scribbled ink portrait

blessed

2011-11-05T12:55:00.003-06:00

They call it "flying signs." I didn't know there was a name for it, of course, until I was given the skinny from the inside. Until my clients came in and told me, quite nonchalantly, that in order to get their alcohol that day, they flew a sign. And I didn't have much perspective on it until then, either. Not until I knew their lives, their stories. Not until I called detox in vain, asking for at least a hint that they were there, were safe. Not until I watched them come back from rehab and blow it. Again.

Flying signs: Standing on a corner with a well-tailored (to look believable) carboard sign.

I write this knowing that I can't generalize all those who fly signs. I can't call them all fakes or manipulators, and if it helps, I also can't say that I dislike even those who fall into one of those two categories. But my time working at a homeless day center and winter shelter did change my perspective. I don't hand out money now, even if I do still feel hard and uncomfortable passing by them on a million city corners. On occasion, I will buy someone a meal or a tank of gas. But I mostly drive by. The dilemma I feel in those moments is rooted in my wrestling match with what it means to love. After watching client after client destroy themselves with alcohol and drugs, not actually in need of food as much as freedom from addiction, I no longer believe it is loving to aid someone in feeding that addiction. I wept for clients who made it 100 days without booze, almost got themselves back in housing, and came to me trashed and broken some unfortunate afternoon- back at square one. And so I continue to wrestle with all the uncomfortable ways those clients- friends- changed my perspective on love, and with what that should mean for my actions, but for now, it's where I have landed.

Recently, however, a sign-flyer gave ma a different change in perspective. He gave me what I now recognize as a true gift.

I was headed home after work that day, tired and perhaps unnecessarily grumpy (an all too common malady for me). Waiting on the offramp for the light to change, one almost always sees a figure of some shape or story, wandering the shoulder with a cardboard sign, and today was no different. At times, I am selfishly irked by the fact that I must wrestle inwardly yet again, when I am already tired and, quite frankly, would rather have my conscience left undisturbed (terrible, that thought). I shifted in my seat, and my eyes darted between detachment and the natural desire to read what has been scrawled on this particular shred of cardboard. I caught a glance of the ragged, worn man and watched him walk toward me. I caught his gaze, but saw that, unlike any other scenario like this one, his eyes asked me no questions. I paused, and then I saw his sign.

Scrawled messily in black marker, on a scrap of cardboard that had surely seen better days, were three words: "I am blessed."

That was it. No attached request. No "I am blessed, but pretty darn hungry, too." Just a declaration that caught me so off guard that I almost missed my light. Shaggy, dirty, and very likely pretty darn hungry, this man wandered the shoulder of our busy commutes and told us all, lined up and probably thinking a multitude of complaining thoughts, that he was blessed.

It has been months since then, but I cannot shake his image. His face. The moment I caught his eyes. And of course, I cannot shake the words written on his sign. In the busyness of my day, in the frustration of wrestling with the meaning of love, in the million ways I live as if I am the center of the universe...in all of these things, I completely forget the truth he shared so clearly with me. I am blessed. It is true of me now, and would remain true of me even if I were to find myself in that man's shoes. In many ways, he redeemed each encounter I have with a ragged face, flying a sign. There, alongside the dilemma, is a memory and a reminder.

Take a breath and chill out, Katie. You are blessed.

I, the oppressor

2011-06-09T12:00:00.007-06:00

Over the last several years, I've put a lot more thought into how I spend my money. You know, "responsible consumerism" and all. It began sort of on accident, when I was in a class that required me to write a weekly essay evaluating a news article from the viewpoint of biblical ethics. One week, while flipping through the only magazine I had (at the last minute, of course), I found an article about Wal-Mart's then-recent application with the FDIC to have their own bank. It was pretty much my only option, and so I began an essay that I honestly imagined would involve pulling ideas out of...that place from which less-than-grand ideas often come.

The more I read, the more I hunted through the Word, I was surprised to find some compelling reasons to avoid America's favorite mega store. (In the beginning, it had mostly to do with the destruction of community, a huge biblical value. Later, of course, I discovered a plethora of other reasons to stay away.) I began to mention the notion to other people, and it was on my mind a lot. It wasn't until about a year later, though, that I decided my words left me a hypocrite, and I made my last purchase at Wal-Mart.

Over the next couple years, I ran into other people who cared about their habits of consumerism. I read about food ethics, and I spent bits and pieces of time researching which clothing companies used sweat shops. I learned about fair trade, and about how to invest my money in organizations that support those whom larger corporations often exploit. Still, I felt a little overwhelmed trying to find information, and wished for a comprehensive guide. I searched, but found none. That is, until one day, wandering into a fair trade store not far from my house, I happened upon such a guide: Better World Shopper. The book (and website) rank a huge variety of stores and products for their ethical practices. Information in hand, I was forced to turn a corner and radically change how I spent my money. My goal became to consume nothing that got below a "C" in ethical rankings, and to seek even better than that when possible.

I did all this with a conviction that was passionate and yet still a little ambiguous. It was the right thing to do, right? The way of Christ calls us not to take part in supporting injustice, not to be an accessory to the crime, right? But hey, it's good enough for me to do my best. I mean, at least I'm not as bad as some other people, right?

The ambiguity left completely when, while preparing to lead a Bible study one day, I was faced with James 5:1-6:
"Now listen, you rich people, weep and wail because of the misery that is coming on you. ² Your wealth has rotted, and moths have eaten your clothes. ³ Your gold and silver are corroded. Their corrosion will testify against you and eat your flesh like fire. You have hoarded wealth in the last days. ⁴ Look! The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you. The cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord Almighty. ⁵ You have lived on earth in luxury and self-indulgence. You have fattened yourselves in the day of slaughter. ⁶ You have condemned and murdered the innocent one, who was not opposing you."

The temptation with such verses is to distance ourselves from them, to try and learn from the warning given to "those other people." You know, the ones who oppress people and whose workers' wages cry out against them. Wow, such a harsh warning for "those people." It's gonna be a rough ending for them. As I prepared, though, I felt God asking me to linger over these words and listen a little more."What is oppression?" I sensed him ask me.

oppression noun

1. the exercise of authority or power in a burdensome, cruel, or unjust manner.

"Oppression is the misuse of power," I replied in my mind. "What is power?" he asked next. (Dictionary-wise, power in this sense is defined as "sway, rule, sovereignty.") "Well, in America, money is power," I thought. "I mean, other things provide power here, too. But money seems to be king in the long run."

It took only a second to hit me like a brick to the noggin. Oppression is the misuse of power. Money is power. To misuse my money, then, to misemploy my financial voice, no matter how insignificant it might seem at times, was to oppress. It was not just to be an accessory to the crime, somewhat distanced. It was to be the oppressor. The hammer hit even harder when I heard a sermon by a man named Steve Chalke, who runs an anti human traffikking organization called Stop the Traffik. Speaking about oppression in the world of chocolate production (raise your hand if you invest your power- aka money- in chocolate), he read a simple quote from a young boy who served as slave in the industry, on the Ivory Coast (where much of our chocolate comes from).

"When you eat chocolate," the boy said, "you eat my flesh." Over a year later, I tear up as I write those words. My consumption of a particular brand of sweet oppresses a young boy half a world away. I might even sponsor a kid like him through Compassion, and then turn around and perpetuate the systems that will enslave him.

(Side note: For a list of ways to eat chocolate without being the oppressor, check out Stop the Traffik's chocolate guide, or consult Better World Shopper.)

As a follower to Jesus Christ, I do not want my misused dollars to cry out against me. I want to hear and respond to the prompting of 1 Timothy 6:17-19, trusting in God rather than the almighty dollar, and using my money- my power- to do good. I will be honest: Responsible consumerism is a pain in the rear. It takes a lot of extra brain power. It limits my options, eliminates some favorites, and it thwarts convenience and the ever-tempting bargain. It almost always costs more. But I believe in a God who will stretch my dollar if I use it well.

I, the oppressor, have not always used my power well. May I depart from that pattern a little more, every day, for the rest of my life.

Pedro the Wise strikes again

2011-06-07T09:11:00.004-06:00

It's summer, which means the lure of two wheels on dirt has come. Just yesterday, I returned home in classic form: a little blood, some gear grease in unusual places, and a lot of dirt. "I fell," were my first words to my husband. "Clearly," he replied, and laughed at me.

(Pedro, by the way, is the bike from which I fell.)

When I bike alone, which is usually the case (anyone want to donate an old bike to my husband?), I talk a lot. Not in my head, mind you. Out loud. I probably sound crazy, but somehow it is a part of how I navigate it all, my biking world of hills and rocks and sharp curves, all beckoning me to overcome them. Often, when I am approaching a hill that looks less-than-possible (generally when I am coming from the bottom), I will say, "I own you." Yep, that's right: I say "I own you." (Occasionally, "You're mine.") Of course, the hill cares very little about my deluded sense of ownership, and I'm sure its sense of self-worth would not be rattled by my successfully making my way to the top. In reality, I am speaking to myself. I am declaring to myself that the obstacle before me does not have the upper hand. I am declaring that I am capable of overcoming anything, no matter how daunting. Anything.

A few days ago, when I approached a few sketchy spots involving uneven rocks and a rather lengthy fall should I slip, I found myself saying, "No death wishes today, I think. No death wishes today." These are places where I weigh the glory of overcoming against the guaranteed broken bones (maybe death) of the fall, and I decide to take the humble route. Picking up my bike and trying to convince myself that I am not a chicken, I carry Pedro over the rocks and prepare to take on the hill immediately following. "No death wishes today."

The most common phrase to come from my mouth (and one that I have actually said many times even when I'm not alone) is, "No quitting allowed." In the midst of a hill that I had planned to own, when my muscles are about to stage an insurrection and gravity makes a compelling case for surrender, I tell myself that quitting is not an option. Failure? Yes, it is an option that I cannot always preclude. Quitting? This is what I have control over, and it is the thing I refuse. "No quitting allowed" reminds me of the difference between the two. Often it plays out with me falling to the ground before I will ever stop pedaling.

Every time I get back in the rhythm of mountain biking, I am reminded of a strange truth: it somehow makes me a braver person. Consistently facing obstacles from the seat of my trusty steed (this designation builds Pedro's ego), my perspective on life is a little different. I am more likely to face a daunting hill on this new adventure called marriage by saying, "I own you." Yes, I will tell that hurdle that it doesn't have the upper hand. Perhaps when life presents me with an obstacle and my heart calls for surrender, I will declare that there is "no quitting allowed," and that if I fail, it sure as hell won't be because I gave up. And maybe I will learn to face some circumstances in life in which the consequences outweigh the benefits, and I will have the humility to say, "No death wishes today, I think. No death wishes today." Perhaps I could learn to choose humility and wisdom over blind, prideful risk-taking, and begin to understand that my self-worth is in no way lessened as I pick up my bike and carry it for a while.

Here's to you, Pedro, for reminding me of what it means to be both brave and wise. And here's to you, God, for being creative enough to use an old, gray mountain bike to get through to my often distracted heart.

small town Sunday: old paintings and new covenants

2011-04-10T20:59:00.003-06:00

In an effort to do greater justice to the power of Holy Week, our pastor has mixed things up a bit. Rather than celebrating Holy Week during....well, Holy Week, we are taking the six Sundays before Easter and using each to celebrate a day of Holy Week. Hence, though next Sunday is traditionally Palm Sunday, we will be observing Good Friday. It has felt a little odd at points, but I have begun to really appreciate it, especially today: Maundy Thursday.

In place of the traditional service order, today's gathering was a mix of long readings from Mark 14 (read by the most amazing liturgical reader I have ever encountered: the man reads in a way that makes one chew on Scripture and, perhaps for the first time, actually taste it) and short reflections from the pastor. Following the reading of verses 17-26, in which Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, our congregation partook of communion. Yet our pastor asked us to do this in a new way today. Rather than simply dipping the bread in the cup and partaking as we usually do, we were to instead feed the bread and juice to the person behind us. Yep, literally turn and place it in their mouths. This was, not surprisingly, a bit awkward, all of us eating and then feeding, looking like baby birds as we accepted the juice-soaked bread from the hands of the one before us. As I made my way up the line toward the front, I began to hear that, in the place of words usually spoken by those giving communion, some members of the congregation were speaking sacred words to one another as they offered the intimate gesture of passing the elements from hand to mouth. Indeed, the man before me, a friend and retired pastor, looked at me and spoke a deep reminder of what that meal symbolized. There was something newly beautiful about it, hearing those words from him, spoken specifically for me.

