Stories

Yesterday I spent time with two friends that I haven't seen in a long while. Friends that knew me when; at a time in my life when things were hard, but there was still room for fun and love. They live eight hours away, and I haven't seen them since their wedding three years ago. But the distance closed in almost as soon as I saw Chris' grin and twinkly eyes.

I met their baby girl in person for the first time. They treated me to a fabulous lunch. They made friends with the waitress, and allowed baby Asia to charm the wait staff, all gathered around her as she plucked unlikely treasures out of our waitress' pocket, totally at ease in her arms. I was so proud of them, showing hospitality in that restaurant as if they were welcoming the waitstaff into their home.

Collette told me that maybe I'd write a book someday. She said I had a story. I didn't have much of a response; I was grateful for her encouragement, a little embarrassed because I find it so darn hard to just take encouragement without qualifying it somehow. But I am grateful for it.

The conversation stuck in my head, and I thought about what it would mean to write my story. It's a hum dinger by some people's standards; blase by others', perhaps. I've lived through some difficulty, and learned what I feel are some deep truths about God, love, life, priorities. My heart is to make the most of what God has given me in this life before I leave it; to connect to the pain of others as much as possible and somehow, in the connecting, to reveal the life of Christ. If I were to write, I would want my story to do that.

But, it isn't just my story.

My story also belongs to others who have helped me, who have hurt me, who still wrestle with demons in the dark. It's a story of victory and vulnerability. It holds precious secrets that are attached to fragile hearts. It is full of whispered kindnesses that cannot be transcribed outside of my soul.

I do try to tell my story without telling all of it. I try to share my life, to listen for God's heart, to look for opportunities God would use through me to redeem what has been lost. To actively prevent loss. I want God to use every bit of my life that sin has worn and wounded. I want my story to be His.

"Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written." (John 21:25)
I wonder what things Jesus did that were not written? I don't know them, but I know Him.

God bless you, Chris, Collette, and Asia. I'm so glad you're part of my story.

My Friend Chuck

I was first introduced to Charles Finney through and article in a Last Days Newsletter. I can't remember which article, but I was so intrigued by his preaching that I bought his memoirs. And, that began our friendship, or should I say, his mentorship in my life. I've added him to my "cloud of witnesses" on the links, to the left.

I like Charles Finney for so many reasons. First, because he read the scriptures as he saw them written, not through the lens of the prevailing Christian influence of his world. He was studying law, and began to study the Bible as he studied law. And, he was captured. A brief description of his conversion is contained in the link.

I like him because, even when he didn't understand why he was dry or empty spiritually, he kept pressing into God, and he kept promoting the kingdom of God. I like him because he wouldn't let people get away with their warm fuzzy feelings of rightness with God; he made sure they understood their need for repentence and salvation. I like him because he was faithful to his sense of duty to God, to the church, and to society.

One of my favorite scriptures is so because of Finney. He came upon this verse when he was wrestling with the idea that, after years of ministry, perhaps he had never repented and entered the kingdom (moody and introspective, these prophets of God!) And the Lord gave him Psalm 139 (KJV - hear the poetry and the words as he heard them):

" Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up to heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee."

That has been my friend Chuck's greatest sermon to my life. To encourage me to expect to find God in the dark. He is not a fragile God. He is bigger than my faithlessness.

So, if you haven't met Chuck yet, drop by and tell him I sent you.

Anatomy of a Day

I started my day with prayer. Whoa. It's a good thing I did.

Have you ever had a day when everything you did went wrong, in some small way? No? I often work so hard on a small task that should have taken a few minutes - even seconds - because some little thing goes wrong. My mantra is, "There's no such thing as a five minute job."

