Lost

It's how I feel. I feel compelled to talk to my friend's mom who just lost her husband and my own blood family and yet I don't know what I'd say and I feel as though I should know. After all, I'm a pastor, right? I have words. I'm supposed to have words.

But really, I don't feel pastoral. I don't even feel communicative half the time. I run around in my head, often long enough to spit out a few clear ideas onto paper--reports, updates, half-baked sermons.

I miss being found. I miss the monotony of student life, the knowing that my seat is third row, right side, fourth in and book reviews are due every first Tuesday.

Death has me afraid of what's to come, afraid that I didn't have the conversation I should have had. Today is late. Time is over. Quick, rustle up all the memories. Pull together enough to keep the past alive, to keep it well.

And then pray. Pray that no one will question your tears and say rubbish like, "Oh, so you weren't very close" as if closeness determines level of impact. As if teachers must be BFFs in order for their death to crack your heart.

Each time someone dies, death gets closer and my eyes leak and my head hurts and I wonder why I still have such a strong reaction...as if one day people will cease to matter.

Dr. Warren, thank you...

Yes, you wanted us to learn the importance of "The House on Mango Street" and the themes of Richard Wright but it mattered even more that we included a few sentences of appreciation to anyone who'd helped us complete our papers. Saying thank you to my friend in Lamson Hall Room 234 for letting me use her printer didn't seem necessary. But neither did wearing a pin that said you loved your wife. I had a lot to learn.

You taught me commitment. You taught me that people should know when you're spoken for. You taught me that people need to know you love them. I'll never forget you telling our English class that you weren't going to lose weight. If you did, other women would be attracted to you and you didn't want that. I can hear your deep chuckle and see your head tilt back as you tugged on your trouser waist band and watched our confusion. Does he really mean that? We definitely took part in a moment of awkward laughter. After such declarative statements (and there were several), you either did the chuckle-tilt-tug combo or gave the look that said, "You think I'm crazy, and maybe I am, but listen up."

And I listened.

The twinkle in your eyes let me know you were real. You were crazy but you were real. Like the other times when you'd begin class with a song, your index fingers pointed out as you conducted the cadence. Sometimes I wanted to sing with you but was too shy, much too shy to do what my peers weren't doing. (I wish I could be your student now, confidently frequent your office hours and ask you all the questions running through my head.) In those crazy moments I was sort of embarrassed as if you were my dad--perhaps being in jr. high and high school with your children gave me that feeling of pseudo ownership. Dad, please stop singing. Puhleeaase. Yet I also felt comfortable, realizing that these moments were you and you were wonderful.

You'd pray. You'd pray for your family, you'd pray for us. You were most interested in our walk with Jesus--that was clear. Wherever I saw you, wherever I heard you speak, whenever I heard someone else talk about you, I knew you were a man who loved Jesus. It was so strong that I sometimes wondered why you had a PhD in English. I soon learned that you had something more. You had the assurance of life eternal and couldn't help but share it.

Thank you.

        This reflective paper was made possible because my undergrad English Lit professor showed me  
        Jesus in black stretched out loafers, dark trousers, suspenders, and an "I Love Cyndy" pin placed     
        close to his heart. 

topics i want to write about

Paul...the apostle
miracles
religious expectations
the swinging of hips
how to be saviour
following incompetence
process
value judgements
Jesus: true or false
atheism
does Jesus find us or do we find him and is that mere semantics?

story

this semester at the advent house, we're journeying through our stories and the stories of Jesus. we're looking at our own and revealing several things about ourselves like our family histories, our interests, and our walk with Jesus (no matter how long or short, shallow or deep...). and then we're spending time with particular stories of Jesus, times where he revealed something about himself to a particular audience and what all that has to do with us.

writing out my story has been quite the growing journey. i've decided to post it here. i didn't share all this last night b/c we're aiming for 10 minutes and b/c i decided to switch a few things out. but here's what i originally had in mind. it's a long piece. grab some tea and a biscuit...

My Story

I was born in London, England in the same hospital, same ward, same room, as my older sister, Abigail—she’s two years older. My other siblings are Anthony and Antonia and they’re 8 years younger than me. They were born in Liberia which is on the western coast of Africa, right above the equator.  Our parents, Errol and Pam, spent much of their lives in London and that’s where they met. But my dad was born in Jamaica and my mum was born in Guyana…not to be confused with Ghana. They got married, and after several years, moved the 4 of us to Liberia where the last two arrived a few years later. When we’re all together we refer to ourselves as the “6 family” which, for the last 2 years has actually been the “7 family” if you count my husband, Justin.

My parents are pretty cool people. My dad has always been a great storyteller and he loves jokes in particular: both telling jokes and playing jokes on people. My mum has very dry humor and yet will laugh at the use of whoopi cushions. She’s an artist, great at capturing life with pencil and paper, but she worked for many years as a secretary. My dad’s a pastor and spent several years teaching at a university. Abigail teaches Language Arts for 7 to 12^th graders at a French school in Edmonton, Alberta. It’s not a French immersion program; it’s a French school for kids who come from homes where French is the first language. Abigail is what I’d call “Bad Ass”—she doesn’t take nonsense from anyone and she’ll tell you like it is. She’s also full of loads of love. Anthony has finished undergrad and plans to apply to PT school for next school year. He’s the quietest among us but when you get him talking, it’s on. He’s also the strongest among us, faithfully working out and making it harder to believe that he once kicked my chins when I told him it was time to stop playing and come inside. Antonia is in her last year of undergrad, studying sociology. She’s the most passionate among us and probably the most generous, too. I love her kindness. I’m technically the middle child and I have some middle child tendencies such as being a peacemaker but I’ve received a fair amount of attention through the years so I can’t claim to have been left out as some middle children do.