Stepping forward to reach for the elements, with Tim coming behind me to receive it, I considered simply saying what is most often spoken in that setting, something about bread and cups and covenants and forgiveness. But a phrase overcame me somewhere in between placing my final step and reaching for the bread. Honestly, I can think of times when I would have brushed it aside, simply so as not to sound odd, except that this morning it was overpowering. It echoed in my mind as I took the little piece of bread, that symbol of a broken body of love, and dipped it in the dark red reminder of a covenant of forgiveness. And I turned to Tim, placed the communion gift in his mouth and simply said, "This changes everything."

They were words that came out of my own mouth, yet I spent much of the remainder of the service pondering them. This changes everything. This bread, this cup--they rewrite the entire script of creation for those who, through the eyes of faith, look to see the grace and reconciliation happening all around us, even in the midst of ugliness that sometimes astounds us. This changes everything. It changes the way we treat enemies, it turns the notion of status on its head, and it dethrones pride and guilt both in the presence of divine and underserved grace. This changes everything. And yet I sat and felt, on the inside, as if my life did not show evidence of a belief that it changed much of anything at all, at least in how I relate to God and to myself.

Beyond feeling a tad disheartened, I couldn't shake the familiarity of the phrase. It struck a chord that I couldn't name, until I finally remembered a painting I did in college during the time when I was most debilitated by the vicious side effects of my epilepsy medication. My concept of my limitations, the way in which I related to people, the lens through which I saw the world: all of these things had been uprooted and thrown topsy turvy as those little pills rewrote the rules for my bodily existence. The painting was simple, and was perhaps my neatest work during that time when chemicals caused my hands to twitch at random. It was a giant pill bottle, the likeness of the basic, orange bottle I opened every day, complete with label. Behind it, written sideways and blurred (in a representation of what the world felt like to me at the time) were three words: this changes everything. It was a visual representation of what had for months felt like a devastating reality. That stupid bottle, those little pills, the chemicals coursing through my brain: it had changed everything. It had stolen something from me and made the whole of life seem sideways and blurry. I think somehow I hoped someone might look at the painting and understand: This changes everything.

Communion, I sat there and realized, is supposed to change my life on that same level. The reality of the gospel, of a new covenant by which I am received as a daughter into the Kingdom of God, ought to do much of what my medication did. It ought to transform my concept of my limitations, to change the way in which I relate to people, and to offer a totally new lens through which I see the world. Indeed, it ought to rewrite the rules for my bodily and spiritual existence. Perhaps I have not recognized it, or allowed myself to be overtaken by its recreative powers, but the reality remains nonetheless: this bread, this cup, this covenant changes everything. Except this time it carries my past the place where all is sideways and blurry, and slowly shows me a world that is suddenly set aright, suddenly in focus, suddenly in color.

In the end, I realize that communion is not so different a thing from my painting. It is a visual reminder of a wonderfully devastating reality. And it changes everything.

small town Sunday: a justified life

2011-02-01T21:23:00.002-07:00

Each week at church, somewhere near the middle of the service, we practice "the passing of the peace." Church members rise from their pews and offer warm greetings, "Peace be with you," and, "Good to see you." I have to say that our pastor does a great job of at least puting forth the intended power of that gesture; he reminds us again and again that it is a time to speak peace and reconciliation to one another as a people who have been reconciled to God and to one another. And honestly, I try. I want to look into the eye of my neighbor and mean it in a powerful way. I want to speak, "Peace be with you" as one who believes that the power of the Spirit of peace is somehow present in those words. It has always disappointed me that I am somehow unable to make that transition from random, amiable greeting to powerful declaration of truth.

A few weeks ago, when our pastor was enjoying a much needed vacation to sandy places, we had a guest speaker. His story was a powerful one; he had personally met Martin Luther King Jr. and had lived a life marked by a willingness to act on behalf of justice even when doing so ran counter to the status quo (which is most often the case of genuine justice, I suppose). However, though his message impacted me, what has remained with me most is what he said as an introduction to our weekly peace-passing. "Offer one another signs of peace," he said, "and while your at it, perhaps ask your neighbor what he has done to justify his existence this week." I didn't hear anybody ask the question. I mean, for the most part those who fill pews are shy about such questions, if not afraid of them altogether. I wanted to ask it, but I didn't.

We should have asked each other the question.

I may not have posed the inquiry to anyone in the church that day, but I have been asking it of myself for many days since. What have I done to justify my existence? To justify my existence? It is a profound and unsettling question. The temptation, at least at first, is to find the question a bit offensive. "What do you mean, justify my existence? I don't have to justify anything; God created me simply because he loves me." This, of course, would be simultaneously true and a cop-out of sorts. We must balance the notion that we are created simply out of love with the biblical assumption that we are not created to be well-loved bumps on a log engraved "theology". Case in point: Abraham was told quite plainly that God's promise stated both that he would be blessed and that he would be a blessing. Millenia later, Jesus, when commisioning his disciples before he returned to the Father, did not, surprisingly, tell them to go and spend their lives thinking about how much he loved them, warmly shaking hands on a million successive Sundays. He told them to go and make disciples. To go and be a part of bringing about a Kingdom marked by justice and love and compassion. In a way, he told them to go and justify their existence. Following that command seldom left those disciples in safe places. It generally shook up the very existence he had told them to justify.

I think of it this way: I ask myself if I can stand before God and say, " Today I have been a good steward of the life you gave me. I have allowed you to use it as you wish, no matter the cost." Essentially, today I have been willing to be shaken up and taken to uncomfortable, unsafe places. On the day our guest speaker asked us that question, I don't know that I could have said those words. May I strive to live up to them in the days to come, to embrace the radical challenge that found me right in the middle of a small town Sunday.

p.s. you might wanna flip that upside down

2010-11-13T20:26:00.001-07:00

I've heard Jeremiah 29:11 about a million times. In fact, a fairly cheesy version of blared out of my car speakers today, "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD...." I've heard it at graduation commencements, seen it in sympathy cards, spotted it on inspirational posters. And I have read it many, many times on the pages of the Bible. This time, however, I was struck by the context. I spotted the blaring "p.s" for the very first time: "I have plans to prosper you! Plans for hope, for a future! (p.s. first you are going to be in exile for a very, very long time.)"

Ok God, that's a little like saying to the hopeless, unemployed person, "I have a job for you! (p.s. first you will be financially destitute for at least three decades)"

Great. Thanks. Can't wait to start.

It sounds so backward, doesn't it? And yet as I read Jeremiah a month or so ago, I realized how much of his message calls us to interpret events in an upside down sort of way. It calls us to reconsider what good plans are. Case in point: a huge portion of the nation of Judah is dragged off into exile by the Babylonians. Those left behind are probably thinking, "Well, the punishment has come and we came out on top! God took the guilty ones and removed them from the land, and it's all smooth sailing from here." On the other hand, those trudging off across the desert, their backs to the land promised to their Fathers, their steps taking them toward the land of their oppressor, must be thinking, "The punishment for the sin of Judah has fallen on us. We are the cursed ones, and our brothers will be happy in the land again."

And God says, "Nope. Flip it upside down."

Through a vision of figs (because figs always make me think of people groups, you?), God speaks to Jeremiah about this. In the vision, there are two baskets of figgy goodness. One basket actually is figgy goodness. The other is figgy badness; the fruit is rotten. About these baskets, God says to Jeremiah,

"Like these good figs, I regard as good the exiles from Judah, whom I sent away from this place to the land of the Babylonians. My eyes will watch over them for their good, and I will bring them back to this land. I will build them up and not tear them down; I will plant them and not uproot them. I will give them a heart to know me, that I am the LORD. They will be my people, and I will be their God, for they will return to me with all their heart." (24:5-7)

It's good to be a good fig, no? As for the rotten fruit, God says,

"But like the poor figs, which are so bad that they cannot be eaten...so will I deal with Zedekiah king of Judah, his officials, and the survivors from Jerusalem, whether they remain in this land or live in Egypt. I will make them abhorrent and an offense to all the kingdoms of the earth, a reproach and a byword, an object of riducule and cursing, wherever I banish them. I will send the sword, famine and plague against them until they are destroyed from the land I gave to them and their fathers." (24:8-10)

Suddenly Babylon sounds like Candy Land, right? Suddenly there's no place like anywhere-but-home.

It seems that those who escaped being captured by the Babylonians and remain in Jerusalem are not, in fact, the lucky ones. Not even the king. They were not spared because they are awesome. In fact, the scene in Jerusalem is about to make exile look like an evening with Mr. Rogers. Yes folks, those who think they have come out on top will soon be dead. And those who think they have been forever rejected? They will soon be planting vineyards in Babylon, far from home but safe and well.

Now I can't paint a dichotomy of good and evil kind of image here. I mean, the ones who are stuck checking out the Babylonian real estate market for a 70 year investment aren't all innocent cherubs. They have a long way to go in mending their ways, and the prophet Ezekiel is on his way to lay down the divine smack. But they are the figs with a future. Their story doesn't end in sword and famine and plague. It ends in prosperity and hope. In between now and the end, though, there is a long walk to Babylon and a lot of years away from home.

In the end, I guess the whole thing has me wondering how limited our interpretations of "good" and "prosperous" plans are. Do we quote Jeremiah 29:11 with the underlying assumption that it can serve as a sort of talisman against such "bad" things as, oh, I don't know....exile? Would we consider the verse a dud if God's plans led us to a slave market in the middle east, with our own lives up for the bidding? (Makes me think of a guy I once read about named Joseph....) Maybe it all means that when we look around at the situations of our lives, when we begin to interpret who ended up with the good plans and who got the rotten fig...when we look at those things, we need to listen long enough to let the Father say,

"Nope. Flip it upside down."

prayer and potential

2010-08-14T13:48:00.003-06:00

April through August. Never before have I let so much time pass without putting my thoughts into writing. So much life has come and gone over the last 4 months. In the midst of it, I let myself get spread a little too thin. To return to this place of expression, to journaling, to letter-writing...these are some of my biggest desires in the months ahead. Ah, but back to the placing of thoughts on paper...

So I have been thinking a lot about potential this summer. In June, my small group chose to read through the book of 2 Peter (followed by 1 Peter...you know, like you do). I've always loved this epistle, penned by the bumbling and yet dauntless disciple to whom I have often related most. This time through his words, however, brought forth a depth of challenge I had never seen before, even in the most familiar of verses (the one quoted beneath hung on the wall of my bedroom all throughout high school).

"His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires."

Everything we need. It seems that God did not give us life and godliness directly, though that is what we often ask of him: "Father, I am a mess. Please make me godly." What he gave us instead was everything we need to turn around and choose to let him actualize that burning ball of potential in our Spirits. And so while we plead with him to make us godly, the seed of godliness and everything needed to make it burst forth into life are already within us. As I thought about it, it called to mind a passage from Ephesians:

I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, ¹⁹and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is like the working of his mighty strength...

There it is again. Paul isn't praying that the Ephesian believers would have power. He is praying that though would realize that they already do. He is praying that these children of God, who are bursting at the seams with the very power of resurrection, would let it loose and live lives of resurrection. We have everything we need.

Later in 2 Peter, we encountered the notion again. In chapter 3, Peter states the reason for His writing as follows: Dear friends, this is now my second letter to you. I have written both of them as reminders to stimulate you to wholesome thinking. Ok, sounds reasonable enough. He wants them to start thinking wholesome thoughts. Good deal. But then we read it in the NKJV, and the truth of chapter 1 stepped into the light again: Dear friends, this is already the second letter I have written you, in which I am trying to stir up your pure mind by way of reminder.

To be honest, I chuckled at this thought, and actually joked out loud, "I don't think there's a pure mind to stir up in me." Immediately I sensed the Spirit check me on that statement, sensed it with a clarity that I don't often encounter in my life of discipleship. Everything we need. There is a pure mind in me, burning with potential and waiting for me to set aside my old way of thinking and let it come to life. The clarity of that moment was so keen that I had to stop and say to my friends, "What I just said about not having a pure mind..it isn't true."

