Age 6:
I sat with my father on the floor of our green carpeted living room. He sat facing our small television, his back up against our slouching, beige and brown striped couch, relaxing drinking a bottle of beer. I sat crossed-legged, facing my dad, looking intently at the Scrabble board, the only board game my dad enjoyed playing. From the static-stained television set news coverage of the 1988 presidential race gurgled into our living room. Although I don’t recall clearly, I think that we were watching one of the party conventions. The men on tv were talking about a lot of topics which my six year old mind could not grasp, but I deciphered two keys words they kept using again and again: Republican and Democrat. From the inflections in their voices, it seemed to me that the Republicans and Democrats did not get along.
After I played my word, I asked my dad, a bricklayer who spent his days laboring in the cold winds of Colorado’s Front Range, “What’s the difference between Democrats and Republicans?”
My father set his beer down, brushed his thick calloused hand through his thinning hair and pushed a sigh out from bearded lips.
“Well,” he said calmly, “Republicans have money and Democrats don’t.”
Again, I looked at the men on our small tv, propped on a makeshift entertainment center. I looked past my father’s large frame at my mother ironing in our kitchen. We had a washing machine, but no dryer, so we would hang our clothes out on the line in the backyard. Those same winds in which my father spent his days mixing concrete and building houses dried our clothes. We lived on five acres of prairie land in a yellow single-wide trailer my parents moved into shortly before I was born. The trailer had just enough room for the three of us, and by just enough, I mean barely any room at all. The kitchen, dining and living rooms, were essentially all one area, the kitchen and living room separated by a small peninsula of counter top next to the front door. My parents installed a wood-burning stove and my father built a hearth with bricks he retrieved from various job sites. Down the hall from where my mother was ironing was my bedroom, which was barely large enough to hold my bed. Past that was the bathroom, where our washing machine was and a space heater ran through the night. The master bedroom, which took up the last section of the trailer, was small enough that an eight foot by ten foot Navajo rug covered most of the wall behind my parents’ bed.
I looked back at my father, absorbing the definition he had just provided, describing the two great political parties of the United States of America.
“So, then, we’re Democrats, right?”
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I hate snow. I really truly with all that is within me, hate snow. It's wet and cold and really mucks everything up, particulary an early morning drive.
When I left my house this morning, it was just starting to snow, when I got to the freeway it was snowing harder and by the time I got near my office I and my other commuters were surviving amisdt white out conditions (by the way have you ever noticed on the news that they always say near white out conditions, but not white out conditions. These were white out conditions.)
Also, the tires on my car are bald like an eagle. And my car is very low on oil, it makes this beeping sound like a bomb about to explode everytime I turn a corner. And my windshield is cracked. My car is a death trap. I in fact defy death at every turn.
About half a mile away from my office, things started getting pretty hetic. I was fishtailling back and forth in my lane, putting all of concentration into predicting the next angle my car would turn at so that I could react appropriately with the steering wheel. During this time, I learned two things. 1. It really does make sense to turn the steering wheel into the direction that your car is swerving and 2. Jesus listens to me when I really desperately cry out for help. Never in my life have the words, "Jesus help me please. Please Jesus I need you." slipped past my lips so many times. My heart was genuine too, I really needed his help.
My office is on top of a hill, and as I turned around the bend, reminding myself to ignore that bomb-like beeping my dashboard emitted, my car stopped moving forward. My tires were still turning, but I most certainly was not going anywhere. I front of me there was a large city bus and a couple cars stuck behind it. To my right, several cars were already stuck curbside. I weighed my options, pushed forward a handful more feet and tried to pull my car over to the side of the road. I can admit defeat. Sometimes.
I called my boss to explain my situation, I was halfheartedly hoping that he would excuse me from work and my roommate who has a truck would come pick me up, no such luck. Dean, my boss, is an interesting fellow. He's British and Mormon and well-educated. He's always worked in the world of florescent lights and cubicles, but he's sort of a man's man as well. Most days around the office he finishes his desk work and finds some sort of project involving a hammer and nails with which to end the day.
So I waited in my car, listening to NPR, and wondered if Dean and another one of my co-workers Mark would actually be able to get my car unstuck. While I was waiting, at least a half a dozen other cars got stuck on the hill where I was, and there was still the bus to contend with.
Dean and Mark came around the corner, carrying a blue snow shovel, covered in snow. In the time that my car sat there, an inch of wet, heavy, hate-worthy snow had accumulated on my windshield. For some reason was really proud of Dean and Mark when they cam around that corner, I knew they were on their way to rescue me, and that eventually, the situatuion would be resolved.
In order to get my car out, they need to move the cars in front of me, so they starting at the top of the hill, pushing and shoving cars in the slush and muck. Once they got to work an interesting thing happened, all the other men in their cars that we're stuck in the snow, or just waiting in traffic, got out of their cars and began a community effort to serve their neighbors, and get us either back on the road or at least to a safe place.
These men had the inititive to lead, because they had a vested interest in the circumstance: me. On both a personal and professional level, they were concerned about my well-being, so the stepped to the plate. The other men perhaps didn't have a vested situation in the circumstance, but they did have an example to follow, showing them was they needed to do.
How often does that happen in the church? Everyone sits in their cars, in their individual lives, minding their own business. We might see what's going on with the people around us, but don't have the drive to really get involved in their lives. It takes a leader to get us up and moving.
Leader is sort of an aggrandized term in both the professional and religious worlds, but it's really just an example, some one to follow. Like Paul said, "Follow me, as I follow Christ." A leader doesn't have to do anything but me one step ahead of the of those who are following.
When I left my house this morning, it was just starting to snow, when I got to the freeway it was snowing harder and by the time I got near my office I and my other commuters were surviving amisdt white out conditions (by the way have you ever noticed on the news that they always say near white out conditions, but not white out conditions. These were white out conditions.)
Also, the tires on my car are bald like an eagle. And my car is very low on oil, it makes this beeping sound like a bomb about to explode everytime I turn a corner. And my windshield is cracked. My car is a death trap. I in fact defy death at every turn.
About half a mile away from my office, things started getting pretty hetic. I was fishtailling back and forth in my lane, putting all of concentration into predicting the next angle my car would turn at so that I could react appropriately with the steering wheel. During this time, I learned two things. 1. It really does make sense to turn the steering wheel into the direction that your car is swerving and 2. Jesus listens to me when I really desperately cry out for help. Never in my life have the words, "Jesus help me please. Please Jesus I need you." slipped past my lips so many times. My heart was genuine too, I really needed his help.
