brain. I know (from experience and the advice of some wise people) that "just try harder" is about as effective as trying to "just try harder" myself to the moon. No matter how hard I try to escape gravity, my feet are still glued to the ground. So I'm back to repeating my mantra, because little else seems to work, but it seems so much like the old try-harder game that I feel at a loss as to just how to "trust God more." Not like there's some 5-step solution to it anyway... Though sometimes the idea is tempting when I'm itching for answers and for something besides questions.

Hello...anyone still out there?

2006-05-18T09:08:00.000-05:00

Wow...I haven't written for 3 million years...seriously. If anyone is still checking this thing, it's a miracle...

I think the reason I haven't written in so long is (besides the ridiculous busyness of my last semester in college) that I've mostly been too tired to think about anything beyond getting my homework and studying done, getting my capstone projects written. There isn't much space in that world to think and move and grow--even though the things I did stretched me in many ways. But in other ways, I feel like I've been out of touch with the deeper parts of myself--like everything that has been happening has mostly been skimming the surface, with only brief dives into the part of me that wrestles with questions and strives, always, for answers--the deep, true, rich answers. I'm starving for that; I'm thirsty...

Anyway...thoughts are brewing again (finally)...so there will be more posts

fill in the spiritual bubbles?

2006-03-17T14:45:00.000-06:00

I've decided to boycott the Spiritual Transformation survey that the college wants me to take. Ok, so it's something of a weak, informal boycott and it's also because I'm reticent to dedicate 45 minutes to something other than homework, people, or sleeping at the moment. Who knows, maybe I'll take it yet; I'm a curious sort of person and the unknown is always alluring.

The truth is that I'm somewhat disturbed by the idea: a survey to measure spiritual growth. A valuable source of information for the college, I'm sure, but what do they intend to do with it? If students (those honest enough) say that they aren't growing here, would there be any change in how things are done? Maybe I've just grown too cynical.

It's just that I think my spiritual growth in the last four years is too...well..."big" for a survey. And by that I absolutely DON'T mean that I see myself as some spiritual giant (ha!). What I mean is that my "transforming" could maybe be captured in a conversation with a close friend or a poem or a personal essay--but filling in little scantron bubbles feels way too small and not nearly beautiful enough. I've read some of the questions on a friend's blog, and I think if I did take it, I might cry because the questions feel like the wrong ones and the answers like a foreign language that I knew only as a small child.

ha!

2006-03-16T22:57:00.000-06:00

"Afternoons he roamed the October beach in writerly despair."

(Yes, I didn't explain it--I just read it in a book for my autobiographical writing class, and I thought it was both oddly funny and strangely applicable to my mood at the moment. Maybe my writing friends will also find it funny. Maybe not, but that's ok too.)

the gift half understood

2006-02-18T10:02:00.000-06:00

As I'm frantically perusing "critical" sources to add to my T.S. Eliot paper, it's hard not to get tangled and lost in this rather metaphysical labyrinth...my mind feels like it did in Writing Theory, but worse (or better...I like this feeling)--because it's hard to discuss what I'm thinking about with anyone else--no one else I know is immersing themselves into the black hole of the natures of time and eternity...sigh.

But I am being blown away by these ideas...by their relevance to things I'm processing and wondering in my life and faith. I've written a lot about questions and not having answers, and I've wondered how to continue in a faith that, as it metamorphizes my heart, only seems to multiply the questions because the answers are becoming less and less simple and easy. Then five minutes ago I read this from Eliot's "Dry Salvages":

"These are only hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation."

Ahh! I think I understand! Or at least I have a movement toward understanding. Sometimes (most times) the best we can manage is the "hints followed by guesses," and that's frustrating to me because above all I long to know. But this is comforting somehow, to see that this is how we continue in a faith that becomes ever more complex and deep and multifaceted...we learn to see the hint half guessed and the gift half understood, and we go on what we know at this moment, for "the rest / Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action." And then the thought I always come to is that I would never be satisfied anyway, with a faith that I could completely understand.

pushing around the clutter

2006-02-10T23:01:00.000-06:00

I've been wanting to blog lately--mostly because this medium is a good place to think clearly--unlike real journaling, it's expedient (though not required, of course) that this actually make some sense to someone living outside of my head. Or at least that's what I tell myself. So I rarely write here unless I feel I have something relatively coherent to say. And sometimes it helps: laying out the ideas in neater file folders than the messy desk-top inside will ever compile. But the clutter feels like it's spilled over; the folders are buried under two weeks of back-log, and I can't seem to find them. So this time it's the clutter.

Maybe that's the problem--lately it's been mostly questions, mostly circling back to the same, same-looking pile of stones. I know I've been here before, but I can't break out of the lost-circles that always lead me back. I tell myself there really are no instant answers to any of these questions--not ones that mean anything. But it doesn't always help.

And I'm writing in riddles. I know, but my real thoughts feel too private or too befuddled to voice to anyone but a few close friends. Still others remain altogether removed from it all--at the mercy of only my internal dialogue: an iffy place to put them at times. Which is why I'm learning to leave less of them there--learning slowly that is--because openness isn't natural to me. Mostly I've waited until someone prodded it out, but the problem there is that you can end up waiting a long time. Radical thought isn't it? That you might have to ask for help to get it.

It's interesting to write about this--I'm wrestling over the same sort of issue for my Capstone essay. The piece is about fear--and I'm wondering how deep I want to go into some of mine. I know I need to go deeper. I knew what my advisor would say about the first draft before she said it. I even said it myself while writing it. But it's hard to voice for others the things you've buried when you don't want to look at them yourself. There are boundaries, of course, healthy boundaries that need to exist. Yet the boundaries I set in the past are too small--they don't let me see reality. It's hard to do though, stepping over these old boundaries. However much I'd like to think of them as gone, there are times when they still throb like an amputee's ghost limb.

21 Reasons

2006-02-02T21:41:00.000-06:00

I'm frustrated. At what? Well, a lot of things really, but right now... There are some new posters up at school--21 examples of "White Privilege," some on-campus, some off. I read all 21, which were under the disclaimer that these were posted not to blame but to raise awareness. All the same, when I finished, I didn't feel anything but guilt: guilt for what was on it, guilt for feeling offended, guilt for feeling frustrated because I am sick of being made aware over and over of this fact by multi-cultural groups on campus. I'm hesitant to even write about my frustration here--I don't want to be taken the wrong way or give the impression that I think racial issues are not important and significant. I think they are--and I know that just because I don't see something doesn't mean it doesn't exist--that it isn't real.