This all may sound basic, but it has begun to change the way I pray. I suppose that my prayers have always been much like the one I mentioned above. "God, I want to be really alive, to be godly. Father, give me a pure mind." Those are discouraging prayers, in some ways. They come from a heart that just hopes God can come through and make me something other than what I seem to be most of the time. Instead, God calls me to a prayer whose nuance is subtle yet profound: "Father, help me to actualize the pure mind that you've place in me. God, help me to choose to live out the potential for godliness that is just waiting to burst out of my life." There is hope in that prayer. It emerges from a belief that I am already have the thing that I hunger for. It is a prayer of faith in a God of resurrection: I already have everything I need. I just need to courage and wisdom to let that burning ball of potential loose in my life.

lessons in shutting up

2010-04-18T19:00:00.000-06:00

Jesus threw some zingers out, I tell you.

Case in point: here's one makes me cringe pretty much every time I read it: "The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks."

I have spent the last week or so regretting pretty much every time I open my mouth. It seems that every time I utter a phrase or two, I am left with an aftertaste of either a) superficiality, or b) bitterness. As the days pass, I crave silence more and more, simply because speech inevitably leads to frustration. I guess I figure that if I just shut up long enough, maybe things will smooth out a little. Jesus' words remind me that there is something else at stake: my heart. As I began to look back over my words from the week, this is the emerging portrait of my heart, that deep place from which my words flow: afraid, bitter, jealous, critical, and a semi-shade of empty. Even in light of Jesus' reminder, the conclusion is in many ways the same: shutting up is probably a good idea. The difference is that silence is not the fix, but the starting place. It is an avenue for encounter with the one who changes not just the overflow of the heart, but the heart itself. Silence, then, becomes far more than just a temporary form of damage control.

In my desire for reprieve from my stupid mouth, I pulled one of my favorite books off the shelf as I headed out the door this morning. The plan was to spend a few (hopefully speechless) hours at a coffee shop, and the book was Henri Nouwen's The Way of the Heart, a short but hugely impactful look at the importance of the monastic virtues of solitude, silence, and prayer in our current context. His words on silence have stayed with me in a profound way since I first read them: "Silence teaches us to speak." According to Nouwen, words are meant to give life, but can only do so when they are rooted in a listening silence. The way we throw words around left and right as if it's a virtue to constantly tell all (I am as guilty as anyone of this) has cheapened words. They are stripped of their sacredness, their power. More than that, they are actually dangerous. James tells us that the tongue is a world of evil, and in most of our lives we seem happy to prove his point. Nouwen writes that even an abundance of good words is a cheap substitute for the rich utterances that come from one who has allowed silence to teach him to truly speak. In that deep silence, the inner fire of the Spirit is guarded and kindled. It is the Spirit who teaches us to speak not death, or even simply distraction, but life and healing.

Nouwen nails it. But the nitty gritty of it all...that's the challenge ahead. Silence is not exactly easily incorporated into my daily life. Just this morning I had to explain to someone that my lack of words was not, as he had supposed, due to my being angry with him. It requires a whole paradigm shift to learn to spend time with others with few words involved. I don't know where to start, really. But I'll try, because I crave that carefully guarded fire of the Spirit. I crave the taste of words that reflect the creative and life-giving power of my Maker. From the fruit of my lips, Proverbs tells me, I will be nourished. I feel like I've been downing package after package of corn syrup-y fruit snacks. Some resemblance to fruit in shape, pretty much none in nutrition or taste. I think I've hit my limit.

I'm ready for a growing season of silence, in hopes of tasting the real stuff instead. Less crap, more fruit. Jesus, help me shut up long enough to get there.

lenten loneliness

2010-04-16T15:42:00.002-06:00

Confession: I have practiced a lenten fast for several years now, and it has rarely meant a lot to me, at least not on any spiritual level. Lacking sweets or caffeine or whatnot generally doesn't remind me of Jesus or his suffering much. The year I gave up TV in a house that constantly had it on may have been the most effective fast in previous years, simply because it opened my eyes to the vast amount of time I actually have, and how much peaceful I am when I spend it on fruitful things. Still, not much to knit my story with Christ's.

This year, for the first time, my lenten fast felt connected to the story of the passion. I gave up Facebook, which those who use it daily will understand to be a challenging task. That, honestly, is why I took a friend's suggestion to leave it behind for 40 days-- because I knew it would hurt a little. But I had chosen other fasts for the same reason in years past, and as I mentioned, they did little to connect me to Jesus' walk toward Jerusalem, his journey toward death and then life. Little did I know, Facebook would break that pattern.

At random (I am reading the One Year Bible this year), I read through the passion narrative just before Lent began. One thing stood out to me as I read the story, something that had not struck me so deeply before. It was the deep loneliness and sadness of Christ as he prays in the garden and walks through the events leading up to his death. Weeping in the garden, asking God to choose some other way, he returns again and again to find that his closest friends can't stay awake to pray for him. Then moments after the mob arrives to take him, each of those who had walked closely with him--those who had been his friends--turn tail and run. They leave him standing there, and he walks through the most horrific of nights alone. The next day, as he breathes his last on the cross, he cries out in agony as even his Father seems to have abandoned him. Such loneliness. I imagine that Jesus' life had been growing in estrangement for many days before that night in the garden. As he moved forward in ministry, speaking subversive and often divisive words, and predicting an ending that no one seemed to grasp, Jesus sense of aloneness must have been acute.

I realized something during those days when I wanted to so much to log on to my account, and had to choose not to. I became aware of the role that Facebook often plays in my life--it is a salve for loneliness, a false fix when I feel estranged and disconnected. It opens the door, on a shallow level, to be instantly connected to the goings on of people in my life. I can even stop and make a comment, verbally jumping into a story in which I might normally play no part. My lenten time of staying away from that vehicle of connection (save for a few times on the road, since I had to connect with places to sleep...) forced me to sit with my aloneness, with my estrangement, and consider the far greater loneliness of Jesus. Again and again throughout those weeks, I was called back to look in on that place in the garden where he wept, on the trials and flogging where his only company was those who hated him. For the sake of my salvation, out of sheer love, Christ chose to walk a path of loneliness. He felt it just as any other human does, and yet he chose the path of estrangement anyway.

As I return to Facebook, Easter having come and gone, I am called to remember another thing. Facebook doesn't need to be the salve for my estrangement when loneliness strikes. I am called to remember that the effect of Christ's loneliness is my reconciliation. It is an intimate connection with the One who created me, and who is always with me. I pray that I will learn to enjoy tools that connect me with my friends, yet refuse to bank all my hopes on false fixes. The Christ of Lent, the resurrected One of Easter...he is to be the salve for all my broken places.

small town Sunday: mosaics

2010-02-13T12:23:00.003-07:00

Sunday after Sunday, these last few weeks, I have sat in my pew in Green Mountain Falls with the same thought: "I need to write about this." It has become a mosaic of beautiful and challenging moments in my mind. And so that is what I come to offer now: tiny, colorful pieces of faith and community, drawn from the deep well of my small town Sundays.

At the opening of every service, our Pastor asks the congregation if there is anything they are thankful for. There is seldom the awkward silence that one might expect (in fact, one time there was such a silence, and the Pastor exclaimed, "What's up? Usually I can't shut you guys up!"). My favorite moments of thanks almost invariably come from the two small children that are usually sitting in the pew in front of me. They will raise their tiny hands, and to my delight, the Pastor never fails to call on them. The outcome is usually hilarious. One time, the little girl--maybe 4--spoke loudly: "When you're in the snow, you'd better wear boots!" Last week, she simply asked a question: "Does Jesus live in Woodland Park?" Shortly thereafter, her younger brother took his turn. "It's snowing today," he proclaimed, "And I want lots of bouncy balls!" Smiling from two feet behind, I thought, "I am thankful for these kids, for a church that validates them." And, of course, for the giant bowtie around the neck of the 10 year old behind me.

Our church follows the liturgical calendar, and the first Scripture reading for the day is often read by a member of the congregation--sometimes adults, sometimes children. My favorite is an older man, who walks to the lectern slowly and reads at about the same pace. It is beautiful. Recently, upon reaching the lectern, he held up a torn piece of paper in his shaky hand. "You might notice," he spoke slowly, "that my Scripture has been eaten by a large, black dog," and then continued with his reading. A couple weeks later, again having concluded his slow walk to the stage, he paused and announced, "I'm a little off balance today. One of my hearing aids is dead." And on with the reading.

The sermons, of course, usually leave some sort of mark on me, whether laughter or deep thought. When the liturgy presented us with Jesus' apocalyptic words from Luke (I think), the Pastor began with, "I figure if Jesus could sum up the end of the world in about ten lines, I should also be fairly brief this morning." And he was. On the Sunday following the tragic earthquake in Haiti, he opened with a bold statement: "Those who stand in pulpits this morning and claim to have answers, I would argue, are blaspheming." I have always appreciated that he is willing to call his congregation to wrestle with the difficult and seemingly nonsensical aspects of the world we live in, of the gospel, and of what it looks like to be a disciple. There are moments to be treasured from the children's sermons as well. One week, after trying to perform a rather obvious magic trick, he led them through this simple prayer: "Thank you, God, for silly magic tricks and for miracles. Help us to know the difference." Yes, God, help me to know the difference.

Last Sunday, it was a visiting preacher who left a mark on my life. He had cerebral palsy: His gestures were awkward, and his words were difficult to understand. And yet, he was one of the most gifted speakers I have ever heard, and his simple presence taught me something of courage. This man had followed God's call to preach even when it seemed like a crazy proposition. I thought of Moses, who claimed he was not good with words and yet was called to speak to Pharaoh. I thought of a poem by Ruth Bell Graham:

He is not eloquent
as men count such;
for him
words trip and stumble
giving speech
an awkward touch,
and humble:
so, much
is left unsaid
that he would say
if he were eloquent.
Wisely discontent,
compassion driven
(as avarice drives some,
ambition others),
the old, the lonely,
and the outcast come;
all are welcome,
all find a home,
all — his brothers.

Behind him
deeds rise quietly
to stay;

And those with eyes to see
can see
all he can say.

Perhaps he'd not have spent
his life this way
if he were eloquent.

"God uses ordinary people, " this courageous man reminded us, "because frankly, God likes ordinary people." And so, having followed God into an unlikely calling, he left an indelible mark on the lives of an entire congregation of ordinary people.

Tomorrow, I will make the drive up the pass, my insides slowing down as I make my way out of the city and onto the quiet street that runs through Green Mountain Falls. I will experience the presence of God in the gathering of his ordinary people. And tomorrow, sitting behind thankful children in my favorite pew, I will likewise be thankful. Thankful for snow boots and bouncy balls, for Scripture-eating dogs and silly magic tricks, for bowties and sermons and potlucks. Thankful, that is, for the whole mosaic of my treasured small town Sundays.

love for the oppressor

2010-02-05T12:01:00.001-07:00

After only a few months of living in our neighborhood, my roommates and I made up a little ditty about the fine folks we pay rent to; It was called, "Mr. Slumlord", and was sung to the tune of Mr. Sandman. In this low-income setting, where we have come with the goal of showing the love of Christ to those we call neighbors, it has been difficult to watch them taken advantage of again and again. Charging outlandish rents (when compared with the assessed value of the actual trailers) and ignoring code requirements in the name of being cheap, our landlords seem to have no problem kicking folks while they're down. Meanwhile, they drive home to a huge house in the richest part of town, and take annual vacations to Hawaii. I don't understand it, and it makes me angry. I want to hate them, and I consistently rip on them. I have somehow come to the conclusion that I should love my neighbors and disdain my landlords. Love the oppressed, hate the oppressor.

It is not the gospel.

That is the message God has been opening my eyes to over the last few weeks. It is true that our landlords actions are wrong, and I am in no way called to condone, or even to remain silent about them. Yet I am unequivocally called to love them. The gospel speaks of a God who sends rain on the just and the unjust alike. It speaks of a Messiah who came for both the oppressor and the oppressed. It speaks of One who, when being brutally nailed to a chunk of wood, asked God to forgive those who were swinging the hammer. "If you love only those who love you, what good is that...?" asks Jesus. And so I begin to ask myself--and to ask God--what it would mean for me to show extravagant love to the oppressor in our midst.