My office is on top of a hill, and as I turned around the bend, reminding myself to ignore that bomb-like beeping my dashboard emitted, my car stopped moving forward. My tires were still turning, but I most certainly was not going anywhere. I front of me there was a large city bus and a couple cars stuck behind it. To my right, several cars were already stuck curbside. I weighed my options, pushed forward a handful more feet and tried to pull my car over to the side of the road. I can admit defeat. Sometimes.
I called my boss to explain my situation, I was halfheartedly hoping that he would excuse me from work and my roommate who has a truck would come pick me up, no such luck. Dean, my boss, is an interesting fellow. He's British and Mormon and well-educated. He's always worked in the world of florescent lights and cubicles, but he's sort of a man's man as well. Most days around the office he finishes his desk work and finds some sort of project involving a hammer and nails with which to end the day.
So I waited in my car, listening to NPR, and wondered if Dean and another one of my co-workers Mark would actually be able to get my car unstuck. While I was waiting, at least a half a dozen other cars got stuck on the hill where I was, and there was still the bus to contend with.
Dean and Mark came around the corner, carrying a blue snow shovel, covered in snow. In the time that my car sat there, an inch of wet, heavy, hate-worthy snow had accumulated on my windshield. For some reason was really proud of Dean and Mark when they cam around that corner, I knew they were on their way to rescue me, and that eventually, the situatuion would be resolved.
In order to get my car out, they need to move the cars in front of me, so they starting at the top of the hill, pushing and shoving cars in the slush and muck. Once they got to work an interesting thing happened, all the other men in their cars that we're stuck in the snow, or just waiting in traffic, got out of their cars and began a community effort to serve their neighbors, and get us either back on the road or at least to a safe place.
These men had the inititive to lead, because they had a vested interest in the circumstance: me. On both a personal and professional level, they were concerned about my well-being, so the stepped to the plate. The other men perhaps didn't have a vested situation in the circumstance, but they did have an example to follow, showing them was they needed to do.
How often does that happen in the church? Everyone sits in their cars, in their individual lives, minding their own business. We might see what's going on with the people around us, but don't have the drive to really get involved in their lives. It takes a leader to get us up and moving.
Leader is sort of an aggrandized term in both the professional and religious worlds, but it's really just an example, some one to follow. Like Paul said, "Follow me, as I follow Christ." A leader doesn't have to do anything but me one step ahead of the of those who are following.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Via E-mail
Ten:
Talk me out of buying a digital camera. Suddenly, in the last ten days, it seems to me that I am living a reduced quality of life because I don't have a digital camara. I rel real Really want one, all the sudden. Like I can't go on with out it, and am will to make a huge financial blunder in order to obtain one. I don't know why, it's so ut of character, normally I don't care about stuff.
Sierra:
Do you think Paul sold ALL his worldly belongings in order to buy a digital camera?
Ten:
Damn ... you're good.
Really.
Really.
Sierra:
I know how to get to ya.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Proximity
I drive the same road to work every morning. I’m well convinced that I could do it in my sleep, because most mornings I’m no where near awake.
I am employed by the University of Utah, there’s a hospital on campus, so with the school and medical facilities combined, the U as it’s affectionately known, is the state’s largest employer. Some 30,000 people commute to the U every morning. It’s a city of its own accord, like NORAD or the Vatican. There is only one way by which one can enter this city. When 30,000 people all need to be at work at eight a.m. and there is only one way to get to that work, some of us are going to be late, because traffic stops.
I’ve noticed something in those gridlocked moments. I’m not commuting alone. Obviously there are hundreds of other people on the road every morning with me. But recently I’ve realized that I actually see the same cars everyday.
There's the metallic blue Audi with the personalized license plate driven by Dr. Aaah. I don't get it.
There’s the green Subaru Outback with the KRCL and Sierra Club stickers on the back.
An interruption: My friend Megan has this joke about all the Subaru Outback's in the Salt Lake Valley. It 's a practical car for this part of the world, so there's quite a few of them out on our roads. My friend Megan jokes about how all the Outback's are driven by middle class former hippies, rear windows emblazoned with of bumper stickers of a couple classic rock bands or some anti George Bush rhetoric and there is almost always a golden retriever hanging out in the back of the wagon. I always laugh at this joke, and then I laugh a lot harder when I remember that my parents are middle class hippies who recently bought a used Subaru Outback. They left the previous owner’s Grateful Dead sticker on the hatchback because well, they love the dead. And my parents have two golden retrievers. Their names are Dagwood and Camilla, if you’re interested.
Back to the gridlock.
There’s the grey Pontiac Sunbird, which is probably the only care I see on a regular basis which is more beat up than mine, the grey paint is deteriorating to show some canary yellow and maroon undertones. I’d like to perform an archaeological expedition on this car to determine where its roots really are.
I see these cars everyday. Therefore I see their drivers everyday, I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. Sometimes I wonder what’s going on in their car, what radio station they are listening to, and how they might be counting the minutes on their dashboard clock before they have to rush into their office intentionally grumbling about how terrible the traffic is on Foothill so their boss thinks that it is the reason they are late and that their tardiness has nothing to do with the Starbucks cup in their hand.
What?
I’m what I would I consider myself to be a regular at the Starbucks near my office. Or maybe I’m a semi-regular; I don’t know what the perimeters really are. I see the same baristas when I go into Starbucks, but they never seem to remember that I’m the venti vanilla Americano. I’m self-important, I know. I write a blog.
Some mornings I see this kid who is usually wearing an UnderOath t-shirt. He does not wear a coat. He sits outside smoking cigarettes, listening to his iPod and sipping on an iced coffee treat. Most mornings when I walk past him, I take a deep breath of second hand smoke and smirk. He probably wonders what the deal is with this girl who has a breathing problem and a twisted mouth. He probably feels sorry for me. I would.
I smirk because of his t-shirt. Underoath is a Christian hardcore band that is apparently a big deal. I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that by God’s grace and ordinance, once upon a time my friend Jaymi met the drummer of Underoath. Once upon a time, Jaymi fell in love with the drummer of Underoath and to my surprise, the drummer of Underoath fell in love back. (Let me make this abundantly clear. The surprise has nothing to do with Jaymi, she’s rad, in fact I would be more surprised he had not fallen in love with her. The surprise part stems from the fulfillment of the teenage fantasy of the cutest guy in your favorite band actually liking you back. )
So, Jaymi loves Aaron. Aaron loves Jaymi. Jaymi moves to Florida to be with Aaron, and her church family and friends think they will never see her again.