Our mother raised us to be pretty independent. I say our mother because our dad, for most of his life, was a traditional pastor who spent most of his time with the church members, not his family. It’s what he was taught. I don’t hold it against him although I wish it had been different. Mum’s the oldest of 10 so if anyone can handle 4 kids on her own, she can. I remember being away at college my freshman year. My dad was on the phone and as our conversation ended he said, “I love you.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said so but it must have been the first time in a long time or something because I still remember that moment and I remember that both my parents said it a lot more after I went away to school. It’s funny how distance does that.

When I was very young, I wanted to grow up to be a singer and be as famous as Michael Jackson, but being Adventist, I didn’t think that dream could ever come true so I didn’t pursue it. A part of me regrets never trying. It’s been somewhere in the last 5-7 years or so that my mum has really pursued her art so I wonder what would have happened if I’d pursued mine. I wonder if she would have supported me or if my dad’s job and the social pressure that comes with that would have caused us all to think it was a wasted effort. I guess I’ll never know unless I try and I’m currently not convinced that it’s something I should aim for. I’m thankful for the dream, however, even though it was a dream from my childhood. It reminds me that there are scores of others like me and I feel a responsibility to help them process their thoughts about how a career in art fits with a lifetime of devotion to Christ.

I’m here, working as the chaplain of Advent House and director of ACF for the Georgia-Cumberland Conference. It’s been an interesting (almost) 3 years. When I look back on the vision and mission statements I wrote out for my application to this job, I have to laugh at myself. I thought I knew myself much better than I actually did. Let’s just say that I’ve come a long way and I’m grateful for the growth. Some of it has been quite tough. I’ve had to journey through interpersonal relationship stuff that literally made me sick. It’s amazing how life can kick you in the pants when you find your value in what you do and in how others treat you instead of in Christ. Insecure people can’t effectively lead people.

My first job out of college was as an adjunct teacher at the university where my dad taught—Canadian University College. I like to believe that I got the job based on merit alone but I wouldn’t be surprised if being the chair of the religion department’s daughter had some sway. It definitely helps when people trust the people they know that you’re related to. I taught two classes: remedial English and speech fundamentals. The remedial English class was essentially for people who’d scored poorly on their English proficiency exam. Some were native English speakers with learning disabilities. Some were poor test takers. Some spoke another language first. Most were freshmen. The speech class was mostly sophomores and juniors. That was interesting because some were older than me or at least my age. I decided before the semester began that I’d introduce myself to both classes as “Michaela Lawrence” and let them decide what to call me. Some called me “Michaela,” some “Professor Lawrence” (which I tried to discourage), a few called me “teacher” (which I found pretty cute) and the rest didn’t call me anything (which I thought was funny).  

It was a great year. I learned that I loved teaching so I applied to grad schools that offered a teaching assistantship, both so that I could teach some more and so that I wouldn’t have to pay for my Masters.  During that school year, I met my husband. He was one of my speech students and he’ll happily tell you the rest of the story so feel free to ask him if you haven’t already heard it. It’s a good story. Let’s just say that I never thought I’d date, let alone marry, outside my race.

The next two years, I studied English Lit at the University of Illinois, Chicago and taught English Composition I and II. Again, I loved the classroom but I struggled with trying to save my students. No, I wasn’t witnessing to them about Jesus. Instead, I wanted to save them from their home lives, lives that were making their school lives a mess. Not all my students fit that category; just a few, actually. But all it ever takes is a few negatives to make it feel as if everything’s negative. After my program was through, I spent another year there teaching. I remember talking to a student one night over the phone. I was trying to encourage him, help him do better in my class without cheating or anything like that. When I got off the phone, I listened to “Spare an Angel” by Chris Rice and bawled my eyes out. Part of the chorus says:

Can you spare an angel tonight

Send a little help from your side

Coz somebody’s lost down here

That lost somebody was my student, the guy who’s trying to take care of his mom and siblings and pass my class so that he could remain a star basketball player on the school’s team. I wanted to give him a different family and a love for English comp. I didn’t care that much about his basketball skills. He needed a savior. I couldn’t do it so I was willing to settle for an angel. That year I fought hard to not feel needed in an unhealthy, co-dependent sort of way. And I fought hard to help my students appreciate a good sentence and craft good ones themselves.

My own world shifted at the beginning of that school year when I lost the sight in my left eye. I became a bit of a medical wonder at the school’s Eye and Ear Infirmary and Cardiology department. “You’re so young,” they would say. “I know,” I would think. “Now do something.” But they couldn’t. The damage was done. I’d had a stroke, it seemed. Lack of blood flow—lack of oxygen—loss of sight. I was 24, exercised pretty regularly, ate fairly well, and there were no other symptoms or health conditions that made blindness make sense. Crowded spaces were intimidating for a while as I adjusted to my loss of depth perception. Initially, just walking down a street was hard. “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” You never really understand the value of two eyes until you’ve had two eyes and you lose one.