Now it is important that I chose to love simply for love's own sake, but I will admit that I am becoming more aware of the strategy in loving my landlords. They are the people of greatest influence in our neighborhood. If their hearts are changed, and their actions follow suit, then the situation of every single one of our nieghbors could improve. The oppressor may become the advocate, the catalyst for change.

If I am honest, sometimes I think it's actually a kind of righteousness, my hatred for the oppressor in my midst. And indeed, some of David's great laments suggest the same. Yet the one to whom I have chosen to follow, the Christ whose truth I am banking my life on, calls me to love. "Love never fails..." THIS is the gospel. May I learn to live it well.

lessons from a Christmas Eve candle

2009-12-26T09:32:00.003-07:00

Christmas Eve in Indiana. I found myself in a small church sanctuary in Mishawaka, listening to the traditional Scripture readings of the season and singing carols. Sadly, the music did not include my favorite lyrical reflections: O Holy Night, and O Come, O Come Emmanuel. They are the songs which call me back to the deep longing into which the Christ child was born. A people who mourned in lonely exile, who pined away in sin and error--these are the people to whom a savior was given that night. The songs remind me to hear the call of Christmas: Rejoice! Emmanuel has come, and the soul has felt its worth.

The service ended as most Christmas Eve services do, with the lighting of small candles while we all sang Silent Night. (Though at the church I used to attend in Carbondale, they actually play the Hallelujah chorus instead.) As we sang, I stared at the candle. I watched as the wax melted into a clear pool of liquid around the wick and then dribbled down the side and into my protective plastic holder...thing. I turned and saw Tim tip his candle toward his bulletin, playing with the wax in the way that, if we are honest, every person in the sanctuary wants to do. Verse by verse, the candles continued to burn. A year or two more of keeping vigil over the singing of Silent Night, and the candle would be gone, melted entirely and spilled on perhaps a few more Christmas Eve bulletins.

I realized something as I stared at my candle. That small flickering light is meant to symbolize the light of the world, the call to let my flame flicker bravely in the darkness in the name of the one whom we celebrate each Christmas. What I realized was this: the continual, vigilant burning does not end well for the candle. The candle receives no honor or award for longevity or faithfulness: The candle disappears. Its form--it's existence--is sacrificed to its purpose.

In many ways, this is the gospel. As John the Baptist once said, the goal is that Christ would become greater, and his servants would become less. The fire of the Holy One is all consuming, and the life of faithful discipleship is made of a million small deaths. We sacrifice ourselves to our purpose, which is to let God burn so brightly in our lives that we ourselves are less and less visible, and eventually we disappear into the love that burned us up. We give up self preservation because we trust that we will one day be re-formed and made new in that place which is invisible to us while we are in the world.

This little light of mine, may God help me let it shine. And may he create in me a heart that is willing to disappear so that some may find their way home.

small town Sunday and me: we will be just fine

2009-11-07T14:59:00.002-07:00

Green Mountain Falls may be a blip on the map. Population less-than-800, its few businesses don't even fill two sides of one street. One gets the feeling of being at least a little insulated from the rest of the world and its tragedies at times. Yet GMF is no less vulnerable to recession than the rest of the nation right now, and my small town Sunday church is feeling it. Outside the sanctuary, charts can be seen with dollar signs on them. I've seen such charts before, usually showing how much money is needed to build the new addition or fund the mission trip. This chart, however, simply shows how much more red the church can handle before it goes under. Not growth, not expansion, not needless spending--just fiscal survival.

As one who cringes at the mention of money during services, I wondered what to expect when the Pastor was slated to give a report from the team dedicated to "stand in the gap" between today's offering and an empty bank account. I wondered what the admonition might sound like, since I know the pastor well enough to imagine that he likewise cringes in such settings. He stood, stared down at the podium for a few seconds, and began.

My pastor never once told his people to give more money that day. Instead, he told them how much he loved them, and how proud he was of the way that they were loving one another and loving the community. He praised them for standing by one another, for embracing every person who walked through the doors, and for seeking to be people who authentically live out their faith. He reminded them that "giving" was about money yes, but about so much more than that. He paused, the continued with the tired but resolved look of a man surrendered to faith. "I know," he said, "that I may not have a salary in 12 months. I know that. But if we keep doing what we are doing, we are going to be just fine. If we keep loving each other, if we keep sharing God's love with the community, we are going to be just fine. Peace be with you." I got home and realized that I had just heard the words of Jesus: Seek the Kingdom, seek righteousness, and you will be just fine.

There was a sermon on Sunday, but for me the moment of transformation was his "report" from the cash committee. I am in my own time of staring at a dismal fiscal forecast. I feel confident that I have followed the road God pointed me down, and it seems to be leading to anything but the farm where the cash cows are kept. Without eyes of faith, things might look rather grim. Yet on Sunday, my pastor called me home to a great truth. There are bigger things at stake in life than money. If I seek God wholeheartedly, if I follow him as best I know how and try to love the world around me, I will be just fine.

Hallelujah. We will be just fine, my small town Sundays and me.

bolted doors and barred off lives

2009-10-30T19:55:00.004-06:00

St. Gregory's Abbey. Though it has been years since I sat in its worn pews, I often think of and long for the warmth of that enormous stone sanctuary where I often went to meet with God in silence. At the time, I was a college student at a Southern Baptist University, a denomination not known for its contemplative practices or use of silence. Southern Baptists are, well....loud. And so I would often slip away to the nearby campus of St. Gregory's University--also a functioning Benedictine monastery--and enter into the deep silence of its beautiful stone abbey. As is the standard among Benedictine places of worship, the doors were always open. Whatever time of day or night I needed to sit with God, I could enter in. My years since leaving OBU have made me painfully aware of what a privilege it is to live just miles away from such a monastery. I am often at a loss when I feel the hunger for hours alone in a silent sanctuary.

The tragedy, of course, is not that a lack of monastery means a lack of churches. They are all over. In fact, it doesn't necessarily mean that there aren't any grand stone sanctuaries there to wrap me in their cavernous regard for the holy. The tragedy is this: most of those grand sanctuaries are locked. It seems that monastic communities are one of the only places where the doors remain always open to the seeker, the penitent, the lover of God.

Earlier this week, I needed to sit in silence with God. Bitter winter winds made a journey into the wilderness near my house unappealing at best, so I drove off in hopes of spending a few hours in the tiny mountain church where I attend lenten taize services. The sanctuary is simple and snug, holding 100 people at the very most. I smiled at the thought of feeling its warmth.My smile faded, however, when I walked to the door and found it locked. Somewhat disheartened, I got back in the car and drove toward the beautiful Episcopal church I had passed on the way. Huddled against the wind, I made my way toward the great, red doors feeling hopeful. I pulled at the small latch, and the smile that had faded at the first church now disappeared entirely. It was locked. Locked like so many other churches I have tried over the years. I felt lost and somehow rejected. I muttered frustration, turned toward the chilly wind, and walked back to my car.

Thankfully, I recalled one large chapel, situated on a local college campus. Nestled in the company of people who are awake at all hours, it locks its doors only when its flock has all gone to sleep: never. Day or night, the great stone walls welcome those who seek sanctuary, whether from the bitter winds or the harshness of life. In that chapel, out of the cold, I sat in the balcony and breathed. My restless heart had found a place to rest.

How sad it is that that beautiful chapel was a 'lucky find.' To me, this closing and locking of the doors is one of the most grevious losses in our current church setting. The brokenness of our culture and the depravity of our human condition has won out. We have conceded defeat in some small (big?) way. In order not to have our sanctuaries damaged, our space abused, or our churches robbed, we lock the doors. Penitents may come when someone is on guard, and with that they will have to be content. The trouble is, the doors are open only for services, classes, potlucks....they are open for activity. For the moment alone, for the welcoming embrace of silence, the doors are locked.

My encounters with locked doors earlier had made me a little angry. I was frustrated to be shut out of the sanctuaries where I had hoped to find solace. As I went through the day, however, my eyes were opened to another tragic element within the church. Shut more tightly than any church or chapel door are the intimate spaces of our stories. So very few of us live hospitable lives: not hospitality in the sense of welcoming others into our home, but of welcoming them into the deeper parts of our own lives. The church--the body of believers that transcends any structure or building--is even more the place where people should be able to find acceptance and sanctuary. How often, however, do they come in out of the cold, feeling hopeful, and find the doors locked tightly. I ask this of myself. Have I, along with the keepers of so many church buildings, allowed the brokenness and depravity of my world to win out? "Don't come in. I do not know if you are safe and I don't want my heart to be vandalized." Is this what my life says? Or do I live a life that is more like that precious Benedictine Abbey or that great college chapel, one that says, "Come and be welcomed, not matter your state, no matter the hour. The one who indwells me is able to care for me, and he calls me to welcome you in."? Of course, there are times for boundaries. There is no way around that. Yet it may be that strict boundaries, locked doors, were made to be more of the exception than the rule. Perhaps the rule is one of hospitality, of welcoming in.

May the both church of stone and the church of flesh both begin to stand in trust again, to refuse to concede defeat. May we remove our locks and re-open our doors to those who, huddled against the harshness of weather and life, come seeking sanctuary. Let us pray they would find it waiting there.

small town Sunday: coming home

2009-10-27T15:38:00.003-06:00

I sat near the back, as I always have. My favorite stained glass windows filtered in the sunlight at my left, while in front of me the old woman who once shaved her head for cancer funds made an announcement that her recent prayers had been answered. After a year away, I was home again, home under the great wooden beams that keep vigil over my tiny church in Green Mountain Falls.

The welcome I received should have not surprised me, yet I none the less found myself caught off guard by the hugs and questions and excited hellos. The announcements began, and I settled into the quirkiness of the place. The pastor announced that the church had been called upon to contribute 80 boxes of jello for a local Thanksgiving food drive. Of course, in the land of small town Sundays, the jello will not be stored in bags or boxes; there in Green Mountain Falls, a jello tower will be erected. Perfect. Other announcements included an abundant pumpkin harvest, one of which had been brought as a donation to the church. A choir member stood and announced that he had been married to his wife for 40 wonderful years. A high school student asked prayers for her upcoming audition with the city orchestra. I listened to it all smiling, feeling as if I was in a congregation that had its priorities straight.

Midway through the announcement, I watched the pastor's wife walk in holding their son, nearly 2 and looking like a miniature of his father. I remembered the day when our pastor held his cell phone up to the microphone and announced that they were going to have a baby. Another is now on the way. Beautiful.

One of the things that kept me in Green Mountain Falls in the first place was the pastor's unwillingness to candy coat the difficult side of the gospel. Sunday's sermon did not disappoint. He told the story of a drug lord in Brazil, a man named Fernando who, even after "converting" to Christianity, continued to provide drugs and contribute to poverty and needless death. He spoke of his initial reaction to this man--scorn, the same scorn that we all felt as we listened to the story from our pews. Yet as he related it to the passage for the day--the story of blind Bartimeus, who would have been understood to be a sinner by virtue of his disability--he called us back to the reality of the example set for us by Jesus. The gospel, he reminded us, is not only for the poor, but for Fernando. It is a gospel that calls us realize that if a man like Fernando were to step onto the road and cry out, "Son of David, have mercy on me," Jesus would accept him as he accepted the blind man. "Are we willing to help the violent, the despicable, and not just the poor? That is the gospel, and I don't know what to do with that. Peace be with you." And thus the sermon ended.

As he prepared to speak the benediction, the pastor reminded us that we seldom listen to the postlude, though the women who play put effort into it every week. "Perhaps this week," he said, "we should stay and listen." It was one of the most beautiful piano pieces I have heard in a long time, and I would have missed it. I wonder what other small beauties I fail to take time for.