Until this summer. Aaron proposed to Jaymi. After spending some time with Jaymi’s friends and family in Salt Lake City throughout their courtship, Aaron decides to move he and Jaymi permanently to SLC because Aaron knows it’s the best atmosphere for Jaymi to be in while he’s out on tour. Aaron loves Jaymi.Their house in Salt Lake is about four blocks away from my office. The Starbucks I frequent is about five blocks away from my office.
I smirk each morning at this boy smoking his cigarettes and sipping his coffee wearing a t-shirt of my friend’s band because he is oblivious to the fact that his hero’s house is a stone’s throw away. (Assuming that you are John Elway. If you’re me, this analogy would mean that his house was approximately 12.8 feet away. I throw like a girl.)
This kid has no idea.
My computer at work stopped functioning. While I’m waiting for a new one, I’m using another computer in the reception area of my office that I share with my co-worker Alli. This computer is much closer in proximity to Alli’s desk than my old computer was. I’ve been at this job for about six months and I still refer to Alli as my co-worker rather than friend. I spend forty hours of my week with her, and we’re still in the over-polite-get-to-know-you phase of our work relationship. That was before the last few weeks of sitting right next to her. Slowing, she is becoming my friend, Alli. Although we have very little in common, we are physically close enough to share what’s going on in each other lives.
I’ve come to this conclusion. To live in community you must actually, physically live with each other. I’m not talking about some sort of crazy hippie commune (or am I, there is something really appealing to me about brotherly love and common resources … ). I mean we must live our lives with one another. Enough of the whitewash exterior we present our friends during fellowship time at church or at small group or wherever. I’m talking about making a decision individually and within a community of believers to put others before yourself, to live in such a way that your needs are last and others are first. Think about that, if all of your friends, or even most of your friends, or even some of your friends lived that way, your needs would be met. They really would.I could really go on and on and on about this idea, about the beauty of the church, about our identity as God's children and therefore brothers and sisters. I could quote all the "one another" verses that Paul admonishes the New Testament church with, but that's not my point. Knowledge of what we are supposed to do and actually doing it are totally different things. I can't roll down my window and start up a conversation with Dr. Aaahh. I can't walk my little Starbucks buddy over to Aaron's house to shake his hand. But I can listen to my friend Alli. And I can pray for her. I can listen to my roommates and I can pray with them. I can serve Alli, and I can serve my small group. I can, by the power of the Holy Spirit, act out those "one another" verses in my life with at least one other person, even if that's all.
I don't know. Maybe all this means I should just look into purchasing a Subaru and a new puppy.
I am employed by the University of Utah, there’s a hospital on campus, so with the school and medical facilities combined, the U as it’s affectionately known, is the state’s largest employer. Some 30,000 people commute to the U every morning. It’s a city of its own accord, like NORAD or the Vatican. There is only one way by which one can enter this city. When 30,000 people all need to be at work at eight a.m. and there is only one way to get to that work, some of us are going to be late, because traffic stops.
I’ve noticed something in those gridlocked moments. I’m not commuting alone. Obviously there are hundreds of other people on the road every morning with me. But recently I’ve realized that I actually see the same cars everyday.
There's the metallic blue Audi with the personalized license plate driven by Dr. Aaah. I don't get it.
There’s the green Subaru Outback with the KRCL and Sierra Club stickers on the back.
An interruption: My friend Megan has this joke about all the Subaru Outback's in the Salt Lake Valley. It 's a practical car for this part of the world, so there's quite a few of them out on our roads. My friend Megan jokes about how all the Outback's are driven by middle class former hippies, rear windows emblazoned with of bumper stickers of a couple classic rock bands or some anti George Bush rhetoric and there is almost always a golden retriever hanging out in the back of the wagon. I always laugh at this joke, and then I laugh a lot harder when I remember that my parents are middle class hippies who recently bought a used Subaru Outback. They left the previous owner’s Grateful Dead sticker on the hatchback because well, they love the dead. And my parents have two golden retrievers. Their names are Dagwood and Camilla, if you’re interested.
Back to the gridlock.
There’s the grey Pontiac Sunbird, which is probably the only care I see on a regular basis which is more beat up than mine, the grey paint is deteriorating to show some canary yellow and maroon undertones. I’d like to perform an archaeological expedition on this car to determine where its roots really are.
I see these cars everyday. Therefore I see their drivers everyday, I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. Sometimes I wonder what’s going on in their car, what radio station they are listening to, and how they might be counting the minutes on their dashboard clock before they have to rush into their office intentionally grumbling about how terrible the traffic is on Foothill so their boss thinks that it is the reason they are late and that their tardiness has nothing to do with the Starbucks cup in their hand.
What?
++++++++++++++++++++
I’m what I would I consider myself to be a regular at the Starbucks near my office. Or maybe I’m a semi-regular; I don’t know what the perimeters really are. I see the same baristas when I go into Starbucks, but they never seem to remember that I’m the venti vanilla Americano. I’m self-important, I know. I write a blog.
Some mornings I see this kid who is usually wearing an UnderOath t-shirt. He does not wear a coat. He sits outside smoking cigarettes, listening to his iPod and sipping on an iced coffee treat. Most mornings when I walk past him, I take a deep breath of second hand smoke and smirk. He probably wonders what the deal is with this girl who has a breathing problem and a twisted mouth. He probably feels sorry for me. I would.
I smirk because of his t-shirt. Underoath is a Christian hardcore band that is apparently a big deal. I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that by God’s grace and ordinance, once upon a time my friend Jaymi met the drummer of Underoath. Once upon a time, Jaymi fell in love with the drummer of Underoath and to my surprise, the drummer of Underoath fell in love back. (Let me make this abundantly clear. The surprise has nothing to do with Jaymi, she’s rad, in fact I would be more surprised he had not fallen in love with her. The surprise part stems from the fulfillment of the teenage fantasy of the cutest guy in your favorite band actually liking you back. )
So, Jaymi loves Aaron. Aaron loves Jaymi. Jaymi moves to Florida to be with Aaron, and her church family and friends think they will never see her again.
Until this summer. Aaron proposed to Jaymi. After spending some time with Jaymi’s friends and family in Salt Lake City throughout their courtship, Aaron decides to move he and Jaymi permanently to SLC because Aaron knows it’s the best atmosphere for Jaymi to be in while he’s out on tour. Aaron loves Jaymi.
I smirk each morning at this boy smoking his cigarettes and sipping his coffee wearing a t-shirt of my friend’s band because he is oblivious to the fact that his hero’s house is a stone’s throw away. (Assuming that you are John Elway. If you’re me, this analogy would mean that his house was approximately 12.8 feet away. I throw like a girl.)