The morning went well, really. Except for my stomach growling in the accreditation meeting, sitting next to Deputy Bill who, of course, heard me and snickered. It took a turn for the worse around lunch time. I had on my calendar that an off site meeting was to begin at 12:30. I carted a box of manuals to my car, then across a parking lot and down a flight of stairs to an empty meeting room. Beautiful. Came back an hour later (box of manuals in tow) when the meeting really started. Ten minutes into the meeting, I began to cough uncontrollably and had to recover in the rest room. Cool.
I got to share in the meeting how our agency stumbled through an emergency drill, which felt like presenting roadkill on lead crystal.
I went home, changed, and went to my truck. I was supposed to be at a friend's house to help her move at 6:00 p.m. At 5:50 I discovered my rear passenger tire was nearly flat. So, I drove carefully (like it matters, really) to the gas station to get air. Just as I pulled in the driveway, another vehicle pulled up to the air pump ahead of me. I parked near the pump and waited. I counted my change: 40 cents. I looked at the pump: 50 cents. Crap. But wait! The gentleman was kind enough to hand me the hose while the compressor was still running. I gratefully and eagerly pulled the hose over to my vehicle - but NO. Stopped short because the hose wouldn't reach to my tire. I quickly hopped back in the truck, moved it close to the pump, and actually got my tire about half full before the compressor shut off. Whew.
I went to my friend's house, and it was RAINING. The other folks helping her needed a tarp to protect her stuff loaded in the truck, so I ran home to get mine. I pulled them out of the attic, hurried back, and returned to find the truck had left. Beautiful. No worries though - I got busy hauling stuff with the Ginster and her Amazing Man.
We filled our vehicles, proud of our industry, then realized we didn't know where the new apartment was, and had no way to contact the others. Eventually we figured out where to go, and took our vehicles there - only to find that the first truck had returned and we had no access to the apartment.
So, we headed back. We connected with the rest of the group (no tears, please), loaded another two trucks, and took them back to the apartment. Things were looking good. We were getting the trucks unloaded in lightning speed!! Then, Mary Beth asked me to get something out of my truck. I thought to myself, "Self, why take the elevator when you can take the stairs?" And like an idiot I took the stairs. I ended up on a floor I shouldn't have been on, so ended up taking an exit door and walking clear around the apartment complex - cheered on by bored male apartment dwellers with nothing better to do but lean on their air conditioners and comment on my stride - to my truck. At dusk.

I've been home now for over an hour, and nothing has happened yet. Not that it's too late. Anyway, it was all very fun, and a great exercise in patience and comedy.

A Martyr's Poem

"Who Am I?" by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. See his link to the left.

Who am I?
They often tell me I would step from my cell's confinement calmly, cheerfully, firmly, like a squire from his country-house. Who am I?
They often tell me I would talk to my warden freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command. Who am I?
They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win. Am I then really all that which other men tell of, or am I only what I know of myself, restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat, yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting forwords of kindness, for neighborliness, trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation, tossing in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, faint and ready to say farewell to it all.
Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today, and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is something within me still like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved? Who am I?
They mock me, these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine.

Solitude

I went out with a friend after work today. We talked about solitude, and sacrifice, and art.

When she dropped me home, I opened my mailbox and in it was my September edition of Art & Antiques magazine. On the cover: "Decoding Abstract Art."

My former roommate, who calls me KA, and whom I call friend, has an amazing piece of non-objective art that her friend created. It explodes with color and texture; and if you hold still long enough, quiet yourself long enough, you can feel it. It reaches out and touches an ecstatic part of your soul that you suddenly remember has been there, all along.

As I fanned through the pages of my magazine, I thought about solitude. I thought about wide-eyed innocence. I thought about third-world slowness, and third-world courtesy. I thought about monastic solitude, and holy gratitude. And I became acutely aware of the clanging and crashing in my mind.

Tonight my friend and I talked about those with callings and gifts that set them apart. Physicists, priests, writers, artists. We talked about how important it is for us to fit in, to be alike, to be understood. And we talked about how important it is to be okay not to be understood, not to be alike, not to fit in. How nice it would be if priests could marry. How great it is that they don't. How our western world cannot fathom the idea of choosing one, and not being able to have both. How sacrifice produces beauty.

I think of Van Gogh. I hush myself, I see his gift, I feel his heart.

Shhhh.

Handkerchiefs

I learned something about my self this weekend.
I helped my aunt pack her things in preparation for a move. She just turned 77, and has only had two major moves in her life. In this process, she has given me little things that have been in the family for many years, because she has no room for them anymore.
Saturday, she gave me an old padded tin box, with pictures of pastures and sheep in varying shades of sepia. It sat on a bureau in their home for as long as she can remember. It was probably a biscuit box originally, but the family called it the handkerchief box. It is full of handkerchiefs; some from trips, some plain, some with fancy embroidered edges, some dreamy sheer florals.
As we looked into the box together, she came to some plain handkerchiefs, and told me they were her father's. My grandfather died of lung cancer five months before I was born, so all I know of him are the stories, and the pictures.
He was a Bohemian immigrant at the turn of the last century. He almost didn't make it here. His oldest sister came first, earned money for her father to come, and the two of them worked to earn money for the rest of the family. Four months after the father's arrival to America, he died of injuries to his lungs from his job as a stone cutter. The family was so grief stricken that they cancelled their plans to immigrate. But, eventually they decided to come anyway.
I'd always heard my grandpa was a serious man, very honest and a hard worker. He made his own home brew, and he fished, and he hunted.
I looked at the handkerchiefs. They were long since cleaned of any trace of him. I touched the handkerchief. I somehow touched his face.
I think I love old things because when I touch them, I'm connected to the person that is gone. Somehow, that contact flies in the face of death and separation. I touch it, I think of the person, and that person is real.
I think maybe I understand why people go on pilgrimage. Not to worship an object, but be be close to the object that was close our Lord.
Maybe not. But now I know it about me.