I understood this more than ever during the recent "Leadership Week." After listening to male speaker after male speaker (including an all-male "worldview" panel), I felt, well...a bit over-looked. And I know it wasn't intential--someone just didn't think about it.

So, I don't want to do the same thing--I want to be sensitive, open and not closed...but I don't know how to respond. I disagree with the method of the posters--even if I recognize some of the reasons behind it. But I'm still left with the same questions: What should change? What do I do? What's next after being made "aware"? And I know my questions (as pointed out by one person I vented them to) are of the "I want to fix the problem" variety. But sometimes I don't know how else to react. I told someone that I was ok with being frustrated...but I think that was pretty much a lie. Don't I wish.

Another Sob Story

2006-02-01T14:02:00.000-06:00

This week is missions week at school, which means the halls at Naz are lined with tables and pamphlets, and chapel is heartwrenching with stories of Uganda and Africa and world hunger. Now, like most people, I hate being manipulated and suckered with a sob story--heaven forbid I feel guilty or like I need to do something, anything to help these people...But it's hard to ignore this article that Becky linked to in her blog about the atrocities of the LRA in Uganda. Children raping and mutilating and killing...being raped and mutilated and killed. It's hard to protest that I'm being manipulated and made to feel guilty in light of that.

The speaker today in chapel talked about the last generation's fear of the gospel being reduced to merely a social gospel, which perhaps is a valid fear...I'm not sure at this point. But it's hard to talk about "witnessing" (in the sense it has taken on these days in evangelicalism...a sort of "4 spiritual laws hit and run") when I see this suffering, and it's even harder not to recall the meaning of "true religion." I feel helpless...and shamefully unaware of any of it. And I'd write more in this post, but thinking about this again makes words seem inadequate.

The Elusive Hammock

2006-01-26T20:41:00.000-06:00

One of my friends connected the idea of living in the tensions with that of a hammock--that between the tensions you can stretch a hammock, implying that it's ok to live between some tensions, stretch out, rest, and enjoy the fact that you are, for a few hours under an afternoon sun, resting. I like that--and I wish I could sit in the hammock for a few minutes these days, let alone a few hours.

But it feels like my brain can't live inside my heart, or that both are speaking some different language to each other...and they only understand bits and pieces.

I've been thinking a lot about where I've been and what I am--in regard to...well what I'd call my spiritual state of mind, I think. (Or maybe my state of mind in general...because is there really anything that we can separate into "spiritual" and "not spiritual"...useless labels maybe.) I've made some fundamental shifts in my thinking--moving away from performance based Christianity into something more...well just more. But sometimes it feels like my head will explode with new ideas. I think new things...but how then do I live?

It's like I'm pulling off this old crusted scab--it is so good to get it off, finally, but it smarts too--burns like fire really. Sometimes I don't think the new skin underneath is ready to come out...but I don't want to live with the scab anymore either. I have all these ideas swimming in my head, and a lot of my old ideas about life have deflated or flown out the back window as my life morphs into God knows what and things happen. I'm not sure what I think anymore. That's the hardest part...not having answers about a lot of things anymore--now I theorize and think and question and look. But sometimes I think I could drown in this flood of questions.

a quiet beauty

2005-12-28T12:18:00.000-06:00

I've been reading Gilead by Marilynne Robinson this week--slowly, or more so than I would normally read a new book--I usually sit and sit until the book is finished, immersing myself deeply into a fictional world. This book is different, and I think it lends itself to be read slowly, savored in small bites, much in the same way it is written.

After the first two or three pages, I wondered why it had been awarded a Pulitzer--there was little to pull me in, no scintillating plot twist that brought me in, kept me continually reading to wonder "what's going to happen" with every page turn. Yet, I don't wonder why it got the award anymore, and I keep reading with anticipation--anticipating the next page of quiet beauty that moves at its own pace. The book asks that I stop and sit, listen well, look for wisdom, look for wonder in the ordinary. It's not the plot that pulls me in but the narrator--his warmth, vulnerability, and ability to really see have drawn me to feel as if I have just entered into a friendship with him.

It's the kind of book that I read and have to set aside every so often because I feel so full. (If you haven't read it, do!) Here are a couple sections that I particularly like:

"For me writing has always felt like praying, even when I wasn't writing prayers, as I was often enough. You feel that you are with someone" (19).

"Calvin says somewhere that each of us is an actor on a stage and God is the audience. That metaphor has always interested me, because it makes us artists of our own behavior, and the reaction of God to us might be thought of as aesthetic rather than morally judgmental in the ordinary sense. How well do we understand our role? With how much assurance do we perform it? . . . I do like Calvin's image, though, because it suggests how God might actually enjoy us. I believe we think about that far too little. It would be a way into understanding essential things, since presumably the world exists for God's enjoyment, not in any simple sense of course, but as you enjoy the being of a child even when he is in every way a thorn in your heart" (124-125).

I especially like the second one--the idea of God reacting to us aesthetically. I'm trying to remember back to a paper I wrote for Writing Theory (yep, I'm referencing that class in my blog again :) ) about the knowledge of right and wrong--how we gain our knowledge of morality. I think we talked about the idea of morality being aesthetic, and I think that's a fascinating thought--true, but we don't usually think of it in that way (or at least I don't). Maybe it's because the idea of aesthetics has been skewed--or because the idea of morality is also skewed.

turn

2005-12-24T23:28:00.000-06:00

It's Christmas Eve...a night I always imagine as quiet, peaceful, full of candles and echoes of "Silent Night." Yet at my house, everything is still loud laughter, my little brothers running through the living room, toys clanking, doors slamming, my 20-year-old brother on what he calls his "Christmas Eve cookie raid" (I told him he's going to look like Santa pretty soon)...and I can tell my peace-and-quiet cup is bone dry.

I'm trying to fill it, but honestly that hasn't been one of the easiest tasks this year--filling the peace cup that is. Sometimes being quiet isn't the same as having it--sitting in front of the sunrise isn't the same as feeling it deep down, holding it next to your soul, absorbing its warmth so you can pull it out again later in a cold moment.