For the first time in my adult life, I learned what it meant to grieve. I moved back home after that year, took a couple years “off” so to speak. I explored becoming a writer, wrote a lot about my grief, and tried to get stuff published. Nothing major happened with my writing life except that I learned it would take much more than “I like it” to become a great writer. Those two years, I volunteered at an adult literacy program in town and then got a paid gig teaching evening English classes. It was great. Being back in the classroom (without grading) was right up my ally. I also got really involved in my local church. After being involved in a church while in grad school, I’d learned the value of ministering to and with my fellow young adults. So I took that energy back home with me and joined with a few others to start a young adult ministry. I kept myself busy, purposeful. And I processed my pain.

I got baptized at age 14. That’s considered late for a pastor’s kid. That was the perception in 1993, anyway. I was a freshman at an Adventist high school and we had a week of prayer speaker make an appeal for baptism. I think I ticked “yes” on one of those cards they hand out so I was called into the school chaplain’s office to talk with the visiting pastor. He was surprised that I’d taken so long to get baptized. Unbeknownst to him, I’d made up my mind years earlier that I wanted to follow Christ “all the way” as the evangelists like to say. But I didn’t want to get baptized when it seemed like everyone else was doing it. I guess I wanted to make sure that I was doing this for me and me alone. I certainly didn’t want to do it just because my dad was a pastor.

The day of my baptism, I was excited. And then after I came up out of the water, I was thoroughly disappointed. Where were the angels singing? Where was that incredible feeling of joy? As people congratulated me and wished me well in my Christian walk, I was experiencing the great disappointment. I’m not sure where I got those false ideas and you’d think that a PK would know better. I guess I thought I’d at least feel as excited when I came up as I was as I watched others get baptized. I loved baptisms. Growing up in Liberia meant baptisms in the ocean. We’d sing great songs of baptism and salvation and people would come up rejoicing. Baptisms were celebrations. All we needed was dancing and cake to top it all off. I’m not sure how long it took me to come to terms with what had not happened, but I eventually did and I didn’t let my experience stop me from following Jesus.

I’m not sure what that exactly meant at the time. Now it means obedience and time spent in prayer and study of his word so that I know his voice and hear his instruction for my life. It means shifting my eyes away from my navel to the people around me and thinking about ways to be a blessing. I call it surrender. I find a lot of peace in surrender. I also find a lot of frustration because it’s not often as easy as it may sound. I like being comfortable just like most others I know. But I’m learning to trust Jesus with my life and find my value in him.

Losing my sight forced me into a very vulnerable space. I wasn’t able to be the independent woman my mum raised me to be. And learning to grieve meant returning home, something I never wanted to have to do again. I learned to talk to God differently, from a place of great need. I desperately wanted to know the future, whether or not I’d get my sight back and what job I would find myself in. But everything was unknown and the unknown was scary. I became more honest with God.

The Wednesday before I became blind, I attended prayer meeting at my church. The message was on Job and his commitment to the Lord no matter what. After becoming blind, I often wrestled with the question “Why?” but remembered Job and decided that if he could still trust God, so could I. I did have a condition, however. I told God that I’d trust him and that I’d be faithful, “but please don’t take my right eye.”

A few years later, I had a temporary episode in my right eye. Being completely blind for a few minutes is terrifying. I hope I never experience that again. I want to believe that I’ll still trust God and be faithful to him but I don’t want to find out.

The loss of sight has made me a firm believer that everything that happens doesn’t have a clear reason and that that’s okay. We want to know the answers to the question “Why?” but it’s not the end of the world if we don’t. It’s a waste of time trying to figure everything out and it’s ridiculous to say that everything that happens to us is part of God’s master plan. Yes, I believe God lets things happen. In other words, I believe that God doesn’t stop all the bad stuff from happening. It’s the result of living in a world that has gone against God’s master plan. However, I do believe that God can and does make something beautiful out of every bad thing. That’s why hope is real. It wouldn’t exist if God weren’t able to make good out of bad.

So I encourage you to hope in him. That’s my story.

family.

it's not often you get to watch a funeral at 4am on your laptop and it's not often that you want to. and when it's over, you're not sure if you should say you're glad you got to or that you're grateful. you certainly shouldn't say you loved every minute, not out loud anyway.

well, i got up at 3:45am because i wanted to watch my Uncle Greg's funeral and i'm glad, i'm grateful, and i loved most every minute. it allowed me to be there, to journey with my family--even those i really don't know well at all. there's a gift that comes with being present and i got to be present today in a very unconventional manner. is it strange that i'm watching the replay, too?

i took snapshots of some of my favourite moments, like when my cousin, Simon, got up to read a passage from Revelation. there were good brother moments when one began to cry and was comforted by another. and then my cousin, my uncle's daughter, Lakeshia. i'm imagining that she didn't want to read what she'd wrote--perhaps afraid she'd cry--and she asked my mum to read it for her. she may have said, "Auntie Pam, you go ahead," to which my mum would have certainly replied, "only if you come with me." it was tough to hear the tears, to not be able to offer a hug.

one lovely moment was when Uncle Norman got up and called Lakeshia to the platform. it was a "you will come here" call and what followed confirmed not control but love, his commitment to his brother's flesh and blood.

perhaps the heaviest moment was seeing my grandmother walk up to my mum as she stood at the coffin, looking at her youngest brother one last time. the two Lammy matriarchs, you could say. the elder still being a mother, the younger, still being a big sister. neither anywhere close to being able to ever shirk duty, experiencing the first loss of a child and sibling.