This kid has no idea.
++++++++++++++++++++
My computer at work stopped functioning. While I’m waiting for a new one, I’m using another computer in the reception area of my office that I share with my co-worker Alli. This computer is much closer in proximity to Alli’s desk than my old computer was. I’ve been at this job for about six months and I still refer to Alli as my co-worker rather than friend. I spend forty hours of my week with her, and we’re still in the over-polite-get-to-know-you phase of our work relationship. That was before the last few weeks of sitting right next to her. Slowing, she is becoming my friend, Alli. Although we have very little in common, we are physically close enough to share what’s going on in each other lives.
I’ve come to this conclusion. To live in community you must actually, physically live with each other. I’m not talking about some sort of crazy hippie commune (or am I, there is something really appealing to me about brotherly love and common resources … ). I mean we must live our lives with one another. Enough of the whitewash exterior we present our friends during fellowship time at church or at small group or wherever. I’m talking about making a decision individually and within a community of believers to put others before yourself, to live in such a way that your needs are last and others are first. Think about that, if all of your friends, or even most of your friends, or even some of your friends lived that way, your needs would be met. They really would.
I don't know. Maybe all this means I should just look into purchasing a Subaru and a new puppy.
Someone's Dreams
On Mondays, I race home after work with a specific agenda in mind: to change change out of my stuffy workwear into recess clothes, eat a semi-decent meal and perhaps have a smidgen of conversation with one of my roommates before I race off to my six o’clock class. I don’t have the dough to fork over for a campus parking pass, so each week I park in the visitor lot where I’m charged two dollars if I arrive before 5:45. If I arrive at 5:46, I am charged only one dollar. My professor has a bad habit of starting class at 5:55, so it is crucial that I enter the parking lot, find a space, and get to class within the slim window of 5:46-5:53.
One particualr Monday, I was thinking to myself that I was developing quite the knack for timing all these things, and smushing what could take some people an hour and a half into just a half an hour. I felt pretty good while dressing up my day old baked potato with all the fixin’s (because really, what reason is there to eat a baked potato if not for the fixin's?). Then I looked at the clock. I had a mere three minutes to eat my dinner.
I looked at my baked potato, all hot and steamy and melty with butter and sour cream. I looked at my diet coke, refreshingly fizzy after just popping the can open. I sighed and looked at the clock again. I would have to multi-task. So I did what any single person would do, I decided just to take my potato and my diet coke in the car with me. This meal was not exactly what one would consider a to-go food, but it was delicious and surprisingly easy to manage on the freeway.
I love being alone in my car with the radio at high volume. I am that girl who you make fun of at stoplights as she sings and dances, forgetting that a large portion of the material the makes up her car is glass and that she is really not alone at all. As I neared campus a particularly enjoyable song came on the radio frequency 100.7 FM (the music that makes you feel good). This surprises most people, but I have a deep fondness for pop music and bad hip hop. It’s a passion I can typically only indulge in alone in my automobile. Singing along to a certain Nelly song, through diet coke belches (I don’t know why, but soda from a can makes me burp something fierce) and mouthfuls of mashed potatoes I joyfully crooned the words “It’s getting hot in here, so take of all your clothes.” A surprisingly pungent burp punctuated the end of the song and the most hilarious thought popped into my head.
“I am girl of someone’s dreams.”
I laughed out loud. I couldn’t stop laughing at this absurdity and was still grinning to myself at 5:52 when I walked into my comparative politics class.
I like any honest single woman will admit that I spend a decent portion of my time thinking about the man I’m going to marry. I have a list, it’s true. There are obvious characteristics on that list, and there are secret characteristics on that list that I've never told anyone, never even written down, lest the significance of those qualities be marred by their publication. But I’ve also fully surrendered my life to Christ and I know that God has a PERFECT man, exclusively for me.
Logically, if there is a perfect man out there for me, than I am the perfect woman for some man out there. For some reason, until that day, that thought had never occured to me. And well, it made me feel alot better about myself. I don’t genuinely believe that there is a wonderful godly man daydreaming about a girl who knows all the words to Gangsta’s Paradise and joyfully sings them through a mouthful of day old potatoes. I don’t think that specific characteristic is on any particular gentleman’s list. But perhaps it is, maybe it's only number six or numbers seven on the list ... whoever God has designed to be my other half is going to be a pretty kooky fellow indeed.
One particualr Monday, I was thinking to myself that I was developing quite the knack for timing all these things, and smushing what could take some people an hour and a half into just a half an hour. I felt pretty good while dressing up my day old baked potato with all the fixin’s (because really, what reason is there to eat a baked potato if not for the fixin's?). Then I looked at the clock. I had a mere three minutes to eat my dinner.
I looked at my baked potato, all hot and steamy and melty with butter and sour cream. I looked at my diet coke, refreshingly fizzy after just popping the can open. I sighed and looked at the clock again. I would have to multi-task. So I did what any single person would do, I decided just to take my potato and my diet coke in the car with me. This meal was not exactly what one would consider a to-go food, but it was delicious and surprisingly easy to manage on the freeway.
I love being alone in my car with the radio at high volume. I am that girl who you make fun of at stoplights as she sings and dances, forgetting that a large portion of the material the makes up her car is glass and that she is really not alone at all. As I neared campus a particularly enjoyable song came on the radio frequency 100.7 FM (the music that makes you feel good). This surprises most people, but I have a deep fondness for pop music and bad hip hop. It’s a passion I can typically only indulge in alone in my automobile. Singing along to a certain Nelly song, through diet coke belches (I don’t know why, but soda from a can makes me burp something fierce) and mouthfuls of mashed potatoes I joyfully crooned the words “It’s getting hot in here, so take of all your clothes.” A surprisingly pungent burp punctuated the end of the song and the most hilarious thought popped into my head.
“I am girl of someone’s dreams.”
I laughed out loud. I couldn’t stop laughing at this absurdity and was still grinning to myself at 5:52 when I walked into my comparative politics class.
I like any honest single woman will admit that I spend a decent portion of my time thinking about the man I’m going to marry. I have a list, it’s true. There are obvious characteristics on that list, and there are secret characteristics on that list that I've never told anyone, never even written down, lest the significance of those qualities be marred by their publication. But I’ve also fully surrendered my life to Christ and I know that God has a PERFECT man, exclusively for me.