But that's life, I think--having dry seasons as well as the full, learning to hold God close to your soul when the sunrise isn't there--and when it is. God is always here, yes...but is my face toward him or have I turned my back again? It makes a difference--the light streaming on my face, blurring the future things I strain to see into white, mind numb with wonder, awe--or looking toward sharp gray and shadow, seeing things a little too clearly or so I think, always feeling a niggling warmth at my back, wanting and needing to turn around and see...

advent scraps

2005-12-19T18:58:00.000-06:00

So awful car troubles aside...I really have been thinking about Advent a lot lately...I love the fact that there is a period of time set aside to anticipate celebrating, to anticipate coming.

Advent is both active and quiet waiting. We cannot make the time go faster than it will, so we hold the stillness, knowing each day will pass as the last. Yet, we do more than prepare, we observe milestones--lighting a candle each Sunday, building the first flame into greater and greater illumination as we draw nearer to the Christ child.

That I like this waiting is odd--because my life would mostly demonstrate the opposite--that I enjoy waiting like a dead car battery. I look toward the future with restless preparation; I "martha" the smallest detail, thinking I'll overlook something to complete the end, forgetting to "mary" on the way, to recognize that Jesus is saying something I need to sit at his feet awhile to hear.

Maybe it's because in Advent the waiting is celebrated...the anticipation almost looked forward to: small scraps of the joy to come are scattered in the journey there. But learning to wait, to value and treasure the waiting, is hard--the blessings are often harder to see: the preparations seem superfluous; the inaction apathetic. All the pressure of the past pushes into something new, all the gravity of the future pulls to accelerate forward, always forward.

I despise my car

2005-12-19T11:34:00.000-06:00

I was going to post something deep about Advent and waiting and how a Christian's life is like one long Advent because we are continually waiting for Christ's return...but I'm pissed off about my car and all my deep thoughts are hiding, buried under my black and gray growly feelings. I took my car in to get fixed on the 13th, and it actually ran (mostly) better, so I thought I'd limp it home--anything else that needed to be fixed, I'd ask my sister's fiance to look at and save myself a little money. But...that did NOT happen.

On Saturday I went to get my oil changed, and the nice oil-changer man informed me that my timing belt cover was missing...uh-huh. Definitely wasn't missing before I took my car in... Then as I was finishing up some Christmas shopping that day, my car started stalling at every stop light. Greeeeat. So I decided to start for home....but before I left the Cities, my car stopped accelerating on 94. I was going 65...then 50...then 40...pedal to the floor and nothing. So I limped it off to a side street, called my parents (who weren't home), cried, called my roommate to help me get somewhere besides a Day's Inn parking lot, and cried some more. Not fun. Thankfully I was able to take back roads to my apartment and left my car there. My sister and her fiance drove up to the cities and wha-la, I still was able to get home. Grrrr. >:( >:( >:(

someone else's words

2005-12-06T20:01:00.000-06:00

Blessed are the shallow
depth they'll never find
seemed to be some comfort
in the rooms I tried to hide...

Exposed beyond the shadows
You take the cup from me
Your dirt removes my blindness
Your pain becomes my peace

If I was not so weak
If I was not so cold
If I was not so scared of being broken
Growing old
I would be...
I would be...
I would be...

frail.

--Jars of Clay: "Frail"

an aesthetic reaction

2005-11-29T17:13:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I think I react to the way words are put together even before I react to their meaning--the timing of these reactions can be minute, but I think it's there nonetheless. I've never really pinned this feeling down before, never stopped to notice how it happens, but now... I read this exert from Helen Cixous' (With) Ou l'art de I'innocence ( (With) Or the Art of Innocence):

"And in telling you this, I am trembling in pain in joy and I am crying in terror, as if I had dared to want to tell god his real name, which is not simply god: for "god" is the word that enables us to avoid speaking to god directly. For ever since the beginning we have guessed that if we ever managed to pronouce just once the true name of God, all the truth dispersed in all languages and all the truth of lives that is concentrated in the body and reserved for love, would shatter in a single breath, just as if god, who ever since the beginning has not spoken to anyone had always made our name resound in His language, and once the true name rang out, all words in all languages would become unusable, so weak, false, bare, impotent, unforgettably merely words, the straw of thought, that we would no long wish to speak."

I wasn't sure after I read it what it meant, but before I even realized that I didn't understand it all, I was pulling out my blue highlighter and coating the page in ink...there was something there, an aesthetic reaction, a movement of beauty inside of me to the beauty of those words working together--is that weird? It feels weird, strange, abstract and untouchable. When I realized I didn't really understand it, I started to wonder if I really agreed with all of it, and the feeling became a taste lingering on my tongue.

Restful homecoming?

2005-11-25T18:58:00.000-06:00

Coming home is culture shock. I've spent the last four years growing more and more used to the calm and quiet of college life (I'm serious) and less and less accustomed to waking at 6:30 a.m. to arguments over whose Nerf gun is whose and who had it first and who started it. I love my family dearly, but after a day of dodging little brothers who hurtle themselves like small air-to-surface missiles through the kitchen, cringing at the constant shrieks of my five-year-old brother with autism, and absorbing the mixture of the TV movie, the CD from the kitchen, the CD from the upstairs bedroom, three brothers wrestling in the living room...I'm tempted to sprint for my car, pull my hair out, and scream bloody murder all the way back to my quiet apartment.

And I'm glad to have my noisy siblings--all seven of them. How could I not when my sixteen-year-old sister told my mom that she loves the conversations we have, when my little brothers count the days until I come home on break, when my second youngest brother asked if my graduation from college meant that I would "come to live at home again."

So, I scream quietly inside, roll my eyes at my mom, go sit in my room to bring the noise down to a dull roar, and laugh at them--my crazy, nuts family. God help those who come mentally unprepared. :)

Non-Writing Theory R&R

2005-11-19T23:13:00.000-06:00

I was checking out the Faith in Fiction blog and followed a link to Mark Bertrand's blog which had very interesting and thought-provoking ideas (this is the first time I've ever created a link this way...woohoo!). And I think my Writing Theory class is inflitrating my every thought because my immediate reaction was to Resonate and Resist (my WT buddies: how funny is that?).