the video feed kept running for quite a while after the service was through. i got to see uncles, grand uncles, aunties, grand aunties, cousins, 2nd cousins, the whole tribe...hugging, holding. mums being mums, uncles being uncles...duty still calls and with my family, duty is wrapped up in love, shrink wrapped perhaps. it's not going anywhere. like it or not, they're sticking with you and they'll do all they can to have you stick with them. i'd have it no other way.

memory lane (letter to a student)

my first teaching job taught me that i like to teach.
my first teaching job taught me that i care deeply.
my first teaching job yielded the following letter to a student.
(what a difference a decade makes...i'd say all of this so much differently now.)

knitpicks and other unnecessary connections

i need to let go. my inboxes are evidence of that...as is, perhaps, the reality that i have more than one inbox...3, in fact.

i don't knit often. maybe once a year. and when i do, i don't use a pattern and i use yarn that i already have on hand (of which there's plenty). so no, i don't need to get emails from knitpicks.com. so why won't i unsubscribe?

because i dream of the day when i patiently learn from a pattern and move beyond knit/purl scarves to more intricate neck warmers and hats and gloves and sweaters. how cool would it be to knit a sweater!

but is a listserve subscription going to yield actual dream fulfillment? i think not.

makes me wonder what more meaningful things i'm holding on to unnecessarily. i don't even want to wonder long.

from Knitpicks.com

A Million Miles: Day 1

even though i'm reading through the book a second time, so much of it feels new. thanks Donald Miller for a writing style that jives with my head.

five of us met today. before we got to the book, we spent a little time sharing stories of our own, moments in our times that we consider memorable. one conclusion: so much of what's memorable is either funny or perspective-altering. and as Miller writes, he includes random funny moments along with the perspective-altering as if the two happen side by side. and i suspect they do quite naturally. and i suspect i'm not brave enough to take part in enough of the funny (which was confirmed at a conference i recently attended where we were asked to think of funny stories to share with everyone and i couldn't think of even one, not even a lame one) and i don't allow myself to pay close enough attention to life to recognize enough of the perspective-altering kind (except for when they kick me in the pants so hard they can't be ignored).

i would like to pay closer attention to my life, not in a navel-gazing way but in a stop-and-smell-roses sort of way. and i would like to participate in more of the fun stuff which isn't easy for me because i like to be in charge of my life and many fun experiences that i could have are orchestrated by others.

oh life.

-michaela

A Million Miles

this is like the after party, the space in which we write through later epiphanies or stuff we just didn't bother to bring up during our earlier discussion time.

if your two cents are on another blog, send the link to your post and i'll throw it up here.

if you'd like to simply email me your thoughts, i'll post them in full here.

all the posts related to this book will be filed just over there ---------> under "A Million Miles"...fancy that!

that is all.

Our Father Who Art Intentional [Sermon Link]

it's a different and perhaps "new to you" exploration of Genesis 1:1. be blessed and feel (very) free to send me a critique...

listen here.

my rights vs your rights

surely mine should win. after all, i'm (naturally) more concerned about myself than i am about you and i'm unfortunately quite independent and individualistic in my way of life. it's unfortunate because such levels of self weren't God's plan and God's plan is, ladies and gentlemen, a major part of the current brou ha ha that we're de-experiencing. (de-experiencing because all great attention-getters are eventually overtaken by another day's story.) you may think i'm late to the party. i prefer to think of it as a result of "i had other things to do."

your typical Christian (typical in a very traditionally general sense) will desire to live according to God's plan for their life and will inevitably experience times of knowing that they are indeed in God's plan. a lot of what they've grown to understand about life can be categorized as being inside or outside of God's plan. and for that typical Christian, marriage is in, singlehood is out (unless you're Paul or a priest) and marriage is some penultimate space in time that says "i've arrived; things are now complete." the presence of children adds another stamp of arrival as does a house and a good investment package.

this is God's plan. stars align here. anything outside of this is either sadly unfortunate (such as singlehood) or a sin. which leads us to the next thought progression.

for this typical Christian, being gay is outside of God's plan and gay marriage is (even further) outside of God's plan. and this isn't simply a sad, unfortunate plight--it is sin. and sin is really bad in the mind of a typical Christian. sexual sin is bad to the tenth degree. and, clearly, same-sex marriage leads to sin.

i won't now take time to say what is right or wrong but i will say this: unless we better understand our presuppositions, the stuff that has made us come to the conclusions we come to, we won't be able to make accurate assessments on the story we are now de-experiencing. yes, the president said he is personally okay with same-sex marriage. and maybe, just maybe, we need to get over that. maybe we need to somehow forget what he said and just wrestle with our presuppositions for a while.

and once we've fleshed them out some more, then maybe some of us will be able to talk about this in a more helpful manner. until then, some of us should really stop writing about this especially because we end up formatting strange lines of argumentation as seen scattered above or in the lame vein of "but i have 2 gay friends!"

these are deep, uncharted...waterfalls.

courage

what story do i want to tell? every decision i make tells a story.