Logically, if there is a perfect man out there for me, than I am the perfect woman for some man out there. For some reason, until that day, that thought had never occured to me. And well, it made me feel alot better about myself. I don’t genuinely believe that there is a wonderful godly man daydreaming about a girl who knows all the words to Gangsta’s Paradise and joyfully sings them through a mouthful of day old potatoes. I don’t think that specific characteristic is on any particular gentleman’s list. But perhaps it is, maybe it's only number six or numbers seven on the list ... whoever God has designed to be my other half is going to be a pretty kooky fellow indeed.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Vee Day
My crazy old roommate Lindsay Hand sent me what could quite possibly the best Valentine's Day card ever.
But there's a long story. Years ago, in high school I used to hang out with her, and her brother, and we had this joke ... I'd sit on the couch with her brother Josh on one side and Lindsay on the other and call it a "Hand Sandwich." Adolescent humor is truly the best kind of all.
One time, and I don't remember when, I was very sick and our other friend Terri came to visit me because of the said mind-fogging sickness and she brought with her a homemade card from the Hand children. Lindsay was always artistic and actually now makes her living off of her paintings, so the card she created was pretty neat-o. On the back she had drawn a square and inside of the square written the word "cheese," with this caption: "I looked in the fridge to find a piece of cheese, but there was no cheese. 'No cheese!' I cried."
They were trying to send me a Hand Sandwich!
Recently, while moving my stuff out of storage, I made the fatal moving error of "sorting through so old letters, so you know, I can throw them away." Nope, that never happens. But I did find my Hand Sandwhich card, so there sitting on the cold cement floor of my friend's basement, crying over my letters , I called my crazy old roommate Lindsay. She never actually answers her phone, so I left her a terribly long message recapping that entire moment in time. I never heard back from her, which was really no surprise.
Until today. On of my co-workers delivered my mail, which today included along with medical records and Social Sercurity releases a grease-stained envelope with a queen of hearts and one of those red doily hearts you use in elementary school to make valentine's for your mom glued to the envelope. I thought perhaps my dog had been kidnapped and this was the ransom letter. Nope. It was a card from Lindsay saying how much she appreciated my message that day and how much she loves me.
Wanna know where the grease stain came from? An individually wrapped cheese slice. When I opened the envelope I said, "Oh my God. It's cheese."
But there's a long story. Years ago, in high school I used to hang out with her, and her brother, and we had this joke ... I'd sit on the couch with her brother Josh on one side and Lindsay on the other and call it a "Hand Sandwich." Adolescent humor is truly the best kind of all.
One time, and I don't remember when, I was very sick and our other friend Terri came to visit me because of the said mind-fogging sickness and she brought with her a homemade card from the Hand children. Lindsay was always artistic and actually now makes her living off of her paintings, so the card she created was pretty neat-o. On the back she had drawn a square and inside of the square written the word "cheese," with this caption: "I looked in the fridge to find a piece of cheese, but there was no cheese. 'No cheese!' I cried."
They were trying to send me a Hand Sandwich!
Recently, while moving my stuff out of storage, I made the fatal moving error of "sorting through so old letters, so you know, I can throw them away." Nope, that never happens. But I did find my Hand Sandwhich card, so there sitting on the cold cement floor of my friend's basement, crying over my letters , I called my crazy old roommate Lindsay. She never actually answers her phone, so I left her a terribly long message recapping that entire moment in time. I never heard back from her, which was really no surprise.
Until today. On of my co-workers delivered my mail, which today included along with medical records and Social Sercurity releases a grease-stained envelope with a queen of hearts and one of those red doily hearts you use in elementary school to make valentine's for your mom glued to the envelope. I thought perhaps my dog had been kidnapped and this was the ransom letter. Nope. It was a card from Lindsay saying how much she appreciated my message that day and how much she loves me.
Wanna know where the grease stain came from? An individually wrapped cheese slice. When I opened the envelope I said, "Oh my God. It's cheese."
Friday, February 9, 2007
We Are The Church
Here's the thing: If the people who organize corporate computer training classes have not yet figured out that in order for their students to learn anything, the Internet Explorer icon on their training desktop needs to be disabled, well -- I think I know why Asia technologically surpasses the United States.
Last week, I was stuck in a FOUR hour training session on a program that I'm already familiar with, it's a little thing called e-mail. I was bored.
I tried to fight it but the little ball inside my mouse just kept creeping, creeping, creeping until low and behold the World Wide Web was open before me. After a cursory glance at My Space, my bank account and the national news, I still had about 3.75 hours left in class. I hit up Relevant Magazine's Web site and read a story by a guy named Joshua Longbrake. I've read his stories before. I enjoy the way his mind moves the pen, and because I had nothing better to do with my time, I decided to read his blog, www.thelongbrake.com. When Relevant author's post their blogspots, I really don't care much for them, usually because I haven't made up my mind on the whole online journaling thing. Isn't it just a huge ego trip on the author's part to think that there are other people in the netherworld of the internet who really care what that author has to say about life? Heh, heh, heh …
Turns out Mr. Longbrake actually has something to say. I was impressed. By his blog and his photos, but mostly I was impressed by the heart of everything he'd stuck out on a limb for the world to judge him by. His most recent post was about a conference he'd attended at Mars Hill. To me Mars Hill is sort of this icon of a church, and while I was reading about this guys exerience there, my heart became empbroiled with passion for the church as a whole.
A switch flipped in my brain, and sitting there in class began to fervently pray that God that would make The Rock like Mars Hill to the next generation of churches. God has blessed us here in Salt Lake City with an unbelievable wealth of talent, in the realms of music, art, marketing, leadership and words. He has given us an inspiration and vision. I feel in my bones that God will do something huge with The Rock. I just pray that it is all for his glory, and all within his will. God is building an army that will take the world by storm and I believe many will be surprised when it comes out of Salt Lake City, Utah.
While praying, I started to peruse one of Longbrake's photo galleries entitled "I am the Church." Kids from all across the country and the world submitted photos to his blog, each of which featured the term "I am the Church" some where in the shot. I loved the concept instantly, and it humbled me. The Church is so beautiful, we are His bride and as Donald Miller says Christ love us with a drunken passion. Not only does God love us so deeply, but we are the living, breathing, functioning close-as-we-are-going-to-get-in-this- lifetime picture of what God's Kingdom and what heaven will be like. Of course everything about the church isn't always perfect, because we are all still human and have the ability to royally muck up all things good, but God loves us still, and a functioning church family really is in my opinion the most beautiful thing that can exist on this earth. It was amazing to look at all these people and know that I am united with them. We are brothers and sisters because of God's great love for us and we are all fighting for one common purpose, the further glory of God through our lives.