I ended my return to Green Mountain Falls with a potluck, several people gathering around me simply to ask questions about my year away and hear what was ahead for me. I felt it as the embrace of authentic love among the body. It was precious to me, this homecoming. The gift of God in the form of a small town Sunday.

thoughts from room 124

2009-09-20T15:09:00.004-06:00

Alabama, USA. I have stepped into the thick Southern humidity for four days to visit a friend who goes school at Auburn. Until I set foot outside the airport, I had forgotten how much I hate the sticky feeling of the air as I walk, the feeling that I am breathing soup instead of oxygen. Yet I had also forgotten how much I love the rolling hills and vibrant greens, kudzu vines blanketing the landscape, draped over trees and bushes like a sheet tossed over seldom used furniture. And in accordance with Southern tradition, the people are so welcoming and gracious that you might as well just move in. Of course, there are elements of Alabama that are foreign to me, and sometimes quite funny. I was feeling a little guilty for making so many snide remarks, until a walk through the Piggly Wiggly revealed a shelf dedicated to pickled pig parts. Pickled pig lips, anyone? What planet am I on? The other evening highlight was a drive-in restaurant whose marquee read: "You gotta eat and we need the money!"

I write now from one of the sketchier motels I have ever graced with my presence, just off the highway in Phenix City, AL (yes, that is spelled correctly). I'm with one of the few friends who would join me in purposely finding a fairly trashy motel to stay in. As one who needs to explore the world this way, I am unspeakably grateful for such friends. So here we are, sitting on stained mattresses we hope don't have bugs and adjusting to the stench. The carpet is torn up in places, there is a filthy office chair where a normal sitting chair might be found, and an unidentifiable stain marks the wall next to my bed. Four paintings hang on the wall: three of them are the same print. I look at them and immediately begin the song in my head: "One of these things is not like the other..." (Thank you, Sesame Street, for helping me identify my world even 20 years after I abandoned you for cooler programming.)

Working with the homeless, and doing my best to learn more and more about the life of the American working poor, I look around this room and cannot help but think of the millions of Americans who are paying most of their paychecks to stay in such motels for months at a time. Unable to save the money for the huge up-front deposit on more suitable housing--indeed, more affordable housing--they shell out hundreds of dollars a week to keep a roof over their heads. It is not an option. It is the option. Not so for me, of course. If I wanted to, I could say "Dude, this place just reeks a little too much," and Kristin and I could pack our things and drive home, or check into a place that has a more diversified art portfolio. But my growing awareness of the part of our society for whom this rank room is reality makes me want to stay simply for that reason. Something in me wants to understand, even if it is on a limited level. We are arrogant indeed if we think we can fully understand, coming from a secure middle class world. I can come to understand the aggravation that comes with appliances constantly breaking, the discomfort of having no insulation in the walls, or the shame of walking through the world knowing that your clothing and hair reek of the room you slept in last night. But I cannot understand the hopelessness, the sense that this all there is. I cannot understand the isolation that is often a key factor in perpetuating poverty. And I cannot understand the depth of frustration that led the mother in the room next to us to scream at and slap her child into the middle of the night. I tried to report the incident, but I know nothing will be done. That child will experience the true plight of the poor in America: invisibility. Silence. As I lay in my bed on the other side of that thin, stained wall, listening to the horrible sound of a frightened child, I could not stop thinking of the Proverb God used to call me to the poor several years ago: "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy" (31:8-9)

In a few weeks, I am headed back to the low-income neighborhood where I lived before coming to work at FMS. I desire so much more than to be the school bus and the homework help and the Thursday night cook. Granted, I adore those things. I love simply living life at the Trailer. Yet I long all the more to speak up for those around me who have no voice. The child in a terrible home setting. The struggling family being cheated by the landlord. The injured working man who cannot get the insurance that would allow him to go back to his job. These people need a voice. It takes courage to be that spokesperson, courage that I do not always show. Looking at the months ahead, I pray that I might be brave. I pray for grace to love the invisible, and the courage to raise my voice.

the need for dignity

2009-09-12T17:15:00.003-06:00

One cannot work with the downtrodden long without becoming aware that there is something they crave more than a meal: dignity. Dignity is why my clients are far more upset if our shower is broken than if our food has run out. It is why, much to our frustration, so many of them will turn down work that pays less than what they once made. It is why so many of them come in with heads hanging and with tears welling up.

Just yesterday, a man came down to register, and I invited him in to my office. I began as we always do when it comes to new folks that come down: "So, tell me about your situation right now." This man immediately reached behind him and closed the door, then began a desperate plea. He trembled and spoke quickly, his eyes looking anywhere but at me, clearly ashamed to be asking for help and afraid I was judging him the whole time he talked. "If I could just get a shower and wash my clothes. I won't ask for a place to stay. I'm staying in my storage unit. I can sleep there. But if I could just get a shower and get out of these clothes...I...I just need some help." He tried to hold back tears, and only partly succeeded. Before I went to get the registration forms, I asked, "Are you a hug man?" He wavered, "Well, yes, but I don't think you want to hug me. I'm pretty ripe." But when I gestured, he stood anyway, and I hugged him. I could feel him shaking. Later, I watched that same man emerge from the shower like a whole new human, still a little shaky, but with a calmer face. "Feel good?" I asked. "Oh! that was divine," he replied. My replacement, who started this week so that we can overlap for a while, looked at me and shook his head in amazement. "That's incredible." I nodded knowingly. It is indeed incredible what happens when you allow someone the dignity of being clean.

Sometimes it is difficult to know how to use dignity as a motivator. As I mentioned in a previous post, there is debate about whether offering work to an alcoholic may help them out of their addiction by offering dignity and curbing boredom. The situation I mentioned in that post ended with the client in question guzzling 6 bottles of cooking sherry (high alcohol content and can be purchased using food stamps) and spending the next few days in the hospital after a minor heart attack. Strike one.

Another client, Tom (not his real name), recently got a job at Wal-Mart and lost it within a week because of his drinking. Of course, he later confessed to me that he had also mouthed off to his manager because he couldn't handle the idiotic way they were going about a shipping/stocking task. True, most of our guys are skilled tradesman. It must be painfully difficult to be a peon at Wal-Mart, accepting orders from someone who doesn't know what they're doing (in regards to the mechanical/technical side of things) because you aren't the professional in that setting and have no say. Still, a job is a job--some dollars is an improvement on no dollars-- and so we encourage our guys to get rid of excuses, even when we understand where they come from.

When Tom came into my office to vent about the situation, he was drunk again. I listened for a while and debated about how to respond. "Suck it up," was an option. "You're going to have to deal with your drinking, man, and take what work you can get." In some cases, that is the right response. But in Tom's case, I just asked, "Tom, what did you do before you were homeless?" He told me about his work in mechanical engineering and electrical jobs and plumbing. He's a very skilled guy, a jack of all trades. Watching him light up, I took a different angle. "Then go do what you're trained for, Tom. You're good at your work. Go find it." I could see the wheels turning in his head, the sudden boost of confidence. "Yeah. You're right. Hey, there's a place I used to work. Can you look up their number for me? I did good work for them. I know that if they can, they'll hire me." I typed in the business name--a construction place in Michigan--and handed him the number. "Tom, you are better than living in a tent. You are better than Wal-Mart. Go and do th..." He stopped me short, stepping in right after the word Wal-Mart. "Thank you, Katie. I heard that. Thank you." And then Tom, who has shown almost no motivation from the moment he registered at FMS, walked out my door straight to the phone, and called Michigan. He didn't get the job, but he has been calling other people ever since, and left early on Thursday because he had some day labor to attend to.

I never know when it is a good idea to say, "You're better than Wal-Mart", and when I should say, "Hey man, I know it isn't the professional setting you're used to, but it's a good job. Suck it up." I'm learning that it just takes case by case discretion, and that such discretion will only come through relationship, through me putting in the time that helps me see the difference between Tom's mindset and that of any other client in my office. But the need for the Church to establish that kind of relationship with the downtrodden is a whole different blog...

For now, I just say again that dignity seems to be at the heart of healing for the folks I work with, and for so many others around us. To be called by name, to have a shower and a shave and some clean clothes, to know that their skills are recognized...these things are as important as the loaf of bread we might offer. May we always seek to acknowledge and affirm the dignity of those who need our help, but not our condescension.

a prodigal comes home

2009-09-07T13:45:00.002-06:00

The paper has become a stranger now.
I have forgotten the feel of it:
[my thoughts stretched out across thin blue lines,
a thousand-word self portrait,
the moment of finding myself on the page]
I want to return somehow, like
a prodigal wordsmith
a wanderer coming home.

Here, notebook open
I imagine myself, small,
timidly stepping out onto the first of 33 thin horizon lines.
I pause, look around wide-eyed, taking in the whiteness
hearing it call to me like a field of untouched snow.
I make a mark
step back, look
make another.
And before I know it, there I am dancing
jumping and climbing from line to line
flinging ink
laughing.
I flip my wrists, let my thoughts fly, fall where they wish
big words
small words
scratches
scribbles
re-writes.
Reaching the bottom, I plop down exhausted
breathless
and dangle my legs over that last blue precipice, #33.
I am covered in smudges,
my face stained with the messy markings of self-expression.

Reacquainted with the once-blank page, content
I lie down there and sleep
peaceful, dreaming
like the prodigal wordsmith
a wandering poet come home.

it's not about breaking the rules

2009-09-04T10:53:00.003-06:00

Lately I have been reminded of something about myself: I am pretty prone to idolatry. Not so much the carving images out of wood variety of idolatry, or the kind that has platinum hubcaps or custom plates. My idolatry tends to be a little less visible, but it is there all the same. It is more in line with what the dictionary calls idolatry: "blind or excessive adoration of something" often something that is "visible but without substance". In many ways, I simply have an addictive personality, a tenacious devotion to the people and things I value. I am an all or nothing kind of kid, to be sure; it is both a strength and a weakness. Sadly, I often get mixed up on which things get my all, and which ones get my nothing.

Most of the time when I am confronted with my tendency for misdirected devotion, I feel my conscience chide me for breaking the law of the Torah: "You shall have no other gods before me." I live a pretty rules oriented life, unfortunately, and so I process most failures as simply an inability to live up to the standard of the law. This time around, however, has been a little different. I am seeing the same problem through a different lens.

Recently, God has been doing some pretty amazing things in and around me. He has answered prayers in ways that have dropped by jaw, and has sent confirmations and encouragements from the most unexpected places. It has been a sweet time of sensing him walk closely with me. His kindness toward me has been undeniably relational and undeserved. Now, as I again feel the pull toward idolatry, this kindness sets a new backdrop. Idolatry is not a law that condemns me. No, idolatry is a lie that cheats me.

Even in the midst of sweet expressions of love from the Father, I find myself reaching toward my most common idol: people. I want a love that is tangible sometimes. I want it in writing I can read, a photo I can stick on my bulletin board to look at when work feels depressing. Those aren't necessarily bad things. In fact, those very things are often expressions of love from God ("every good and perfect gift comes from above"). The problem comes when I offer those people--those words, those pictures, those phone calls--my "blind and excessive devotion." The problem comes when they, rather than God, consume my thoughts and efforts. And the problem is this: those things are always going to fail me at some point. They are only a shadow of the love that is steady and reliable. No matter how sweet those sources of love are to me today, there will be a day when I find that they fall woefully short, and I will be crushed, because I threw my all into them.

But like I said: this isn't a law thing for me right now. It's not a shameful violation of standard for me to put all my eggs into an unreliable basket. Instead, it is the sad exchange of what is better for what is only good. And the love of God is always better--better than life, if you ask the Psalmist. Better than any letter in the mail or photo on my bulletin board. It is the great reality behind those shadows, and the framework in which I am meant to enjoy them and yet not rely on them. The God who is love is the only safe and worthy place to offer my "excessive (even blind!) adoration." May I let him capture that tenacious devotion in me, and allow him to take my addictive personality and satisfy it with the only thing that won't ever leave me dry. As I wrote once before, may I choose to live a live that speaks aloud: "The love of God is better."

faith and trump cards

2009-08-17T15:16:00.002-06:00

Lately I've been revisiting some thoughts on Hebrews 11 that I wrote about a few years ago. At the time, I was struck by the notion of the "even though" and the "because": Even though Abraham was way too old to have a kiddo, he became a father, because he believed that God would be faithful to his promise. In light of his because, Abraham overlooked a pretty big even though, and he experienced the power of God in a jaw-dropping way (see v. 11-12). As I read through Hebrews 11 this time, the notion amazed me all over again. This time, however, I was struck by choice these great men and women of faith had in the matter. I realized that the story could very well have gone like this instead: Even though God promised Abraham a son, Abraham remained childless, because he didn't believe God was powerful enough to overcome the fact that he was too dang old to have a kid. Or perhaps, even though God had called Moses to lead the people out of Egypt and had shown his power, Moses stayed because he feared the King's anger (see v.27). What made these people of faith remarkable, what made them worthy of remembrance some thousands of years later, was that they made God the trump card in their lives. They decided that God was going to be the because behind everything they did, and that everything else was going to have to be an even though.They were living examples of the call in verse 6: "But without faith it is impossible to please God, because everyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him." They were confident that God existed, and they banked everything--and I mean everything--on his promise to reward those who seek him wholeheartedly.