But anyway, I "resonate" with his ideas to some extent, especially in light of all the philosopher-ing we've done in Writing Theory about the importance and impact of language on the way we think, our culture, our presuppositions, our beliefs... This also makes me think about the way my own beliefs are forming (I'm finding many of the popular debate "theological" ones of mine are still in utero at the moment) and what "language" is attracting me to this or that. And in light of the formation of my beliefs about various theological issues, I also liked the way he described the "patchwork" of theological and philosophical ideas--because I've found that I hate being forced to pick one side or the other (e.g. Calvinism or Arminianism...). There are entirely too many issues packed into one word for me to say that yes, I'm this or I'm that. The "borrowing" thing feels like it helps me form a bigger theology than cramming everything into some pre-established form. But...hmm. More thinking to do.

intellectual venting session

2005-11-18T12:44:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I think my mind is going to explode--I've finally discovered how much I love to think critically, and it blows me away. I'm numb with thought, with possibility.

That sounds like such a romanticized view of learning, but it's true. I'm starting to look at my classes with eyes that are looking for more than just a good grade or getting the credit over with so I can graduate and move on with life--I'm starting to love learning for how it might stimulate and change my thinking. It's getting harder to sit in those classes that appear to be solely for the purpose of getting students to regurgitate the information dictated to them. They're boring!

Society seems to have reduced the value of education to placing yourself in an environment of fact dispensing and fact consuming. If you know enough about everything, you'll be smarter and able to make more money and drive a better car and own a bigger house and be a good American. This is good to a point--how could you not learn about history without knowing the specifics of the American Revolution? Yet, anyone who seriously studies history would undoubtedly think it a travesty to only emphasize this type of knowledge ! The value of studying history is in critically analyzing the society, decisions, politic, cultures, etc. of the past and incorporating those ideas into the here and now. Critical thinking is essential to developing the mind. I feel like this is a dying idea. Other things have become more important--pursuing academia is seen as a means to a career and little else. What has happened to the love of learning that caused people to become disciples of Plato and Aristotle and Socrates? It seems as if learning like this has become impractical and thus expendable. But it is through this type learning that we can impact our society and realize where we are and have been in order to shape the future.

And I realize I'm reacting here, and these statements are sweeping generalizations. But I'm frustrated that I can't convey the reason I want to pursue grad school to my mom or friends that haven't gone to college or even those that do. I tell them the reasons in halting fragments that I've related before in other discussions and conversations that stirred this passion and life in me, and I know that now they sound impractical, a paper-thin reason to their ears because they sometimes sound (and have sounded) impractical to mine. Why should I go into more debt to fill my head with philosophers and intellectual writings and theories and rhetoric? Because I want to learn...I want to redeem in a small way the Christian academic....I'm passionate about learning...they make me think. Because I want to.

But I want them to understand. Some of me wants them to understand simply so I'll feel better about the decision; part of me wants everyone to approve wholeheartedly so that I'll know it was the right decision--because if everyone agrees, that decision can't be wrong--right? And I'm being sarcastic, but this is the mind-set I'm trying to scrap from my mind like stubborn mussels from a ship's hull.

But mostly this whole process is scary because the world and God are turning out to be bigger than I could have ever imagined and hoped or dreamed they might be. I'm glad they are bigger, but I'm afraid I won't know what to do with that when I've lived with such a small world and small God for so long. At the same time, I feel euphoric because realizing the scope of reality is more than breathtaking and I'm realizing even more that my mind will never be able to fully conceive it. But I want to know as much as I can understand and continually understand into a deeper layer--because that is growth.

In the movies

2005-11-11T00:24:00.000-06:00

Tonight a whole group of us got together to hang out--complete with a potluck and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. (If you haven't watched the movie, I pretty much spoil it here, so don't read on if you don't know the end) It was very thought provoking conversation (as it always seems to be with this group), everything from hyperreality to funny stories to wondering if it were really possible to write a compelling conversion story.

Apart from my mind whirling with the subjects we touched on, I can't pull myself out of the movie. But that's pretty normal for me. I don't just watch movies, I'm in them. If I can't connect with the characters emotionally, I'll be bored and probably not finish the movie. But if I watch and connect, I start to care deeply about the characters and their stories...which is why I usually can't keep my mouth shut, and before I know it I'm yelling at Joel to run from the evil spotlight because it'll take away his memories or pleading with Clementine to see that Patrick is a sick, twisted kid who is using someone else's words to manipulate her. Their stories become real to me even though I know they aren't, and I found myself wanting to laugh with delight when Clementine and Joel finally reconcile...

I wonder why, sometimes--why these movies affect me so deeply. Maybe it's because the emotional part of me is so intrinsically part of how I see anything and to separate myself from even an imaginary person's story means not caring. Maybe it's because I hope that if the story ends well in the movie, my story will do the same--even though I know life isn't like Hollywood or fairy tales, I still think it might be somewhere in the leftover part of my child's heart.

And then I let myself feel because when I think about it that way, I'd rather err on the side of caring too much than not caring at all because I want that child sense of wonder and abandon. To live my life with abandon...maybe that's dangerous...but I think what I'm looking for is to be able to live a life of delight and not be afraid to show it. Sometimes I think we are all afraid to show it.

Simulacrum, simulacra...

2005-11-10T19:53:00.000-06:00

Ok, so I really don't have time for this (homework calls...no, it screams...), but this epigram from a reading in Writing Theory is bubbling like a mad witch's brew in my head.

"The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth--it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum is true." --Ecclesiastes

First, for all those like me who had no clue on God's green earth what a "simulacrum" is, it's an image, a representation, an insubstantial form or semblence of something: trace. Second...what does that mean? Still pondering that one. Third...where in Ecclesiastes is that? Skimmed for it, but no luck. I'm sure my questions will be answered tomorrow, but I've read the darn thing twenty times already trying to unravel it. Thinking is way too much fun. :)

fragrance of beauty

2005-11-09T20:52:00.000-06:00

Where to go from here...an odd way to begin, but that's the thought in my head tonight. Things haven't been great (see last blog post...I just re-read it myself...ha!); confusion...disconnect...lost passion...I'm finding I can't live well with a loss of passion. The popular Christian mantra is not to rely on feelings...stick with what you know; when times get tough, rely on what you know... True to a point, but that only works for so long with me...I can use the garden wall to prop me up, and I appreciate the bricks; they are concrete and solid and I can hold them. But without the beauty, without the stirrings of deep wonder and love and awe, I wither, slowly. Sometimes you know God is real, but you need to feel it to change, to move. Sometimes I need the scent of the garden to turn to it, to remember that it is there, it is real--that it is beautiful and waiting only for me to enter.