Sitting in my computer class, I fully succumbed to this thought and was getting a little misty-eyed and ready to go take the world by storm there I see before me a beautiful girl standing in her bathroom mischievously grinning into her mirror. The reflection of the gray tile behind her brings out the blue in her eyes and the words "I am the Church" written in shaving cream frame a face I love dearly. She stares back at me from a random page on a stranger's web site.
The girl is Naomi Triggs. A woman who serves the Lord on staff of a Great Commission church plant in Amsterdam. She and I were on the same small group when we lived in Fort Collins, Colorado. She moved to Amsterdam the same week I moved to Salt Lake City to do the same thing in two cities that could not be more different for each other. Since the time we moved half a world away from each other God has grown and changed us aplenty. He's taught, trained, refined and purified us, through heartache and through joy. Naomi spent an unplanned stint as a bonus roommate of mine a little while ago. As a result of that time, she is one of the women whom I most admire in this world, because, well, she gets it.
So there she was, in her bathroom in a tiny apartment in Amsterdam. And there I was behind a computer console in Utah. Both of us serving the purpose that God intended us for: loving Him, loving other believers and loving the lost. We do it in different ways, on different continents, in different languages, and with different people, but the goal is the same.
She is the Church.
I am the Church.
We are the Church.
Last week, I was stuck in a FOUR hour training session on a program that I'm already familiar with, it's a little thing called e-mail. I was bored.
I tried to fight it but the little ball inside my mouse just kept creeping, creeping, creeping until low and behold the World Wide Web was open before me. After a cursory glance at My Space, my bank account and the national news, I still had about 3.75 hours left in class. I hit up Relevant Magazine's Web site and read a story by a guy named Joshua Longbrake. I've read his stories before. I enjoy the way his mind moves the pen, and because I had nothing better to do with my time, I decided to read his blog, www.thelongbrake.com. When Relevant author's post their blogspots, I really don't care much for them, usually because I haven't made up my mind on the whole online journaling thing. Isn't it just a huge ego trip on the author's part to think that there are other people in the netherworld of the internet who really care what that author has to say about life? Heh, heh, heh …
Turns out Mr. Longbrake actually has something to say. I was impressed. By his blog and his photos, but mostly I was impressed by the heart of everything he'd stuck out on a limb for the world to judge him by. His most recent post was about a conference he'd attended at Mars Hill. To me Mars Hill is sort of this icon of a church, and while I was reading about this guys exerience there, my heart became empbroiled with passion for the church as a whole.
A switch flipped in my brain, and sitting there in class began to fervently pray that God that would make The Rock like Mars Hill to the next generation of churches. God has blessed us here in Salt Lake City with an unbelievable wealth of talent, in the realms of music, art, marketing, leadership and words. He has given us an inspiration and vision. I feel in my bones that God will do something huge with The Rock. I just pray that it is all for his glory, and all within his will. God is building an army that will take the world by storm and I believe many will be surprised when it comes out of Salt Lake City, Utah.
While praying, I started to peruse one of Longbrake's photo galleries entitled "I am the Church." Kids from all across the country and the world submitted photos to his blog, each of which featured the term "I am the Church" some where in the shot. I loved the concept instantly, and it humbled me. The Church is so beautiful, we are His bride and as Donald Miller says Christ love us with a drunken passion. Not only does God love us so deeply, but we are the living, breathing, functioning close-as-we-are-going-to-get-in-this- lifetime picture of what God's Kingdom and what heaven will be like. Of course everything about the church isn't always perfect, because we are all still human and have the ability to royally muck up all things good, but God loves us still, and a functioning church family really is in my opinion the most beautiful thing that can exist on this earth. It was amazing to look at all these people and know that I am united with them. We are brothers and sisters because of God's great love for us and we are all fighting for one common purpose, the further glory of God through our lives.
Sitting in my computer class, I fully succumbed to this thought and was getting a little misty-eyed and ready to go take the world by storm there I see before me a beautiful girl standing in her bathroom mischievously grinning into her mirror. The reflection of the gray tile behind her brings out the blue in her eyes and the words "I am the Church" written in shaving cream frame a face I love dearly. She stares back at me from a random page on a stranger's web site.
The girl is Naomi Triggs. A woman who serves the Lord on staff of a Great Commission church plant in Amsterdam. She and I were on the same small group when we lived in Fort Collins, Colorado. She moved to Amsterdam the same week I moved to Salt Lake City to do the same thing in two cities that could not be more different for each other. Since the time we moved half a world away from each other God has grown and changed us aplenty. He's taught, trained, refined and purified us, through heartache and through joy. Naomi spent an unplanned stint as a bonus roommate of mine a little while ago. As a result of that time, she is one of the women whom I most admire in this world, because, well, she gets it.
So there she was, in her bathroom in a tiny apartment in Amsterdam. And there I was behind a computer console in Utah. Both of us serving the purpose that God intended us for: loving Him, loving other believers and loving the lost. We do it in different ways, on different continents, in different languages, and with different people, but the goal is the same.
She is the Church.
I am the Church.
We are the Church.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Everything is More Difficult with Mittens On
I ran even though I didn’t need to run. I would make the next train, but I wanted on this one, so I ran. The train was approaching, the whistles were blowing, and the lights were flashing. I was going to make it. I would rush through the door, collapse into a seat and have accomplished something for the day.
That’s not how it worked out. I raced across the tracks and as I did so, the strap on my old school Red Cross medic bag snapped. With the snap of that strap my fate was decided. My bag hung limp at my side, and my dreams for the day were crushed. So, sadden by the fact that my beloved bag was broken, I walked back to my car.
It was a cold gray day. When I reached my office, it was pouring rain outside. Pouring isn’t quite right, the sky was pelting pedestrians with droplets of icy pain. As the rain splashed on my windshield, I laughed out loud, thanking God that He had planned the details of my morning so I would be sheltered when the rain hit.
Even though this isn’t the stuff of miracles, it was important to me. It illustrated something God has taught me lately. And not just lately, I think He’s been teaching me this lesson for the whole of my Christian life: TRUST HIM.
Trusting God is the crux of the entire Christian faith. I trust Him with my salvation. I trust Him for forgiveness of my sins. I trust Him for my everyday providence. I trust Him with my future and I trust Him with my heart.
Trusting Him with my heart sounds easy, but has proven to be complicated beyond measure. Trusting God with my heart means that He has possession of it. I do not. But it’s my heart, right? No, it’s not. I gave my heart to Jesus.
If my heart is God’s to with as He wishes, it means that He is in control of my heart. But giving God control of my heart cannot happen in one prayer, or one pronouncement of faith. There are certain areas where it’s easy to give God control. He can have my future because I don’t know what to do with it. He can have my past because I no longer want to be associated with it.