At the moment, I find myself facing my own test of faith, my own point of decision as to what is even though and what is because. God has called me to return to my previous home to pick up the lifestyle ministry he had me doing there. He's made the call quite clear. At the moment, however, there is no job waiting for me there. A life, a ministry, a call...but no income or insurance or any of the other things that my culture tells me must be the trump cards when I am making my decisions. Here is where I choose how my story reads: 1) Even though God answered every prayer for clarity and called Katie to go, she stayed where she was, because she didn't know how she was going to pay for things, or 2) Even though she had no idea how she was going to pay for things, Katie went, because she believed that the same God who answered her prayer for clarity could answer her prayers for every other need. There should be no question that the second option is how I'd like to be remembered. And so I make my choice. I will go. I will allow God to be my trump card, my permanent because.

I recently shared this with my church, and someone asked how this applies when we aren't facing decisions as huge as a job change or relocation. It is a valid question, one which gave me pause. As I think about it, though, I realize how many smaller parts of my story--parts not worthy of their own chapter, perhaps, but important--still present me with the choice. And here is what I desire. Even though I often feel inadequate for the things God asks me to do, I do them because I believe that he meant it when he said my strength is in my weakness. Even though it is scary as hell to be vulnerable about the broken places in my life, I open myself up because believe in a God of redemption and freedom. Even though my actions might invite the ridicule of others, and might run counter to even my personal notion of logic, I live out the gospel the best that I can because I believe that love and truth are worth so much more than conformity. I want it to run down to the tiniest details: even though I think 'm right, I hold my tongue, because I believe in God's promise that love never fails (1 Cor. 13:8).

Truly seeking the Gospel, it seems, will run us up against a million points of decision. Impossible odds, unconventional behavior, seemingly insane decision making. To live that Gospel is to consider it all an even though, and to make God our non-negotiable Because. It is to stand on the truth that, "With man, this is impossible; But with God, all things are possible." All things. Every single one. Let's bank our lives on it.

can't earn me love

2009-07-27T11:05:00.004-06:00

I've never really doubted the wisdom of Paul McCartney on love: you just can't buy it. Buying love has always seemed a little ridiculous to me anyway, mainly because a) material things appeal to me less and less, and b) I have never exactly been rolling in any kind of dough. If love was a purchase deal, I'd be living off of discount fare for the rest of my life. Maybe even some food stamp kind of love. Thankfully, I know money has nothing to do with it.

Unfortunately, I seem to have adopted a version that isn't much better, no matter how noble it may sound sometimes. Apparently, I have settled for a barter system: I give you this, you offer me love. Sometimes I have even chosen downright hard labor, to earn my keep, I guess. Either way, whether I am scouring my closet for trade items, or sweating away in the fields of relational servitude, I often find myself doing my darndest to "earn me love". In fact, if I am honest with myself, that's pretty much what I'm doing all the time.

Recently I was talking with my friend, a fellow lover-earner, about that tendency. We comiserated about the effort that goes into garnering affection in our lives. In the midst of our talk, I suddenly felt compelled to ask her about the times in her life she has felt most loved (a question which she predictably turned back on me once she had answered it). We each shared stories from our lives of moments that had left us feeling overwhelmingly secure and loved: one totally unexpected apology from a distant Father, one moment of "dancing" with God in the midst of absolute brokeness, one friend who offered her company when I had absolutely nothing to offer her in return, and on and on. As we answered the question, one thing became
exceedingly clear: we felt the most loved in situations where we had not earned it, and perhaps felt that we least deserved it. Those were the moments when love was real, when love sank in and took root in our lives. All those other times, all the million times a day that we had been striving to earn love and maybe even thought we had acheived it, had apparently not felt like love in the end. They were a cheap substitute for the real thing, which must always be a gift, not a wage.

"Love is patient, love is kind....it keeps no record of wrongs. It always trusts, always perseveres....love never fails." The most explicit passage in the Bible concerning love sort of assumes that we will be unlovable at times. That we will require patience. That we will have wrongs that need to be scratched from the record. That it will take perseverance to truly love us. This kind of love, and this kind alone, never fails. It sinks deep into the heart and makes a home, no matter how small. It establishes itself in our memories, so that when we are asked when we most felt loved, it is the first to come to mind. Love that is not earned is the love that stays with us.

It follows, then, that the love we give without requiring others to earn it is the only love that will stick. To love others freely, without expectations or contingencies, is the only way to love in the name of Jesus. It is the only kind of love that can get to the brokeness of a person and bring healing. May God grant us the grace to live in a way that says to the world around us, "You don't have to earn my love."

the question of the undeserving poor

2009-06-09T19:10:00.006-06:00

There is a question that has clouded the air around work with the poor for as long as such work has existed: Is there a delineation between the "deserving" and the "undeserving" poor? To the advocate for love, the latter designation might sound appalling. One might pontificate: "Well, we are all undeserving of the grace granted us by a merciful God." And such a statement would be theologically sound, perhaps stirring up some inner nobility among speaker and hearers alike. But the lines are not so black and white as nobility would wish, not even when the social service agency is a rock-solid group of Christ Followers. The question of "who deserves my help?" clouds the air of churches and agencies, a difficult and lingering haze through which social service ministries have to navigate pretty much constantly. The haze is familiar to me now, nearly 8 months into my work with the homeless. I no longer expect to see things clearly when I go to work--no, I know I'm going to walk in there and it's going to get fuzzy before I have a chance to look around.

Some examples:

1. A local pastor calls to let me know that he's considering hiring John, one of our biggest drinkers, to do some maintenance work on a weekly basis (he's already chatted with John about it). He asks me what I think, and my response is immediate: "I'd rather have you hire someoe else. John will without a doubt drink the money you pay him (I call it 'liquidating their assets'). I have some guys here who have been working on sobriety who need work, and I'd rather send you one of them, maybe Jesse." The pastor, as one who clearly lives under the call of the gospel, feels the same dilemma I do, even as I speak as if I didn't. Part of John's drinking comes from boredom and frustration. The job would give him a sense of dignity, which is half the goal for us. But I know the odds are more than overwhelming that he'll liquidate those assets. Jesse is over 5 months sober and will use the money for healthier purchases. He "deserves" the work more. What does the gospel ask me to do here? Not logic. Not even fairness. The Gospel.

2. Upstairs at the Salvation Army, requests for clothing vouchers and warm items come in at an over 100% increase from last year. The budget is tight, and many families with young children are coming in for help. Then one of our alcoholic clients from FMS walks in and asks for a clothing voucher and sleeping bag. He plans to continue camping and drinking, and responds to the urging toward rehab with an only slightly veiled version of "screw you". But he is a life, and his body will freeze to death in the cold the same way a more "deserving" person's would. What would Jesus do in this case?

Dilemmas abound: Do I buy a bus ticket to rehab for the woman who has already tried and quit twice, each timing coming back to drink and spewing hatred at us when we ask her why she left the program? Do I continue to provide services to the man who constantly disrupts the community and gets arrested, and then openly declares that he has no intention of changing his situation? Do I help with paperwork for the client who is applying for disability, even after he has manipulated every agency in town, even taking the pain meds they paid for and selling them, sometimes to kids? These questions rattle around in my mind day after day. The haze follows me home, clouds my thoughts, makes me wrestle with the gospel on a level I have never known before. I come back again and again to the story of Jesus and the paralytic (see earlier blog), and I wrestle some more.

I look often to the writings of one of my heroes, Dorothy Day (less for answers, more for companionship in the questions): "...there is nothing to do but love. There are families among us, destitute families, destitute to an unbelievable extent, and there, too, is nothing to do but love. What I mean is that there is no chance of rehabilitation, no chance, as far as we can see, of changing them; certainly no chance of adjusting them to this abominable world around them--and who wants them adjusted, anyway? What we would like to do is change the world--make it a little simpler for people to feed, clothe, and shelter themselves as God intended them to do. And to a certain extent, by fighting for better conditions, by crying out unceasingly for the rights of the workers, of the poor, of the destitute--the rights of the worthy and the unworthy poor, in other words--we can to a certain extent change the world; we can work for the oasis, the little cell of joy and peace in a harried world. We can throw our pebble into the pond and be confident that its ever-widening circle will reach around the world. We repeat: there is nothing that we can do but love, and dear God--please enlarge our hearts to love each other, to love our neighbor, to love our enemy as well as our friend." (taken from the Catholic Worker, June 1946)

Nothing to do but love. This doesn't necessarily clear up the questions, but it calls me to a default. In all the fuzziness, I will seek to err on the side of love. When in doubt, default to love. If I fail while trying to love, then I have at least ventured mightily, right?

More than this, I notice that the goal is to "make it a little simpler for people to feed, clothe, and shelter themselves as God intended them to do." This means seeking justice on a systemic level. I may have to wrestle a great deal over what to do with the alcoholic sitting in my office day to day. It is agonizing at times, and probably will remain so. But I can far more confidently seek out the systems that keep that person down and fight them outright. Then perhaps the question of deserving and undeserving poor will fade; then, perhaps, there will simply be fewer who are destitute. And that is the goal of love. I recall the prayer repeated again and again in the simple sanctuary in Green Mountain Falls: "God, we look forward to the day when sharing by all will mean scarcity for none."

Until that day, pray for those workers who face the question every day. It is just plain harder than you'd think.

God glasses

2009-05-29T09:17:00.002-06:00

Sometimes I wish the ability to see as God does was a little more tangible. You know, you decide to follow Christ, and along with that "new believer's Bible" they hand out by the dozens, you get a pair of God Glasses. Yes indeedy, the key to spiritual 20/20. (The paradox, I suppose, is that that Bible is the set of glasses...but that's another post). Sadly, most of the time I find myself looking at the world through an unchanged set of eyes. I cast my glance around me and immediately make judgement based on less-than-holy standards: sometimes silently, sometimes (unfortunately) aloud.

Recently, I found myself feeling rather grumpy as I began the 25 hour train ride back from California. Hoping to nap, I was instead kept awake by a nearby teenager, talking at a typical teenage volume and playing songs recorded as ringtones on her phone (while singing along, of course.) I moved back to another car to rest, only to have a rather prudish-looking conductor mark the car "closed" after we stopped in Reno. I returned to my original seat, thankful that the teenager had succumb to a nap in the time I was gone. My relief was short-lived: a man across the aisle began staring at me in a way that made me more than uncomfortable. Frustrated, I gathered my things and went to sit in the lounge car, dreading the 22 hours that remained in the trip. I could ask for help from the conductor, I thought, but that guy looked uptight. I inwardly blamed him for being so, and for closing off my precious escape car. While standing outside with my dad at a brief stop, the conductor passed, and I nearly said out loud, "What a prick." I restrained myself, but only from the words. The thought remained, and I inwardly smiled at my wit.

I'm so glad I didn't utter those words. When I later ran into some other conductors and asked about the closure of the Reno car, they asked about my situation and immediately began looking for a way to help me out. Who was it, you might ask, that eventually came to the rescue more than anyone else? The prick. Ah yes, the prudish, uptight prick. He found me a soon-to-be-vacated seat in another car and marked it off so that no one would take it (even claiming the seat next to me as reserved). He offered me his own seat until that seat was cleared (at the next stop). He checked in on me a few times, checked out the creepy man, and made sure a man was seated there instead of another woman. The dude went above and beyond. Uptight? No. Kind and helpful in the extreme. What was that about God glasses?