All Replete

2005-07-21T21:43:00.000-05:00

"If thou could'st empty all thyself of self
Like unto a shell dishabited
Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf
And say, 'This is not dead,'
And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou art all replete with very thou
And has such shrewd activity
That when He comes He says, 'This is enou
Unto itself--'twere better let it be.
It is so small and full, there is no room for me."
--Sir Thomas Browne

I was thinking about that today...emptiness and fullness--a paradox of ideas that doesn't necessarily make sense, yet somehow describes my present heart season better than logic. There are times when I feel empty--and need to wait like the shell, wait to be "filled with all the fullness of God." Yet, sometimes there is an emptiness that is covertly full, a black hole that hides all manner of things in its seeming void. But the old scientific law that matter cannot be created or destroyed echoes through the space, and if I look deep enough, I see that I am so small and full, all replete with very me. And sometimes, I think I stay there deliberately. Emptiness isn't a concept with many positive connotations; often any manner of fullness will do for a time. But then, after that, it's actually appealing--the emptiness of a seashell, scrubbed clean by gritty sand, rinsed with stinging, healing water. Yet it seems strange, uncomfortable even, to pray for emptiness.

Walking on Water resurrected

2005-07-17T16:51:00.000-05:00

Dang it...Sometimes you just want to kick yourself for waxing eloquent about writing honestly (guess that means I have to actually do it ;) ). Ok, so joking aside, I've finally gotten to do some of that reading I've been meaning to get to...and find myself picking up books that I've read before to see what a second (or third) go-around brings (Of course, I'm reading some newbies too). I've even started rereading the book I read for my poetry class two years ago, L'Engle's Walking on Water. It's an interesting read the second time around.

A couple lines keep running through my mind...
"And as I listen to the silence, I learn that my feelings about art and my feelings about the Creator of the Universe are inseparable. To try to talk about art and about Christianity is for me one and the same thing, and it means attempting to share the meaning of my life, what gives it, for me, its tragedy and its glory. It is what makes me respond to the death of an apple tree, the birth of a puppy, northern lights shaking the sky, by writing stories."

Part of me responds "Yes, exactly!" to that; another part of me is still grappling to understand it, to hold the weight of what L'Engle is saying. If that is true for me, the question arises as to what that reality entails...

back in blog world

2005-07-16T11:28:00.000-05:00

sigh...It's good to be back. I want to give my blog a hug to console it because it has been abandoned for so long, but I think that's perhaps a bit too melodramatic for this down-to-earth girl--and extremely impossible given the limitations of interaction between the two- and three-dimensional worlds (but the thought definitely sparks some interesting scenarios in my imagination--the "what if'" that were actually possible...hmm).

Lately I've been thinking that my recent reluctance to write, my avoidance of anything related to putting my thoughts down in any sort of permanent way, is linked to something that writing forces me to be--completely honest. If I'm avoiding something, or not willing to face things in my heart, I don't write. When I write, my words stare me down, force me to say something true and real--if they aren't true and real, their falseness is so loud, vivid, and painful that I have to scrap them, start over. The subject doesn't have to be related to what I'm struggling with...to write anything, I need to let myself be open. If I close parts of my heart to myself, what comes out is lessened in some way. Others might not know, but I know, and that's enough to keep me pretty honest. It's hard to be at peace when you lie to yourself. At least it's never worked for very long with me.

hmm...This feels nice.

balance

2005-05-05T22:08:00.000-05:00

My mind has been a cluttered mess of thoughts recently. Or, perhaps more correctly, it's been crescendo from a lone viola to an entire symphony of questions, musings, doubts, determinations, and longings. Passion for life, writing, and God is stirring in my pattern of passivity and complacency. I've been officially labeling myself a "recovering perfectionist" for over a year and a half now, trying to actively seek solace from and reject my perfectionist tendencies (ok, yes, more than just tendencies). I want to love God with my heart and soul, not only my mind, to open my mind to "all the fullness of God."

Yet, I've also recognized a tendency in me to wholly embrace extremes--something catches my fancy, and I run into it with my eyes closed, heart closed, so focused on that one thing that I lose balance. If I'm reacting against one side (in my case performance-based, legalistic Christianity), my tendency is commit myself to the opposite camp (completely free from all restrictions, total emotion-based). I leave the North Pole only to pitch my tent in Antarctica. If I leave my slavery to the law only to lose sight of holiness, what have I gained? My heart and mind have been pondering this question of balance in the last week.

I think James captures it well: "the law of liberty." I cannot divorce myself from the freedom Christ has bought for me, but neither can I reject the call to holy living. (Not holiness born from a search for applause and approval but holiness as a reaction, a deliberate movement of myself into the purifying fire of God.) The desire of my heart is passion AND discipline. And therein lies my quest for balance--man, that is hard.

hunger

2005-04-29T13:33:00.000-05:00

Maybe our hunger for God is a hunger to be known. Maybe my hunger for God is a hunger to be known. I want to be known...to be understood. Maybe I think that somehow if others know me...I'll know myself better. Sometimes I feel like I'm a stranger I've only met in passing.

A hint of surrender

2005-04-25T17:38:00.000-05:00

This weekend John asked me what I thought about missions--specifically where I related to them. Little did he know that he was knocking on a door I'd been opening a lot during the last several months. Various chapel speakers would relate the need on the mission field--two women from Wytcliffe vividly painted the faces of people receiving God's word for the first time in their native language. My roommate has never stopped talking passionately about her heart for the Romanian orphans she met on spring break. And I started asking myself what I did think about missions.