My heart is a different story. To genuinely give God my heart, to take my name off the deed of ownership and put His in its stead, I must understand what’s inside of my heart. My heart is the core of my flesh. For as much as society celebrates the heart as the source for wisdom and truth, mine is not. Mine is full of base selfishness and a longing to gratify my own desires. I've learned that my heart is manipulative. I will say or do one thing which is pleasing on the outside, while on the inside I am scheming to get my own way, leaving God out of the equation.
I’ve always considered myself to be a straight forward person. That is why I was astounded by my own manipulative nature. I know the “rules” of Christianity pretty well and I what’s expected of a “nice Christian girl.” But it I’ve also learned how to work the system.
Lately, I have been desperate for God’s will in a particular area of my life. I gave this precise matter to God and I prayed that His will be done. I begged God to make Himself evident to me so that I would know how to honor and obey Him. Then I waited, and soon I prayed these sentiments again, more fervently and with deeper passion. Only you Lord. Only your will.
God began to work in me. The more I prayed this prayer, the more apparent it became that my actions and even my thoughts were not coinciding with what I was confessing to God. I was telling God everything I wanted Him to know, but my motives and my actions were not corresponding.
I was working the system. I would pray with desperation for God’s will, then act out of my own will, following the rules, but still desiring control over the situation. My prayers seemed like an effort to get God in my side, and with my actions, I was testing the waters to see if I could get what I wanted. That was the problem.
Even though I had spent all this time in earnest prayer, I was not giving God complete control of my heart. I was not allowing Him to take out of my heart the filth and selfish desires which seem to fill it to the brim. I was masking my intentions with truth, like wearing mittens to hide my hands from the cold. I was using God’s protection to my own advantage and hiding the sores that lay underneath. When God finally showed me this, I realized I had behaved this way for years, showing the world and even God one version of myself and at the core still working to achieve my own means.
When I understood that about myself, I was disgusted. I came face to face with the vileness of my own sin. On the outside, my actions would not seem that horrible, but to me they were wretched because I knew that by seeking this control I wasn’t trusting God. By not trusting God, I was sinning against Him. It’s one thing to recognize your own sin, and it’s another to recognize your own hypocrisy.
But I don’t have to stay that way. The most freeing thing in the world, is to not just coming face to face with my sin, but to come face to face with the unfailing grace of my God. His mercy allows me to live my life unfettered, grasping his unconditional love with naked hands.
That’s not how it worked out. I raced across the tracks and as I did so, the strap on my old school Red Cross medic bag snapped. With the snap of that strap my fate was decided. My bag hung limp at my side, and my dreams for the day were crushed. So, sadden by the fact that my beloved bag was broken, I walked back to my car.
It was a cold gray day. When I reached my office, it was pouring rain outside. Pouring isn’t quite right, the sky was pelting pedestrians with droplets of icy pain. As the rain splashed on my windshield, I laughed out loud, thanking God that He had planned the details of my morning so I would be sheltered when the rain hit.
Even though this isn’t the stuff of miracles, it was important to me. It illustrated something God has taught me lately. And not just lately, I think He’s been teaching me this lesson for the whole of my Christian life: TRUST HIM.
Trusting God is the crux of the entire Christian faith. I trust Him with my salvation. I trust Him for forgiveness of my sins. I trust Him for my everyday providence. I trust Him with my future and I trust Him with my heart.
Trusting Him with my heart sounds easy, but has proven to be complicated beyond measure. Trusting God with my heart means that He has possession of it. I do not. But it’s my heart, right? No, it’s not. I gave my heart to Jesus.
If my heart is God’s to with as He wishes, it means that He is in control of my heart. But giving God control of my heart cannot happen in one prayer, or one pronouncement of faith. There are certain areas where it’s easy to give God control. He can have my future because I don’t know what to do with it. He can have my past because I no longer want to be associated with it.
My heart is a different story. To genuinely give God my heart, to take my name off the deed of ownership and put His in its stead, I must understand what’s inside of my heart. My heart is the core of my flesh. For as much as society celebrates the heart as the source for wisdom and truth, mine is not. Mine is full of base selfishness and a longing to gratify my own desires. I've learned that my heart is manipulative. I will say or do one thing which is pleasing on the outside, while on the inside I am scheming to get my own way, leaving God out of the equation.
I’ve always considered myself to be a straight forward person. That is why I was astounded by my own manipulative nature. I know the “rules” of Christianity pretty well and I what’s expected of a “nice Christian girl.” But it I’ve also learned how to work the system.
Lately, I have been desperate for God’s will in a particular area of my life. I gave this precise matter to God and I prayed that His will be done. I begged God to make Himself evident to me so that I would know how to honor and obey Him. Then I waited, and soon I prayed these sentiments again, more fervently and with deeper passion. Only you Lord. Only your will.
God began to work in me. The more I prayed this prayer, the more apparent it became that my actions and even my thoughts were not coinciding with what I was confessing to God. I was telling God everything I wanted Him to know, but my motives and my actions were not corresponding.
I was working the system. I would pray with desperation for God’s will, then act out of my own will, following the rules, but still desiring control over the situation. My prayers seemed like an effort to get God in my side, and with my actions, I was testing the waters to see if I could get what I wanted. That was the problem.
Even though I had spent all this time in earnest prayer, I was not giving God complete control of my heart. I was not allowing Him to take out of my heart the filth and selfish desires which seem to fill it to the brim. I was masking my intentions with truth, like wearing mittens to hide my hands from the cold. I was using God’s protection to my own advantage and hiding the sores that lay underneath. When God finally showed me this, I realized I had behaved this way for years, showing the world and even God one version of myself and at the core still working to achieve my own means.
When I understood that about myself, I was disgusted. I came face to face with the vileness of my own sin. On the outside, my actions would not seem that horrible, but to me they were wretched because I knew that by seeking this control I wasn’t trusting God. By not trusting God, I was sinning against Him. It’s one thing to recognize your own sin, and it’s another to recognize your own hypocrisy.
But I don’t have to stay that way. The most freeing thing in the world, is to not just coming face to face with my sin, but to come face to face with the unfailing grace of my God. His mercy allows me to live my life unfettered, grasping his unconditional love with naked hands.
Monday, February 5, 2007
The Pre-Me
I lose things. Often. I’ve lost my wallet, my keys and I’m always looking for that other shoe. The old adage is true – no matter what it is that I’ve lost, it’s always in the last place I look. I’ve learned the fastest way to find my lost item is in fact to retrace my steps, to go back to the place where I saw it last.