Later I found myself surprisingly in need of...some toiletry items (ahem). The little on-train store carried no such items (can we say severe oversight, Amtrak?). I was directed to the woman who ran the dining car, but no amount of inquiring around on her part turned up any help for me. Sitting at the table post-dinner, feeling sorry for myself, I found myself looking at the hugely overweight woman who had barely squeezed into a booth nearby. She was an employee in the kitchen. The judgments that flew through my mind were atrocious--I am embarrassed to recall them. As I chatted with the dining car director again, the large woman overheard. Looking up from her silverware wrapping, she said, "Let me go look in my room." She disappeared for a while, and came back with a neatly wrapped care package put together with much consideration. "Thank you so much," I said. "You really saved my rear." "Of course. Happy to help." My mom asked if I owed her anything, and she laughed if off as a ridiculous notion. Walking away, I realized I had again falled victim to poor spiritual eyesight, and God had pointed out the fuzziness of my vision (probably with great delight, as he knows the deep beauty of that woman's heart).

These are minor examples of the adjustments that need to be made every day. In my work, especially, seeing people as God does in an often unsuccessful venture. Looking at a slobbering drunk, homeless person who is acting like a ridiculous jerk, I see,well, a slobbering drunk, homel....you get the point. I have a feeling that isn't what their Creator sees. The principle applies equally to the mirror for me. I look and pass judgement every day, failing to see myself through the lens of God's abundant, lavish love and grace.

May the people of God use the means given us (including that Bible) to begin to change the way we see our world. It isn't as easy or neatly packaged as a literal pair of God glasses, but the opportunity is there each day to seek God, and to allow him to take us from tainted eyes to spiritual 20/20.

time to write

2009-05-03T21:18:00.002-06:00

I miss writing. I miss crafting words, capturing my thoughts and then stepping back to look at them as they appear in ink. Aha, I think to myself, that's what you look like! Yet I have not written much these last couple years. Some of that was natural. The move to the trailer meant the loss of home internet, as well as the loss of a great deal of what had previously been free time. As well, my most prolific years involved writing late into the night, which is less feasable now that I am back in the working world and on someone else's schedule.

Still, the excuses aren't sufficient. What did I do this week that was more important? I watched several epidsodes of The Deadliest Catch and scanned the internet for ideas for a fall trip. I wasted too much time on Facebook (Oh FB, how I love and loathe thee...). I took a bike ride. I spent an hour in Target trying to decide which notebook and bike lock to buy. I had tea and did some reading at a coffee shop. I met up with friends, inititally for tennis, but finally for coffee when the courts presented only puddles. Some of these things were important indeed. But some were by no means worth the loss of hours that could have been spent writing. It is a discipline that I have let fall slack. I need a good old fashioned kick in the hind quarters.

That said, any and all are welcome to offer such prodding. It is time to write again.

king David, a candle, and me

2009-03-26T19:28:00.004-06:00

I understood something new of the Psalms today. Those who have read them have probably noticed that these songs and prayers of desperation, especially those attributed to David, often seem to have a sort of...mood swing element to them. David cries out in anger or distress for line after line of emotive poetry, and then, click--he spits out a resounding affirmation of God's strength or a beautiful remembrance of God's faithfulness. Psalm 13 is one example that has always lingered in my mind. Most of it betrays David's feeling that God has abandoned him, that David has been left to his enemies without hope of rescue. Yet that same psalm ends with this: "But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me" (5-6) At times such switches simply sound odd.

There isn't a really nice way to say it: I have been pretty depressed most of the time for the last few months. Life feels heavy and hard, and while God continually shows me of his goodness, I feel ignored by him in the deepest areas of struggle and suffering. Frustration, anger, and discouragement have been swirling around in my head, unvoiced to a large degree. Today, however, much of it came spilling out. In jaded and bitter words, I spoke of a God who doesn't rescue us when we call to him, who doesn't come to my aid. I spoke of hopelessness, and I attempted to voice an apathy that, of course, is no more than a cover up for caring so much that it nearly does me in. Hot tears welled up. And there it was: my pain, voiced and echoing in the air inside my car.

In that silence that followed, something in me stirred. Some deep part of me was not satisfied with the statements I had made, felt as if I had defiled the sacred. It was not so much a concern that I had said the wrong thing, or some need for a clean-cut religiosity; rather, it was the feeling that I had spoken untruth about One whom I love. And the feeling did not call me to set aside my emotions, only to acknowledge truth in the midst of them. The truth is that God does rescue his people and has so many times rescued me, even if he seems to have left me now. The truth is that there is no hope at all outside of him, because he is hope embodied, and that my pain at his seeming indifference simply underscores his preeminence in my life. That stirring, that moment of pause, was my own fifth verse--not forced, but rising up from the place in me where the Truth resides. There in that place, the Spirit who has made a home in me held a candle up against the dark feelings that threatened to overwhelm me.

Deep into my bones, I journey with David through the early part of Psalm 13 these days: "How long must I wrestle with my thoughts, and every day have sorrow in my heart?" Yet even as I voice my anguish, I see a flickering. There is a candle somewhere in that darkness, calling me to cling to the ankles of Hope for dear life. It calls me, no matter how weary my voice, to sing to the Lord: he has indeed been good to me.

what's 'want' got to do with it?

2009-03-02T22:23:00.000-07:00

Any reader of the Gospels has likely noticed something about Jesus: he says some strange things. For all his oft-quoted eloquent maxims and parables, there are as many portions of his story that leave the reader scratching her head, wondering if Jesus has momentarily lost his marbles despite his divinity. He asks strange questions and gives even stranger responses to the questions others ask him.

One such moment appears in John 5, when Jesus comes upon a man who has been crippled for nearly 40 years, sitting on a mat near a pool famed for its healing properties. Deal was, the pool only healed folks when its waters were stirred by angels, and even then, only the first one in was in luck. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that the crippled man’s odds of being the first one in were not exactly good. There he sat, day after day for 38 years, hoping someone would help him be the first into the healing waters. When Jesus comes near the pool, he sees the man, and approaches him. He looks at the cripple and asks one question: “Do you want to get well?”

Hold the phone, Jesus. Are you nuts? This dude has been sitting on a dang mat for longer than you’ve been in a human body, and you wonder if he wants to get well? Is there a Greek word for “duh”?

It’s funny how life can shed light on things, though. My work with the homeless has given this story a whole new depth for me in the last couple months. As one of our own clients pointed out when we discussed this passage one Sunday, Jesus asks a legitimate question. As an alcoholic, my client knows that the issue isn’t whether or not he is able to get sober, but ultimately whether or not he wants to be sober. You see, despite the complaints we give, most of us have grown to be rather comfortable in our dysfunctions. It’s how we do life, right or wrong. And if we are honest, we hesitate when confronted with the difficulty of changing our habits, learning new coping mechanisms, and facing the challenges of reinventing ourselves. The crippled man, in many ways, faced the same things. A healthy body meant learning to take care of himself, having to work for a living rather than surviving on alms, and generally having responsibilities from which his health had previously excused him. That’s a big adjustment. Perhaps that is why Jesus asks the question: “Do you really want to be well?” [Of course, in this case the guy's answer reads something like, “C’mon, man. It’s not like I’m not motivated. I just can’t get down there on my own. Someone always beats me to it. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m crippled.” And Jesus, sensing the sincerity of his answer, heals him and sends him away walking on a brand new set of feet.]

The question I wrestle with again and again at work right now is this: What would Jesus have done if the guy had said no? “No thanks, Jesus, but I’m pretty used to this gig. Thanks anyway.” What then? Would Jesus have healed him? Rebuked him? Just walked away?

Doing case management with a population who consistently befuddles me by turning down the help that could get them out of their homelessness and addiction, I often think about Jesus’ question. In essence, I feel like it is what I am asking my clients: “Look, we are here to help you. But do you want to get well?” They may not say it outright (though on occasion, it’s pretty close), but their reply is often “no.” They don’t want wholeness badly enough to leave the familiarity of their dysfunction behind. Just this week, we offered an intensely alcoholic man who was being released from the hospital a warm place to stay for a couple weeks, if only he will commit to staying sober during that time. His drinking, of course it what landed him in the hospital in the first place, as he lay drunk in a tent for days and let his feet freeze and rot. His dad has given him much the same offer we have—fly him home, take care of him—if he’ll give rehab a shot. But it’s a no go. This particular client does not want to get well. So what do we do with him? It is a land of grays we walk through in situations like this.

Now I know that rehab is a lot more work than the miraculous healing the crippled man received. But all the same, the question is a fair one for all of us: Do we want to get well? When we call out to Jesus to change us, heal us, save us, are we really ready for the responsibility of living out that changed life? It calls me to pause, this notion. It calls me to dig inside to see what dysfunctions I may be asking for freedom from—to picture myself laying on that mat—and to be prepared to answer the willing but searching question of my Savior: “Katie, do you want to get well?”

holding on to hope

2009-02-23T13:46:00.002-07:00

Hope can sometimes be difficult to find these days. As my life becomes further and further entwined with the broken lives of my clients, I realize the courage involved in this thing called hoping. Hope takes courage because it is risky; it involves putting ourselves out there, wearing our hearts on our sleeves with the full knowledge that things may not turn out as we’d wanted them to.

This has been especially apparent around Feed My Sheep these days. Two of the clients who had been winning their battle with alcoholism have relapsed entirely. We hear tales of them passed out in their own messes, or bruised after a return to those who abuse them. Three other clients finally hit bottom and asked for help—we sent two off to rehab and one back to be with supportive family. This is cause for rejoicing, and we hope for them. Yet we also feel the pull toward guarding ourselves from the possibility of their failure, from the prospect of a day when they, too, will return to the bottle and reacquaint themselves with a life of self-destruction. Others simply suffer, and we wonder how to speak hope to them. One man just found out that his daughter is in a coma, unlikely to recover. His other two children are already dead. As he stumbles into the shelter and cries out to me in his drunkenness that a man should not outlive his children, I feel at a loss for words.

The battle for hope does not end with work. In my personal life, I find myself facing long struggles that seem never-ending. At times the weight of longing for freedom and healing seems too much. When eloquence is rendered futile by the unutterable things of the heart, I return often to Luther’s prayer: “I am yours; Save me” Teach me to hope, I ask the One whom Paul calls “the God of hope.” Teach me to hope.

A rereading of Hebrews 11:1 recently underscored for me the importance of this risky thing called hope: “But faith is the substance/realization of what we hope for; it is the proof/inner-conviction of things not seen” (translation mine). A look back at Hebrews 6 recalls the centrality of faith to being a true Christ-follower: “Without faith, it is impossible to please God…” Yet a closer look at verse 11:1 reveals that the definition of faith comes with an assumption: it assumes we are hoping for something. To surrender hope renders faith null and void: The verse would basically read, “But faith is the realization of…nothing.” We can’t lay aside hope, saying “I’ll believe it when I see it,” and pass it off as part of surviving the job. It is simply impossible to give up hope and still claim to be a people of faith.

I long for our ministry to be founded on deep and abiding faith. I hunger for my own life to be a life marked by confident trust. And so I must take the risk: I must never give up hope, no matter how painful and vulnerable it can be. I must never shut down the places of my heart that long for things I can’t yet see. Faith is the realization of hope that my clients can overcome, that broken hearts can find restoration, that long battles can be won. And hope is the daring choice to allow God the chance to prove that the promise is true.

finding God in Creation (no wilderness required)

2009-02-06T09:19:00.000-07:00

Living in Colorado, and especially among the population of Christ-followers here, one hears a common statement: “I experience God most in his creation.” What they mean, of course, is that stepping away into the magnificent landscape that surrounds us allows for an encounter with the divine which is difficult to find in the midst of everyday life—in the midst of traffic and conversations with the boss. Of course, there is much truth to the sentiment. Just yesterday, as I descended from the summit of a nearby mountain, making my way through snow and Aspens under a blue sky, something in my soul was stilled; I felt as if God would have an easier time getting my attention in that quiet wilderness than he would during a day full of running errands.