I remember coming home from summer mission trips in high school. Outwardly I was excited--I was serving God on the mission field, sharing the good news of Christ...but inwardly, the entire thing frankly scared me to death, and I'd breathe a sigh of relief when it was all over. And I'd feel horrible for feeling that way. After all, Christ told us to share his good news with all people. It wasn't "all people" I feared. It was the "sharing the good news." So I came home from Hong Kong, Peru, and Trinidad secretly deciding that I had done my duty, I obviously wasn't called to missions because it scared me, and now I could go on and get started with my "real" life in the U.S. of A. But lately I'm not so sure. When I hear about missions (both foreign and domestic)--I immediately start making excuses to myself--how I'm not called, how I don't have the missionary skills, how God would obviously never send me. And my reaction is much the same with sharing my faith in general. Instead of looking for ways to talk about Christ, I look for ways to avoid it. I know that isn't the way it should be. I have the bread of life, and all I do is hoard it.

On the drive back from Ohio, my thoughts returned to this now-familiar path. But this time they went further. As I was thinking about my plans for the future, I felt God speaking to my heart with a clarity I rarely experience. He said to me, "Don't hold your life too tightly...it might not be what you've got planned." And I'm still not quite sure what to call the feeling I experienced. But with David Crowder in the background and my hands gripping the steering wheel, my heart began to soften--and it tasted of surrender. I still don't know where my place is in missions--maybe God is simply telling me to open my mind about a possibility--maybe I'll spend the entirety of my life working a 9 to 5. But I know my mission hasn't left me there either.

true words

2005-04-11T16:55:00.000-05:00

I haven't the time or energy to write at the moment, but here's another voice.

"Is it not true that for most of us who call ourselves Christians there is no real experience? We have substituted theological ideas for an arresting encounter, we are full of religious notions, but our greatest weakness is that for our hearts there is no one there. Whatever else it embraces, true Christian experience must always include a genuine encounter with God. Without this, religion is but a shadow, a reflection of reality, a cheap copy of an original once enjoyed by someone else of whom we have heard." --A. W. Tozer

So true. Let me not settle for less than all of God--I want the live symphony, but so often I listen to a cheap music box.

horizontal humble pie

2005-04-03T00:27:00.000-06:00

I went into chapel on Friday anticipating the usual praise and worship with relish--I could already feel the stress seeping from my shoulders. Then the usual announcements began...and kept going...and going...instead of worship music, I was listening to a play-by-play of our upcoming Day of Prayer and Service. I shifted in my seat, nudged my roommate, and nodded to the speaker to get on with it so we could start the real chapel. He kept talking. At 10:48 (chapel ends at 11), I was past annoyance, and I started asking whether this was announcement chapel. At this point, I had tuned the person speaking completely out.

Finally, the band jogged on, and the worship leader began singing "Great is Thy Faithfulness" a cappella. But I couldn't sing. I had gotten so worked up about the length of the announcements, that when the worship actually began, I couldn't focus on God. I didn't have an attitude of worship; the feeling that ultimately overwhelmed me was one of shame. I haven't felt that intense level of conviction in quite some time--I had become so immersed in my own agenda (which to me seemed to be, of course, SO holy) that I missed not only an opportunity to listen to an encouragement to serve but almost the very thing I had come to do.

Scripture reminds us again and again that our vertical relationship (me to God, God to me) is intrinsically linked to our horizontal relationships (me to others). We aren't to come before God in the Lord's Supper if we aren't right with our brother or sister; if we hate our brother or sister, we cannot say we love God. How true. And after some heart-to-heart with my merciful heavenly Father, I was able to enter into worship (albeit a bit more humbly).

more fierce and wild at every word

2005-03-30T18:21:00.000-06:00

Chapel posed an interesting question today: as Christians we are told to not become weary of doing good--and the speaker asked, "What if you do?" She answered by reminding us through George Herbert's "The Collar" (wonderful poem by the way, if you haven't read it, do) of our position as a child of God and his role as our Lord.

But I'm left with more questions. I found myself sitting in my classes thinking, "Yes, he's my Lord, I'm his child...I know this, but I'm still weary, bone-tired--not just physically. It's a good truth, but what do I DO?" As I type this, I'm thinking that her message was one of resting in those roles--but my heart is stuck on the line before: "I raved and grew more fierce and wild at every word." I'm mired in the trying, or more truthfully, I'm mired in the wanting to try. I want to rest and let it all go, but that seems so contrary to all I've been taught. I'm not sure I can find the balance between letting go and holding onto enough so my life can keep running--responsibilities are still there and transferring to a hermitage is probably not an option. I think I want to sometimes.

What was Paul thinking when he wrote those words? Did he ever get weary of it all--the trying and striving--is that what it is all about? Is endurance found in pressing on, or is it in resting? Maybe the resting just seems too simple, or perhaps just not practical, or maybe it's just that it leaves me with nothing to DO. Resting is such an abstract concept, and I'm not sure I know how to make that happen.

Turn up the still small voice

2005-03-22T21:17:00.000-06:00

I've always wondered something, or maybe it's just that I could never make the concept harden into concrete. In a situation where you have to make a decision, not between right and wrong, but a life decision toss-up--should I go here or there, take this job, live with these people, do this for the summer...how can you determine God's will. Maybe I've just been afraid to voice the question before. It seems like the concept of praying for God's guidance is a one of those elementary faith issues. People always talk about having or not having a peace about a situation, or a feeling of God's leading--but I never seem to feel that way. When I'm faced with a decision, I pray about it, yes, but nothing seems to happen--at least nothing by way of a holy nudge or a cosmic, flashing neon sign. Things just seem to work out or they crash from the sky when the motor fizzles out; I take the opportunity that presents itself as God's will because it is there. In that case I feel more reactive than proactive. Maybe I just need to listen more--so I can hear that still small voice more clearly.

It's not that I expect to get the whirlwind or the roaring flames--but sometimes I've afraid I've missed the still small voice. Maybe I'm just thinking too hard; maybe I just wish I could hear that voice in my heart so I can know for sure I'm doing the right thing; maybe I'm just looking for some certain security that I'm living God's will for my life. Sometimes I wonder. Does wanting to do God's will equal doing it?