• i knew i needed to leave, so i left
• i knew i needed to stay, so i stayed
• i knew i needed to ask for help, so i asked for help
• i knew i needed to submit to the authorities even though i thought they were wrong, so i submitted

these are the stories i want to tell.

thank you, Andy Stanley.

life. death. life.

while coming to the end of a section about his uncle's death in Donald Miller's book, "A Million Miles...," i found myself sincerely wanting more. please. continue talking about death.

what in the world? may be your swift reply. here's the deal.

almost two years ago, i started losing ppl close to me. first a co-worker, then (the next day) a grandmother (not blood but the kind you grow up with and hold dear in that way) and then last year, about a month apart, a prayer partner and then a former dormitory dean. the only death i was "ready" for was my grandmother's. we visited her the Christmas before, knowing that we may not see her alive again. she was old, had lived a good, long life. it was "okay" for her to go. but not the others. especially not the first.

he was young, could have been my brother. i don't know what it's like to lose a child but to lose someone younger than you is quite unreal. and to lose someone so close to God...downright cruel. my prayer partner was also so close to God. every prayer was bathed in the knowledge, the unshaken faith that God will make it alright, somehow. she wasn't afraid to wrestle, to beg for clarity. she knew God could take it. and my dean. in addition to being close to God, she saw the best in ppl, gave me the most wonderfully ridiculous recommendation to a future supervisor. and she was also unafraid to speak truth, to correct error in love. she did that for me. she did that for so many.

car crash. natural causes. car crash. heart attack. that's how they died. but how they lived was extraordinary and far more exciting. and as Miller spoke of his uncle, a man like my four ppl who should have been able to bless the world for so much longer, i wanted more of his life, more of his history. it was as if hearing about him helped me re-experience the lives of those i've loved and lost. even his funeral had my full attention. no, Miller's way with words hasn't simply manipulated my thinking. no. he is a great storyteller but, more than that, he's speaking truth. death sucks. but the power of life is how it's lived, not how it ends.

and so, in what i've affectionately named a season of death, i look out my office window at the bush that bloomed too early this spring due to abnormally warm temps, the bush that was in full bloom the day Matthew died. it now looks pathetic, very few pink flowers left. but when it was fully alive, ah! such a beautiful gift.

i desire such life. God-breathed. full. complete though temporally restricted. enough. and far beyond now b/c it's lived with God.

may these become charted waters. 

post easter

having not grown up with any easter traditions, no easter egg hunts or easter church dresses, i can't say that i have the same level of "fun" anticipation that i've seen in others when it comes to the day that just passed. and i don't readily remember big church celebrations either, no sunrise services or friday evening communions. it's part of my adventist history, one that hasn't seemed to always know what to do with easter. yet i found myself in church on saturday (the day i usually go) wondering what'd i'd preach on if i were tasked with an easter sermon. and today, on this post easter monday, i have an idea i'd like to share with you.

"Give us Barabbas!", from The Bible and its Story Taught by One Thousand Picture Lessons, 1910

begging for Barabbas.

that would be the title. i'd use one of the gospels, probably Luke since that's where i've been lately. i'd begin with the scene where pilot is questioning the ppl. this man is innocent. what do you want me to do with him? and they respond with crucify him, give us Barabbas. 


and then i'd lay out the following...

it's seemingly ridiculous that they'd want to convict an innocent man, but we do it all the time.
it's seemingly ridiculous that they'd want to kill an innocent man, but we do it all the time.
it's seemingly ridiculous that they'd want a known thief & killer freed, but we do it all the time.
it's seemingly ridiculous that they'd want the known thief & killer in exchange for the innocent man...

and yes, we do that all the time...

how so? you ask. well, for the sake of time (of which i currently have little), i'll keep this simple but not simplistic: i looked in the mirror this morning and saw Barabbas. if you were honest this morning, you probably saw him, too. unless, of course, you've achieved enoch status. and if so, up you go.

but if not, you struggle to put your self aside and embrace Jesus. you beg for your own will, your own way. you see who you've been yet your pride prevents you from surrendering so that you can be changed. and in the end, you're trading an innocent savior for a convicted fellon, a fellon who could actually receive new life in Christ but...but instead you beg and beg for Barabbas. yes, we beg for the son instead of the Son!

Barabbas = son of a father
Jesus = Son of the Father

which one do we want?

sure, we could look at other example of how this plays out--our justice systems, our political spheres. but that's out there, an easier space to analyze. the place that truly needs attention is in here. inside you. inside me.

our celebration of the death and resurrection of our Lord & Savior is a great opportunity to remember what happens when we put ourselves first and Christ second--he dies. the story continues, however. in Christ's resurrection, we have an opportunity to remember what happens when we surrender--we, too, experience new life with him.

will we continue begging for the son of a father this morning or will we surrender and experience new life in Christ, our resurrected and soon-coming Lord & Savior, the Son of THE Father?!

okay, that is all. wish i had time to flesh this out, really bring it home. perhaps next year.

till then, enjoy uncharted waters. they are for the healing...

brothers are suspicious

click to read linked article

i have one. and i've often worried about him. i haven't worried that he'll not be successful. no. i've often worried that someone would hurt him simply because he's a black male. now that he's 6'4'' and a chunk of lean muscle, you could say that i have nothing to worry about--he could hurt somebody.

but when my brother walks around in a hoodie, i don't see an agressor. i see the little boy who once kicked me in my shins coz i told him it was time to stop playing and come inside. i see the baby whose lips were always dry, necessitating a layer of vaseline as per our mother's request. and i see a man who (in seconds) can multiply large numbers in his head, dress to kill without a fashion consult, and pray to God sincerely.