Fun With Inflections #7

I'll be right where I started.

I'll be right. Where I started.

I'll be! Right where I started...

"I'll be right WHERE?" I started.

"I'll be. Right where?" I started.

Wall Ramblings

I'm less frustrated than I was last week when I heard the radio broadcast mentioned in my last post. I have more to say about it, and I'd like to write something a little more cohesive than my emotional outburst. So hang on to your saddlehorn, pardner, here we go.

The broadcast was nothing new. I simply heard it with different ears. For some reason the books, the sermons, the conversations, the friendships have bent my ears, and snippets of information that once flew through my head get stuck in it.

What's really bothering me, beneath it all, is the church wall. Yes, that wall again. The illusion that our community, our doctrine, our programs, our four spiritual laws keep us safe from the world in which we live. The wall that keeps the world away. Our leaning on our political conservatism as if it were a crutch that God needs to accomplish His will in the earth. Our church wall has a lot of cold stones with many elements to make it imposing and impenetrable. I think we need to seriously consider this wall and implement demolition.

I'm not talking about compromise. I'm not suggesting that we become like the world to win the world. I'm suggesting a paradox. As children of light, we cannot have fellowship with darkness. Yet, we are to always remember that once we were slaves in Egypt. We are to hate our mother and father (our earthly securities), and we are to love our enemies and strangers in our midst. We are called to be separate, and we are called to live in the world. We are called to be the Church, until our Beloved returns.

I finally finished reading Henri Nouwen's "Reaching Out: Three Movements of the Spiritual Life." (Thanks, Gin, for your patience in loaning it to me!) The last chapter is, in my opinion, the best. Listen to what I read yesterday:
"More than ever we feel like wandering strangers in a fast-changing world. But we do not want to escape this world. Instead, we want to be fully part of it without drowning in its stormy waters. We want to be alert and receptive to all that happens around us without being paralyzed by inner fragmentation. We want to travel with open eyes through this valley of tears without losing contact with him who calls us to a new land. We want to respond with compassion to all those whom we meet on our way and ask for a hospitable place to stay while remaining solidly rooted in the intimate love of our God." (pg. 146)

We wonder why Christianity isn't the fastest growing religion in our country. I have an idea. I look back over our early history and see that the greatest growth of the church was during times of persecution. When the world watched as Christians died for their faith. When the Christians were observed enduring injustice with their eyes heavenward, in reverence of a God they could not see, yet they loved. Let's not even talk about bloodshed; let's just talk about rights, and preferences, and conveniences. Could we endure criticism with grace? Could we answer questions about our "prudishness" with patience, empowered by the Holy Spirit? Could we embrace and love those that are living lifestyles we know to be harmful them, and trust the Holy Spirit to open their hearts to His love and healing? Some of us are. More of us need to. We have not yet resisted unto blood.

Back to the radio broadcast. I'm sure the woman who was interviewed worked hard, and that there was value to her effort. I can't help but think what I might feel if I were a lesbian in Missouri. Listening to that broadcast. Hearing a Christian woman hail her victory over the gay agenda. Who will acknowledge the pain and the alienation? Who will reach out? I'd say a couple of bridges were burned in that vote. I'd also say that it was just one more log on the fire.
Have mercy on us, Jesus.

The Will of the People

I ate my lunch in my car today, and listened to an interview on Christian radio with a woman who was highly involved with the campaign for the gay marriage amendment to the Missouri constitution. The amendment specifies that legal marriage in Missouri will be between one man and one woman. Seventy-three percent of the voters voted for the amendment.
The woman being interviewed said "the will of the people" was done.
Two minutes later, this woman gave God credit for the victory.
I'm frustrated.
Not because I don't value our freedom to vote. Not because I am in favor of gay marriage. Not because I don't believe God is involved with our daily affairs.
The will of the people put Jesus on the cross. The will of the people has sent millions of Christians to their martyrdom. The will of the people has justified horrible atrocities - even in the name of Christ - and destroyed cultures and families. Yes, families.
The will of the people is fickle.
The will of the people is a sorry excuse for a Christian to give for getting his or her agenda on top.
And, giving God credit for a victory that we have already claimed as our own is, at best, cheap, and at worst, blasphemous.
What happens when the will of the people approves what we oppose? What then? What are the weapons of our warfare, Christian? Will we threaten? Will we pout? Will we pray?
And then, when we lose, does that mean God didn't do his job? Really, what does it mean?
What is the will of God? Really? Is it that we keep the flood of humanity - in all its grasping for life in whatever way it will - at bay, behind our bible dam? What?
There was nothing in that radio show that bolstered my faith, other than that it firmed my resolve to want to hear the voice of the One who loves us.
Sorry, Mike Wittmer, but I just gots to sing, "This world is not my home, I'm just a passin' thru..."