Yet sometimes I can look at my life and know without doubt that I've had absolutely nothing to do with where I am. I'm like Philip, snatched up and plopped in the middle of the desert next to an Ethiopian chariot--I'm in this place, I don't know how I got here, but I can see the purpose--or at least I'm catching a glimpse of purpose. Other times both roads look the same, and I can't discern God's will. But perhaps this is all part of being human--not God--to press on when you aren't certain. Pray, seek guidance, then use your brain and whatever feelings you might have to make a logical decision. It's just that everything isn't logical. And the question always remains....how do you really know?

streets of gold

2005-03-21T20:14:00.000-06:00

I love driving back to campus from Wisconsin in the evening. If I can leave about a half hour before dusk, I'll be traveling due west at sunset. The amber and fiery rose sky fills my windshield, and I want to stare directly into the sun, until I start to lose the road and have to look away.

This time the ride was especially beautiful--the recent snowfall had melted from the road, leaving it bare except for the tiniest film of moisture that spread like a glaze over the highway. It was just enough so the sunset could be reflected--between the black silhouettes of trees the road became shining gold that faded into a dusty rose as the sun sank lower.

Hungry

2005-03-21T20:04:00.000-06:00

I've been feeling rather dry lately. Perhaps that's why I haven't posted in ages. I suppose we all go through these phases of feeling emotionally and spiritually tired. But I've noticed something. It seems as though I periodically feel the need to withdraw into myself--pull the covers of my life over my head because I'm too emotionally tired to face it. Sometimes I can find the source of my exhaustion--lack of sleep, stress, the usual culprits. Other times it seems to happen ex nihilo. That in itself isn't odd, of course. But I'm finding I don't withdraw to renew. I more withdraw for the sake of being dry--and sit there, my lips cracked with thirst, my emotions comatose. Outwardly I seem to be ok; I'm a good enough faker for that, but on the inside there is nothing--I'm unable to be present to my family, friends, and life.

But I can't sit there for long. It might be a couple days, weeks, or sometimes longer...I emerge from my hermitage starving for life--more accurately starving for God. That's what I hate about this withdrawing most of all. I pull away from him too. But, whether it's good or bad, this is when I realize all over again that I can do nothing or be nothing without Christ. My own attempts are futile; my own food is unsatisfying. I need him alone. I know all this, yet why do I wait until I'm starving and dehydrated to seek him? You'd think I would eat when I'm hungry, drink when I'm thirsty, but so often I deliberately refuse the nourishment that I really need and more often truly want.

I suppose the answer lies in discipline...being disciplined enough to seek consistently. And I want it--consistency, but I'm still learning how to get there.

Grandma Florence

2005-02-27T23:46:00.000-06:00

Several days ago, Carissa's grandpa was diagnosed with cancer, and her great-grandpa is in the hospital as well, so today we talked for a bit about them--and, of course, she got teary-eyed. But before I knew it, my thoughts went to my own grandma, and I started crying with her.

It's been five or so years since Grandma Florence died. It might be a bit strange, but I didn't cry when she died; it's only been moments like today, when I realize again that she's really gone, that the emotion hits me. After she was diagnosed with leukemia, the chemo drained the life from her and she was gone in a year--it's scary to see the strongest person you know become so fragile.

I remember never being able to get through to her and Grandpa on the phone--it was always busy because Grandma was praying with people again--for two plus hours minimum. I was one of more than forty grandkids, but she always had time for me to spend the night--some of my sweetest memories. There would always be a box of a certain kind of apple on her porch. They had a tight, tart skin, but their white flesh would crumble in my mouth, sweet--juice running down my fingers. I don't remember their name, but the smell of them is a permanent memory. I was looking through the apples in Cub a couple months ago and my nose caught that smell and I thought of her. She'd always let me help make supper: sprinkle flour into the eggy mix, push, push the dough with the heal of your hand, fold it over, and begin again. When it was all elastic-like, we'd roll out the dough, covering the kitchen counter, and cut it into strips for homemade noodles. The finer points of cooking were always interspersed with words filled with God's mercy and power. No one could talk to Grandma for more than ten seconds without one or both working their way into the conversation. In fact, if you left her presence without her praying with you at least once--it was a rarity.

It makes me want to be like her--to leave a spiritual legacy with my grandchildren in the way she's left one with me. Maybe that's why I didn't cry when she died...I knew she was just going home. I know that's cliche, but it was true. She lived Christ with intensity--that's what I want to strive for.

But I want to drive

2005-02-26T00:49:00.000-06:00

Trust: letting go of the steering wheel of my life, moving to the passenger seat, and, worst of all, relinquishing the keys. But I want to drive. I want to listen to my own music, set the temperature to comfortable, cruise smooth, traffic-free highways, and choose my own destination. Trust. I grip the keys more tightly in my fist, impressing their shape deep into my palm.
It hurts.

So, I'll let you have the keys now, my hand tingles and burns. I know it's futile to fight You. But I'll form a back-up plan--hold back, encase my heart in foam peanuts to cushion the blow just in case. Who knows where this will end? You don't show me the itinerary. I know you'll make me listen to music I don't want to hear, crank the window wide to let in the frigid February air, make me uncomfortable. I hate not knowing.

My eyes are blurring, lids straining back to open after each blink. You say, "Sleep...I've got the wheel." I shake my head, straighten back to alert. If I lay back, relax, let each mile pass blindly...I'll lose any shred of control I have...think I have. I can't think anymore. My head throbs with worries of journey and, most of all, destination. Sometimes I wonder why I don't just let go, scrap my cushioned faith, and free fall. Trust. I know You know the road, but I don't. Sometimes knowing all the facts doesn't equal faith. But my grip is weakening with every mile. I'm tired--surrender is inevitable. If only it wasn't so hard.

Real Toads

2005-02-23T23:30:00.000-06:00

Just a quote that amuses me...

"Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads." --Marianne Moore

I always picture little black and green spotted toads jumping out of poetry books. Hmm, perhaps Inkstone should take an entirely new direction this semester... (JUST kidding. Really.)

Super-glued Conversations

2005-02-21T16:03:00.000-06:00

Look! I'm actually posting during the day as opposed to the wee hours of the night (are the wee hours limited to only the morning, or can they be night too? hmm.). Truly a miracle.