unfortunately, i don't view all black men this way. i know what it's like to be afraid, to avoid eye contact, to quicken my steps. and i wish it weren't so. am i part of the problem? i think so. and i also think it's bigger than me. and i'm not sure of how to fix it. but i know justice would help.

we grew up in a typical, racism-conscious, black family. my dad talked about ways he'd been mistreated, not to make us afraid but aware. he had white friends (for real) as did we but he wasn't about to raise ignorance. and both parents used every possible moment as a teaching moment. as we drove by a gas station on the way to church one saturday morning, they spotted a few young kids hanging out in front of a gas station. they weren't black kids but the teaching arrived nonetheless.


don't let me ever see you just hanging out like that, loitering. do you understand?

they spoke specifically to my brother and younger sister. there are four of us in total but that moment was for the younger two who were, presumably, close to the loiterer's ages. my siblings responded with a tone of yes. sure. (but where in the world did that come from?)

we all knew where it came from. it came from the already shared knowledge that black ppl don't get treated the same way so black ppl need to step up their game. and in a couple simple sentences, our parents communicated what we already knew so that we wouldn't be tempted to forget because forgetting could lead to an alternate fate. those gas station loiterers could be there a while. we'd be chased away by now or driven away, back seat, handcuffs.

i wish trayvon martin had simply experienced what could be now used as a teaching moment. but that would boil it all down to don't wear hoodies at night, while black or something else as equally ridiculous. but the brother's dead. to make this simplistic would be disrespectful in the least and reminiscent of when someone told a story for the children at a church i attended many years ago, recounting the life of emmett till, and somehow concluding that the moral of the story was to obey your parents...because if emmett had obeyed his mother, he would still be alive. !?!? i know. ridiculous. a friend and i sat there dumbfounded. that is NOT the moral.

and not wearing a hoodie isn't the teaching moment my parents would drive home today. they'd probably focus on being aware of your surroundings and running if you sense someone following you. but they'd focus much more on the stuff that we can't seem to change--ppl's opinions, and the lack of justice (the presence of which could do wonders...but this far out, its possible good effects are fewer.) we'd probably have a long dining table discussion about the tougher, more complex issues because, as our mother likes to say, we're all adults now and "don't let me ever" moments aren't as meaningful.

but what, really, are your options when the aggressor has a gun? my formative years were lived in a context where guns=fear & death. that relationship stuck with me so deeply that in my mid-twenties, when i handled a friend's gun, i felt dirty. no offense to those responsible citizens who carry guns. i will probably always be opposed to that idea. i'm also opposed to the death penalty but that's another day's post. at my parent's dining table, the question of how we respond when our agressor has a gun would possibly lead us to a discussion on where we live, areas we don't ever want to live in, and always being ready...to die.

because you can't change all public opinion and you can't raise the dead. and for now, brothers are suspicious...even to sisters.

(this isn't all i have to say on this issue. just some preliminary thoughts i had to get out of my head.)

magical. peaceful. miserable.

these three words describe what's often experienced as i step into new scenarios. and for some of us, thinking politically is new.

we know how to be political--as in being politically correct, talking to the "right" ppl, dressing the "right" way, etc--but we don't know how to engage the ideas of politicians without eventually feeling overwhelmed. at first it's magical. ooh. fresh ideas. fresh ideals. exciting logos/tag lines. and then it's peaceful as you rest in the assumed knowledge that all will be well...how could it not be well with such magic. but eventually...eventually, you feel miserable.

how did i get here? and is here where i should be when it doesn't at all feel comfortable? and the magic...what magic?

nevertheless, we have a duty. a civic duty. even we who aren't citizens. yes, i can't vote. but that doesn't excuse me from connecting, knowing, and voicing my two cents. (but it is nice to know that i can't be blamed if any decisions needed just one more vote.)

so how do we fight through the decrease in magic and increase in misery? i'm not sure. but here's what i've processed.

i don't engage because i'm afraid. i'm afraid of not being able to draw the most sensible conclusions which will enable me to fluidly participate in political discussions. so i nod and smile or stay far away from anything that hints of policial debate. really? yes, it's that simple. fear of sounding dumb.

well, that's part of it. the other part is responsibility. perhaps it's the big sister in me that feels so strongly about my impact on others. last year, i organized a praise team for a conference. as we gathered to perform, one of the musicians asked me if i'm an older sibling. when i quizzically said yes, he explained that the detailed emails i'd sent tipped him off. i felt responsible for each person, wanting to communicate every bit of info that they'd need, making sure that if we had any hiccups we'd at least be better prepared to handle them. i felt responsible.

and when i look at the candidates running for potus, when i hear them talk and hear their ideologies, my analysis all falls into my current context of campus minister, spiritual leader. i can't throw up random rants on facebook. that's irresponsible. i can't complain about my day (other than funny, trivial tid bits). that's reckless. my voice needs to speak healthy truths, truths that don't suppose i know it all and truths that aren't rudely dogmatic. and that's all well and good until you get to American politics. this is a space where political allegiance runs blood-deep. talking badly about a party is like mocking someone's family.

i find myself treading softly. if i know someone's ideas align with mine, then i'll talk politics. (face to face though, not on fb.) if i'm not sure or if i know for sure that we disagree, i'll avoid political discorse at all costs. it's much too contentious. i'll save my breath for more serious times. like this Trayvon Martin case, which, i hesitate to speak on b/c of the incredible racial divide still prevalent here.