Except for my faith. When I lose my faith, even if only for a moment, I cannot go back to the last place where I saw it. I cannot retrace my steps to find it lying on the kitchen table.
To say something like “the moment I lost my faith” seems cataclysmic, but it really wasn’t. It was quiet. I was alone, in my car, in my office parking lot the moment I listened to the whisper that God could not be trusted. I had certainly heard that whisper before, but this time, I listened. It was terrifying.
In that split second, my heart busted wide open. That moment in time changed my future. I knew I could not go back to the way that life used to be, but I also knew I could not put one foot in front of the other with out Jesus. I quickly humbled myself before God, but like Peter, in my very heart I could not ignore that I had just denied my Jesus.
This loss of faith was not something that was noticeable on the exterior. I didn’t leave my church, or abandon my principles. I didn’t rebel and decry the notion of a personal God. Instead, I begged God to come to my rescue. I may have lost trust in Him, I won’t deny that, but I still knew of His goodness and His faithfulness to me. I knew that He would not abandon me.
I came to a point when I recognized that so much of what I had been basing my reality on simply was not true. Even the way I had interpreted God’s hand in my life was based on these misassumptions. I had based my life not so much on a lie, but an inaccuracy, and I needed to rebuild. I was living for the storybook ending I thought was coming, but I wasn’t even reading the right story.
God did restore my faith, with one that was greater than ever before. Different most certainly, but greater. What I have now is a faith of quiet confidence. My Father will prevail. I am His child, victory is mine, and I wait patiently for the day when all things hidden in darkness come to light.
I love God and believe He is doing a good work in my life. But this new way of faith is a little bit shaky and the truths that calm my fears now aren’t exactly the same as the truths to which I once clung. I would like to go back because that other faith was easier and my circumstances now are hard. But I can’t, I can’t pretend that I’m the same and I can’t ignore the new place God is taking me.
Each moment of each day, God is using something to change part of me. Maybe He is also doing something else to keep another part of me exactly how it is. Because of this ebb and flow, I understand the truth of the biblical promise that I am a new creation.
For many years, I thought that newness only applied to the tear-filled moment after the 12-year old me prayed to accept Christ into my life. From there on out, I thought the Christian me stayed the same creation until heaven. But the 15-year old me was certainly different that the 19-year old me, just as the 24-year old me was different from the brand new, post loss of faith, 25-year old me. All of these me’s from years past that are so much alike and so much different add up to make the me of now. This me will press forward and learn more and change a little bit and stay the same a little bit.
Tomorrow morning when I wake up I will be a new creation. Tomorrow night when I fall asleep, I will be a new creation. There is no end to this newness. Thus my faith must daily, sometimes even hourly evolve. I cannot remain the same person and pursue God.
I still don’t understand why God allowed me to live in that deluded state, believing and clinging to something that most certainly was not in my future. I do know though that God used me in that time. I know that He changed me and molded me to become more like Him, to gain some of the wisdom that I so desperately desire. My faith at that time was based on an outcome, a promise I believed God had given me, rather than in the actual person of God. It is He who is described as both unchanging and as an all-consuming fire. Upon encountering God, I cannot expect to stay the same. Of course He will change me.
But He doesn’t change me into a different form of the me that already exists. He makes me new, new like the morning sun, new like the whitest snow.
Except for my faith. When I lose my faith, even if only for a moment, I cannot go back to the last place where I saw it. I cannot retrace my steps to find it lying on the kitchen table.
To say something like “the moment I lost my faith” seems cataclysmic, but it really wasn’t. It was quiet. I was alone, in my car, in my office parking lot the moment I listened to the whisper that God could not be trusted. I had certainly heard that whisper before, but this time, I listened. It was terrifying.
In that split second, my heart busted wide open. That moment in time changed my future. I knew I could not go back to the way that life used to be, but I also knew I could not put one foot in front of the other with out Jesus. I quickly humbled myself before God, but like Peter, in my very heart I could not ignore that I had just denied my Jesus.
This loss of faith was not something that was noticeable on the exterior. I didn’t leave my church, or abandon my principles. I didn’t rebel and decry the notion of a personal God. Instead, I begged God to come to my rescue. I may have lost trust in Him, I won’t deny that, but I still knew of His goodness and His faithfulness to me. I knew that He would not abandon me.
I came to a point when I recognized that so much of what I had been basing my reality on simply was not true. Even the way I had interpreted God’s hand in my life was based on these misassumptions. I had based my life not so much on a lie, but an inaccuracy, and I needed to rebuild. I was living for the storybook ending I thought was coming, but I wasn’t even reading the right story.
God did restore my faith, with one that was greater than ever before. Different most certainly, but greater. What I have now is a faith of quiet confidence. My Father will prevail. I am His child, victory is mine, and I wait patiently for the day when all things hidden in darkness come to light.
I love God and believe He is doing a good work in my life. But this new way of faith is a little bit shaky and the truths that calm my fears now aren’t exactly the same as the truths to which I once clung. I would like to go back because that other faith was easier and my circumstances now are hard. But I can’t, I can’t pretend that I’m the same and I can’t ignore the new place God is taking me.
Each moment of each day, God is using something to change part of me. Maybe He is also doing something else to keep another part of me exactly how it is. Because of this ebb and flow, I understand the truth of the biblical promise that I am a new creation.
For many years, I thought that newness only applied to the tear-filled moment after the 12-year old me prayed to accept Christ into my life. From there on out, I thought the Christian me stayed the same creation until heaven. But the 15-year old me was certainly different that the 19-year old me, just as the 24-year old me was different from the brand new, post loss of faith, 25-year old me. All of these me’s from years past that are so much alike and so much different add up to make the me of now. This me will press forward and learn more and change a little bit and stay the same a little bit.
Tomorrow morning when I wake up I will be a new creation. Tomorrow night when I fall asleep, I will be a new creation. There is no end to this newness. Thus my faith must daily, sometimes even hourly evolve. I cannot remain the same person and pursue God.
I still don’t understand why God allowed me to live in that deluded state, believing and clinging to something that most certainly was not in my future. I do know though that God used me in that time. I know that He changed me and molded me to become more like Him, to gain some of the wisdom that I so desperately desire. My faith at that time was based on an outcome, a promise I believed God had given me, rather than in the actual person of God. It is He who is described as both unchanging and as an all-consuming fire. Upon encountering God, I cannot expect to stay the same. Of course He will change me.
But He doesn’t change me into a different form of the me that already exists. He makes me new, new like the morning sun, new like the whitest snow.
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