I'm an editor for our campus literary magazine, Inkstone, and like an idiot I decided to volunteer (actually more like arm-wrestle) for the chance to write the editor's note. Turns out my long hours devoted to arm-wrestling tutorage have finally paid off...so here I am needing to write the editor's note for the spring issue. And I said "like an idiot" before because I didn't really have any idea in mind for actually writing the creature. But I think I might now...(perhaps)

I've been thinking a lot lately about conversations (ok that phrase "thinking a lot lately" seems to be my blog chorus line...ah well). In my musings I'm forming this theory that conversations, along with experiences of course, have a major part in shaping who we are as individuals. I'm not talking about the everyday "howareyoudoingfine," five-minute deals that we all feel obligated to have. What I mean is the conversations in which the words hold so much weight that you feel as though you could snatch them out of the air and hold them in your hand and super-glue them to the walls of your heart. Maybe I'm romanticizing it all, but those conversations are where I verbalize who I am. I put into concrete words the thoughts and emotions that embody my being--put them out there to be listened to, absorbed, and reflected by those I trust and connect with most. Those words let my intimates know me, but more than that--they let me know myself.

While searching for famous quotes about conversation, I came across this one from Laurence Sterne (about whom I know nothing beyond the fact that he was an Irish writer in the 1700's). He says, ""Writing, when properly managed, . . . is but a different name for conversation." There it was: my Inkstone editor's note condensed into a sentence (or so I hope). But regardless, little fireworks exploded in my brain, and thoughts began to connect. As I said earlier, when I converse, I put my thoughts and emotions into concrete words--how much more then is writing an extension, even an amplification of that principle. These Inkstone contributors, through their poems, stories, essays, and art, are beginning (actually continuing) a conversation. They are contributing their part of the dialogue that is formed by literature and the arts. As we put out this issue of Inkstone (eventually!), we are inviting readers to listen in, eavesdrop on this conversation about the contributors' lives. Now the question remains as to what the readers' response will be.

(Im)Patiently Waiting

2005-02-21T00:14:00.000-06:00

Still working on my taxes...which is really frustrating when you have to file both in Minnesota and Wisconsin. One of my lifelong (well, not exactly lifelong of course) questions, aside from why grape-flavored things taste nothing like real grapes, and who ever figured out how to make cheese (thankfully they did somehow), is why did they make taxes so difficult? In my opinion there are little numbers which should go into little boxes...sounds simple right? Nope.

It doesn't help that I'm not the most patient person in the world--the future isn't now and boy does that bug me. I suppose we are all like that, waiting for the next big thing in our lives to happen, so we can move on and move forward. So in that sense I'm not unique from the whole wide world of impatient people. Lately though, I've been especially impatient. Life just changes so fast when you are in college--nothing seems to be constant: classes change like my hair color every semester (I'm TRYING not dye my hair again--it's cheaper!), I haven't lived in the same place for more than ten months of the year, I haven't lived at my parents' house for more than a month at a time, and relationships may or may not be there when the semester starts again. It's a little scary sometimes to think about the future and what might happen. Sometimes I long for some sort of stability. At the same time, I completely enjoy the spontaneity of my life--it certainly is the antithesis of boring.

I guess I'm really thinking about the importance of focusing on now. I can worry about the future so much that I forget to enjoy today--I forget to have joy today. God has given me this moment; I can chose to use it or spend it wondering how I am going to use the moments I don't have in my hands yet. And most often that's when I start to take them out of His.

Sparkly Moments

2005-02-15T14:03:00.000-06:00

I tend to lose things a lot, or maybe it's just that I'm really absent-minded. Like the day I wore two different shoes to class--no joke. Actually I think I'm not so much absent-minded as I'm very easily distracted. Dangle something sparkly or interesting in front of me and there I go. Sometimes thoughts work in my head like that, something interesting (or sparkly) pops into my brain, and I have to follow it or lose it. (Like on the phone with John tonight, I said that I was going to come see him if I had to run screaming down the hall painted green. He wanted to know where that thought came from--I have absolutely no clue.)

It's like that with a lot of things, relationships, life, God--that instant where something strikes you--you can choose to live in it and let it change you, or put it aside to be forgotten ten minutes later. And I'm always left wondering what might have happened had I grabbed onto those instants.

Lately, I've been trying not to let my busy schedule keep me from relishing the moments that ten years down the road I'll remember much more than whether or not I finished my Lit assignment. It's the conversations and people that will stick with me. It's the truth I took time to contemplate that will stick and become a part of my heart. Maybe it's just that I'm so detail-oriented, but I'm finding that those little instants are shaping me into who I am. Hmm. So many thoughts.

The Nile and Parental Wisdom

2005-02-14T01:19:00.000-06:00

Whew, right now my head is muddled in the land of ancient Egypt--the first big test tomorrow, so I'm furiously cramming about Amenemhat I & III, Imhotep, Sesostris I & II....not to mention trying to spell them! So back to the present for quick breather before returning to mummies and pyramids.

I'm also working on the second draft of my freelancing article--a profile on my aunt and uncle. They are the parents of nine kids, eight of which are adopted, including several different ethnicities and disabilities. Truly amazing parents--they both work full time and manage to keep going through their kids' special needs, endless doctor appointments, basketball games, and still eat supper together almost every night!

It has made me think of my own parents--amazing in their own right for raising me, my two sisters, and five brothers--including my four-year-old brother with Autism. I called home on Saturday and ended up talking with my dad for a while. At one point, I mentioned how much I appreciated everything he and my mom had done for me--and he stopped to thank me for saying that. I could tell from his voice that it meant a lot to him. Perhaps I need to say it more often. It's a funny moment when you realize that your parents, for all their "uncoolness" (to borrow from back in high school) were pretty much right all along. Well...it's back to the delta.

A Littlish Nudge

2005-02-11T19:27:00.000-06:00

"Our life looks trivial, and we shun to record it." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Well, after a week of having a blog and not posting anything, I've been encouraged by my friends Emerson and Isaac to write a little something, even if it's not profound or hilarious. So here I am getting my feet wet in the blogosphere.

I'm realizing more every day just how fast life goes by. The routine of class, work, and homework blends and blurs into yesterday, last week, and last year. I just sent out my first application for a tech writing internship with Caribou this summer and realized the quad ends in two and a half weeks, then nine short weeks before summer. Crazy. But I want this space to be a place where I can pause a little from my insanely busy life, remember to breathe, and live without thinking of what I need to do next.