coward? perhaps.

anyway...

basic conclusion? i have a responsibility, a calling, to speak of Jesus first and last--all other stuff gets shoved in between.

basic resolve? if speaking out falls in line with Jesus' call to stick up for the poor, the widow, and the orphan (figuratively or literally), i'm down for the cause. and i believe that part of that sphere includes making others more aware of the issues. but if it's just me being opinionated for the sake of being opinionated then i'll keep it to myself. and in the meantime, i'm going to dive into the misery, glean as much as i can. it's healthy practice. i'll leave magical and peace to reside in other areas of my life.

what's hindering your service?

on february 24, our main speaker for a conference couldn't make it for the first talk...plan delays. so i had to:
#1. trust God
#2. study the passage
#3. believe in the word of God
#4. speak with conviction

and as only God can, God blessed.

listen here...

the teaching is based on Genesis 19:1-30.

i haven't listened to it fully...just cleaned up the beginning and end. pls let me know if there's a problem :) (it'll open in a new pg.)

following

am i allowed to read?

reading used to be the thing i did coz i liked it (or coz my parents hoped i'd one day like it). and then it became the thing i HAD to do in order to write a paper or feel smart in a discussion. and then it became the thing i did to avoid grading papers. and then it morphed back into HADland. and now it's in this strange space of, "i know reading is good but i'd rather listen to the audio but i can't afford a dozen audios so until that time i'm not quite sure when i'll read another book."

yeah, it's muddy.

i do like reading. i like marking the pages as i go--a brilliant passage here, a stellar line there. my favorite is a well crafted long sentence, the sort you find in translated works but with my flare. what i've found quite fascinating (coz i like the word "quite") is that i've had to force myself to give myself permission to read. it's stupid. #realtalk

and yet it's true. i didn't read last night b/c i wanted to finish knitting a scarf and i've got a habit of not finishing creative projects. and though this scarf project really isn't using my creative juices and though winter has just about passed, the desire to finish still applies. so i knitted and knitted, didn't finish the scarf but almost would do.

and then today comes along. i'm at work, accomplishing several tasks contentedly, when a lull emerges and i suddenly desire a warm beverage and a book. the ominous clouds out my window help me decide not to go to the local coffee shop with a book in tow but to simply go there quickly and return with a warm beverage (and free desert!) and settle into my tall, black desk chair, kick my heals onto my desk (something my mum would never approve of) and read.

but can i really do that? is that in the workers' policy book, section 2356b right after "sick days"? does my boss read books at work? am i allowed to read?

well, before i go into an even longer question session that eventually helps me rationalize reading at work, let me admit to you that i did indeed read. and about 6 pages later, all i wanted to do was write. so i did. it's what you've just been reading and it has absolutely nothing to do with the book which is actually about being a Christ-follower. in just 6 pgs, i'm questioning whether or not i'm truly following Christ or simply following good books about Christ and the good people who write them.

and what about you?

would following Christ 100% make reading a simpler decision?

the curse of should

i've been thinking about how to best reflect on the new year of life i find myself in (as of last tuesday). i suppose that within this particular blogging context, it would be most appropriate to see how my life of campus ministering relates to my new found age but all i can come up with is how relieved i am (at my age and station in life) to no longer have to process your typical college student troubles. and that seems lame and unkind so the question still remains: what's there to write about?

after a really full weekend, i really don't have the physical or mental energy to say anything...and yet i feel as though i should. and that feeling is, perhaps, what i will talk about. indeed, i will. focus your eyes, dear reader, and prepare to unpack The Curse of Should.


let's begin by switching up the expectation. i expect, so i'm guessing you expect, that i'd start by recounting ways i've allowed "i should do xyz" to disrupt my life, but i'd rather not go down memory lane right now...not that lane, anyhow. instead, i want to focus on words that i've kicked out of my healthy-living vocabulary. words such as "balance" and "excellence." yuck. bad aftertaste. they create unrealistic expectations and in my current line of work, one that isn't quite predictable or redundant, the last things i need to be focusing on are creating a balanced life that produces excellent results. that's a heart attack in the making. no joke. trust me--i'm not exaggerating. sleepless nights, tense relationships, stress chills...i'm so over all of that nonsense.

"should" isn't any better. it's a molasses-kind-of-sticky-guilt that clings to me and holds me back. "could" is so much lighter, much more optional. but "should" says, "i've failed. again. no doubt about it."

okay, so i can't really continue well without giving an example of how this recently played out in my life. last tuesday was my latest birthday and as someone who really enjoys writing i thought of how wonderful it would be to pen/type some meaningful reflections on that day. and if not on that day, then no later than the day after. i had what seemed like a reasonable window within which to work. i created the window based on what seemed to be the best choice. (and i'm clearly still struggling with excellence coz i i've used the word "best" twice now in this post.) somehow writing about my birthday two or more days after my birthday was just wrong. so when thursday rolled around, the "should's" began.

i should have made more time. 

i should have planned to take the day off in the first place which would have automatically given me more time. 

based on how much i enjoy writing, i should be in a daily writing routine by now and if i were in that routine, i would have been able to write about my birthday on my birthday...or at least a day later. #ilackdiscipline


yeah, i'm so over "should" right now. more so because of all the ways it has affected major parts of my life, creating regrets that never demanded an existence. so in this, my new year, i choose to live without "should" and i already feel freer.

and in case you're wondering if this way of selectively excluding everyday words is my way of making my life more convenient, let me say this: very little about serving others is convenient; however, choosing not to let certain words direct my steps actually makes me more available to serve.

here's to another year of growth, a more available year, in uncharted waters...

guts & worship

guilty.

that's a fairly good word to describe the initial effects of the 1 project on my life. no, no one was pointing fingers at me but almost every talk had me on the verge of tears and somewhat defeatedly asking, "how am i supposed to make this better?"

i experienced the seattle gathering through a job lense. i work with college students, attempting to connect them to Jesus and often finding myself at a high level of discontent. i know i'm not their saviour--i've gotten over that complex. i do, however, see the need to shift how i work to better impact each student for the glory of God. and when i showed up in seattle, i knew that i wasn't impacting as well as i could.

before you suppose that i'm actually speaking from an "i want to be their saviour" lense, listen to the following--> i know i struggle with wanting to create perfect systems. i know that. but i've actually grown a bit in the few years i've been at this job and i've realized that while i need to change my thought patterns, i also need to change my praxis and the current mechanics of my job can do with a change and must do with a change in order for me, my assistant, and the students we serve to be better impacted for the glory of God. trust me on this. this is so far beyond the perfectionist's usual tale of woe. 

seattle was an opportunity that i believe i made the most of because of how i arrived:

i intentionally packed one book (radical) to read on the plane ride over--and i read quite a bit.

>it got my mind processing the costly nature of following Christ and how that plays out in my life...or doesn't.

i planned ahead of time to find time to purchase a new pair of shoes and toss the ones i had on that were simply beyond their expiration date and not at all helping my knee pain.

>the last thing i needed to be thinking about was discomfort. i wanted & needed to be comfortable so that i could focus and be fully present.

i knew i needed a shift in the way i work and i simply trusted that i'd hear God speak during the 2-day gathering.

>there's something about knowing you're going to talk about Jesus that has you believing you'll hear from him, too.

i looked forward to experiencing spiritual food with my husband--a growing time for us as a couple.

>we do a lot together but often aren't able to simply be present. 

i determined not to make it a meeting trip. i knew a few of the attendees were ppl i needed to catch up with regarding various work-related things and i often do so much better with face-to-face interaction.
>but i wanted no part in that. not this trip. this wasn't about ironing out policies or finalizing plans for upcoming events. this was about being present to the voice of God.

the way you come to a space determines, to a great extent, how you'll experience that space. by the grace of God, i arrived open, i experience renewal, and i left filled...but not a superficial type of filled. 

it was a filling that clearer understanding yields. and i want to unpack that understanding further. i didn't leave with tools; this gathering wasn't prescriptive for me. so i don't have a list of 7 campus ministry tricks that will help my students see Christ more clearly. and trust me, that's the last thing i need. and even though i left with a few great books in tow, i haven't yet read them to know who in my sphere of influence needs to read them. you know how that is. "oh, so-and-so needs to hear this hot rebuke. should i fb a link? nah, s/he probably won't buy it. i could just give my copy. but s/he'll see my comments and think i'm trying to send a subtle hint. we'll see. i'll pray about it..."

no, i just came away with one thing and that one thing is for me. wanna hear it?

i want to sit at the feet of Jesus for so long that my gut reaction is Jesus.

that's all. b/c a lot of our problems as a church, as people, are based on our inability to have gut reactions that are Holy Spirit bathed. it's one thing to be able to map out strategic plans (which i love!) and spend hours planning for a Bible study (which is ideal!). but so much of life is lived at gut level. it's the grocery store moments, the elevator moments, the potential road-rage moments, the random question moments--the stuff you never could have planned enough for but is currently in your face and demands a reaction. now. 

the way your eyebrows move, the placement of your hands, your (lack of) eye contact, and every single word...matter. and that's fine...if we've been with Jesus. 

i've seen mess play out in my own life, mess that could have been avoided had i been sitting at Jesus' feet. and i'm not even talking about morning devotions. i'm talking about a life of worship. our gut reactions are based on our worship. our gut reactions are often based on our hurts, stuff we haven't properly processed or haven't touched at all. how can we possibly live and/or lead well when the broken stuff that could have been fixed is still broken? and while i don't believe God's asking us to be perfect vessels, he does want us to be changed by his presence but first we have to be in his presence and then we have to admit to the problems his presence reveals. and then we have to do something about them. but if we don't, we build and maintain systems, based on our hurts, that only cause more pain.

that's got to stop.

this doesn't mean i won't continue working on a strategic plan. in fact, i believe that plan will be better informed by the time i spend with Christ. i won't stop thinking about long-term issues & solutions. no. the knowledge of my gut reality helps me on every level of my job...and beyond my job. it informs work & play. it informs my home life. it informs how i spend my day off. it has a wonderfully holistic ripple effect.

i desire to sit with Jesus and allow all he reveals about himself to transform my thinking & devotion and heal my hurts...in time...so that i can give others a clearer picture of him (even when i'm still hurt) and not simply a clearer picture of me (which is sometimes the only byproduct of what we call "being transparent").

so just to recap, the 1 project helped me see this: 

when life punches me in the gut, i want to be able to say, "thank you, Jesus," and mean it.

Jesus. Enough.

...uncharted waters.

temptations

Cinnamon Sugar Pull-Apart Bread, a photo by tlboyd05 on Flickr.