Indeed, anyone who knows me well knows that I am addicted to the mountains. I can breathe out there. I can climb up to a higher view and look down at a world that is not as big and scary as perhaps I might have imagined. Yet something recently struck me as I thought through that statement again, that assertion that it is easiest to find God in “creation”. I was sitting in a worship setting, singing about how “the earth is filled with his glory,” and I became aware that I picture the same sort of wilderness setting every time I sing such songs about an earth that reveals God’s greatness. I picture the glory of God as displayed in “creation”. The thing that struck me (and the reason that creation is in quotation marks) is that the high point of creation—the only part said to be shaped in the image of the Creator himself—is humankind. It’s people like the ones you pass in traffic and the one who runs your office. Why, then, does my idea of encountering God in creation generally involve getting away from people, save for maybe a few that I really like? And what am I missing out on because of that narrow definition?

In the week or so since I began to ponder those questions, I have often found myself looking intently at others, especially at my clients at the homeless ministry, wondering what it means to experience God in the part of creation that is people. In some ways, it has simply shown me how much I need to allow my eyesight to be adjusted by the Creator, since I know that he is especially present in encounters with the poor. On the other hand, it has affirmed what has already been a big part of my focus lately: the importance of the Body of Christ really, truly living life together as a body. Here’s why:

I imagine that one of the reasons we find it so easy to encounter God in places like the Colorado Wilderness is that there we find a part of creation that seems at rest. It is an area that seems untainted, and gives us the sense that it might actually be close to how God intended it to be in the first place. No matter how much one might love a place like New York, it definitely doesn’t afford the feeling that the plot of land known as Manhattan in any way resembles the landscape in its purest form. We’ve made a bit of a mess out of many such places.

Likewise, humanity has become a polluted and chaotic form of what once reflected in the image of God himself. It is sometimes difficult to glance the divine within the face of an utterly broken life (though we need to look intently for God there, too, so that we can embrace all as his created ones). Here, then, is the importance of the Body of Christ. We are not the pristine mountains of humankind, but as Christ-followers, we have chosen to begin a journey toward being restored to the image of God. We have chosen to be a vessel for the display of his Spirit and likeness, no matter how imperfectly we fulfill that role at times. To seek to know God in his creation, then, means for the Body of Christ to look for him in each other. To truly do this means sharing life on an intimate and vulnerable level, offering one another access into the places of our lives where God’s great strength and redemption are being revealed in our weakness and trials. It means proclaiming his creativity by actively expressing the ways he’s gifted us, and doing so in community with others. It means helping one another to grow in the kind of compassion that will better allow us to see God in even the most broken parts of creation.

Knowing God in community with people is much messier than finding him in the woods and canyons. It’s more complicated and unpredictable, to be sure. But if we believe that God is revealed through his creation, then he is there in the midst of human ties, waiting to make himself known intimately through those “who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.” May we know him in the mountain peaks and crystal streams, yes. But may we also allow him to teach us even more what it means to know him through the part of creation which he shaped in his very image.

a different kind of messy

2008-12-22T14:35:00.002-07:00

A few posts ago, I wrote about the messiness of loving people who are often bent on self-destruction, and who will only sometimes overcome. It the messiness of loving broken people. This week, I have come face to face with another side of that untidy process called love: it is the messiness of loving when the messy one is me.

For the most part, I thoroughly enjoy our clients. Most are kind and grateful, quck to share a story or a laugh. Some are a little obnoxious when drunk, but well...that's alcohol for you. Recently, however, we have been joined by a woman whom I find it almost impossible to enjoy. In the large group room, and then even more once in the women's room, she is often just plain hateful. She speaks in such a rude, attacking, and accusing way that I sometimes stand there just feeling like someone is spewing poison on me. And she goes for the jugular, attacking the legitimacy of my faith, my competence as a staff member, or simply my intelligence or general worth. It causes great wrestling in me, because my inner reaction is not what I would hope for it to be. Sometimes I feel like I hate her. I don't want her to come in, hoping that she can find somewhere else--anywhere else--to keep warm. Part of this is because she not only insults me, but often attacks others and almost always ruins the atmosphere of the room for the night. It doesn't help that she snores like a chainsaw from the moment she falls asleep to the time she wakes up. Shallow as that may seem, it just makes it so I am angry with her even when she's sleeping. I pray continually that Jesus would create compassion in me, eyes that see the hurt behind her bitter hatred. It is far easier said than done.

Jesus told us pretty clearly that sometimes the world will hate us just as it hated him. This should be no surprise. But how to respond is a difficult question for me because of the position I am in: I am called to be humble and meek--to disarm her with kindness--yet as a staff member I am also called to maintain authority and order in our shelter. The latter side of things seems to cancel out the option of silently turning a cheek and letting her rage unchecked. Yet the call to the former makes it difficult to embrace the decision to demand respect and possibly kick her out for the night. Of course, mixed into all this questioning is my own ugly reaction. I'll be honest: there are times when all I really want is to get rid of her. Oh, to be like Christ in this situation. What does it look like? I do not know, and so I continue to wrestle with the question daily.

In the midst of it all, at least one thing has begun to echo clearly. Jesus did not just warn us that we might be hated. He told us that to be persecuted is actually a blessing, a cause for rejoicing. To recieve insults and to encounter suffering--we are blessed to share in these things. I pray that I might be able to internalize this more and more. Perhaps someday I will find myself doing that ludicrous thing the gospel calls us to: standing before one who spews bitter poison and somehow rejoicing.

the hardest line I'll ever draw

2008-11-30T19:09:00.003-07:00

From November 16th-March 16th, life at our ministry (FMS) is different. During that four-month stretch of freezing, Colorado weather, we open up a few motel rooms, put down pads instead of beds, and pack in as many homeless folks as we can. The ministry began four years ago when an FMS client froze to death one winter night. It's not that most of them don't have warm enough gear to get them through. It's that they get drunk enough to not quite make it up to camp, pass out, and never wake up. These are those who would die without the program. They are saved from death, while others are spared a winter's worth of shivering the night away.

Anyway, that means that, for now, I am sleeping five nights a week on that motel room floor, supervising the women who come to us out of the cold. During the hours before bed time, we all gather (men and women) in one room to watch movies, heat up some food, or whatever helps pass the time as we spend the evening in close quarters.

So there's the scene: cramped motel room full of staff and clients, only some of them sober. Now here's the character du jour: Shawn. Shawn is the worst alcoholic I have ever encountered. Only when asleep and first waking is he sober, and even then his motor abilities have been severely hampered by his constant intake of cheap cooking sherry. He is a tragic character in so many senses. His parents, both supportive and wealthy, would gladly pay his fines, pick him up, put him in treatment, and allow him to live at home if he will make but one decision: the decision to pursue sobriety. Shawn chooses not to, and so he drinks himself closer and closer to an early death every day. He is still in his 20's.

Shawn is not only our drunkest customer; he is also our most disruptive. He stumbles in cussing and raising cane, refusing instruction from staff and even challenging physical attempts to help him into the part of the room called the "drunk tank". He brings total chaos to a program that needs some sense of order to work. The rules we have about that kind of behavior are for good reason: to be able to provide a healthy atmosphere, and to stay in the good graces of the motel that hosts us.

And here is difficult line we must draw. If anyone is at risk to pass out and freeze to death, it is Shawn. Yet we risk our entire winter ministry (and the sanity of all involved) if we let him stay when he is physically and verbally disruptive. The choice is clear in the end: we must draw the lines that will allow us to to continue to provide warmth to as many as we can these winter nights. This means we must offer Shawn the chance to come in sober and well-behaved....but be willing to send him back out into the winter night if he chooses not to. We have to make the choice to send the one out into the cold so that we can continue to bring the many in.

I write this much for prayer as for reflection. As I write, Shawn is being told that he needs to begin coming in sober and calm, or he will not be allowed to stay. Pray for the kind of clear hearing that could only be a miracle for an alcoholic like Shawn. Pray for courage and wisdom as we are called into difficult decisions. We pray most of all that we will never have to face news that this tragic young man succumbed to the chill of a winter night. May God grant us grace to love him well and wisdom to know how to do it.

so, where exactly IS that field?

2008-11-25T22:18:00.007-07:00

These were purchased at two different gas stations, in two different states on the way to Michigan last summer. Yes folks, even the postcard makers can't tell Nebraska from Iowa.

love is messy business

2008-11-02T18:51:00.002-07:00

My time thus far at Feed My Sheep has reminded me of many things, one of the most important things being this: truly loving people--acknowledging and honoring the dignity of every person--is messy. In working with the homeless, I will often get my hopes only to have them disappointed: the chronic alcoholic will make it 15 days sober, then come in slobbering drunk one day. The woman who shows signs of making changes will fall for one more invitation to spend the night with an abusive man. And the woman who seemed to be calm and collected will suddenly deteriorate into fits of disturbing and scary schizophrenia. There will be success stories, of course. We serve a God of overcoming. Yet we dwell among a people prone to self-destruction. Truly loving people means journeying across both sides of that coin of relationship between God and humanity.

The messiness of this thing called love, epsecially love for those with whom we would like to disassociate, makes most people avoid the task at all. To my great disgust, I recently sat at a meeting full of community leaders and listened to voices asserting that we ought to just pack that worthless bunch we call homeless onto a bus and send them out of town. Let them be someone else's problem, they say. Let someone else do the messy work of offering dignity to the dirty. While such an attitude disturbs me, it calls me to ask myself whom I regard in such a way. I may embrace the homeless and despise the rich. It is no better.

Loving people is messy because we must acknowledge that so little distance lies between our situation and that of any other human being on earth: the geography of our birthplace, a parent who offered some guidance, one little chemical in the brain, a stable job market, or the propensity for addiction. To truly love, we must give up the right to disassociate. We must surrender us-and-them. It is a gargantuan calling for any of us to aspire to, myself included.

What I am called to remember is that, on the inside, we're walking in similiar shoes. All of us homeless until we find a home in him. All of us a slave to something until we let him free us. All of us filthy and unkempt until he purifies our hearts. To love one another is to embrace the common mess. It is hard. And it is the highest calling of our faith, save for loving God himself. And just so we wouldn't cop out and say that loving God is all we need, he told us that they are one and the same: "For whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me."

Return to the Wood Hood

2008-10-27T15:47:00.003-06:00

I am writing today from my long-time favorite coffee shop, back home in Glenwood Springs. This is the coffee shop where I wrote poetry on paper napkins, laughed over silly things with high school friends, composed my valedictory address, caught up with friends on visits home...it is a restful place for me. Looking forward to afternoons in this quiet place is one of the more exciting parts of this move back to my old stomping grounds.

The new job has been a joy thus far, even with the usual stresses of starting new things. I spend my days laughing with a hilarious group of eccentric homeless folks. Some are bitter and hard. Some just make me laugh with their resilient humor (and occasional drunkenness). At times, most will give a glimpse into a soul saddened by finding themselves in such a place in life. They are wonderful, teasing me, watching football with me, and teaching me a few tricks on the guitar. Granted, it isn't utopia. A few people creep me out a little, and the drunkenness is as ornery as it is funny. But the life found in those personalities provides something akin to rose colored glasses most days.

Yes, here I am, back in the kind of small town where the coffee shop is about to close...at 4 pm. But I'll be back, me and this borrowed Mac. Back with stories to tell.

one thing ends, and another begins

2008-10-03T20:16:00.003-06:00

It is night for coffee shops. There is an early fall chill to the air outside my window. For the first time in a long, long time, I have nothing on my schedule and my heart is seeking warmth and solitude. There is no better place for me tonight than this quiet table and my mug of coffee, writing a much needed update by lamplight, enveloped by rich, red walls and classical music.

Blogging, like most things, fell victim these last couple months to the final stretch of my Master's degree, which I officially finished on September 19th. It was a time for pushing much aside so that I could git 'er done. And now she's done, and I am breathing in the sweet relief that comes with time to write. Time to read. Hours for driving into the mountains to soak in the yellows and reds of fall. The latter of these is how Richard and I spent the day yesterday, eyes wide and jaws agape as the road brought us corner by corner to new vistas and blazing groves of Aspens. Incredible, this seaon.

It is a season of change not only for the leaves, of course, and moreso for me than has been the case in the past couple years. Earlier this week, I accepted a job working with the homeless in Glenwood Springs, CO--my hometown. Two weeks from today, I will pull away from this place I have grown to love and drive toward a new stage in my life. I'm full of the usual mix of emotions: a touch of confusion, a dose of sadness, a dash of excitment. The feelings come on at the strangest times. Last night I started bawling while watching Curious George. Seriously.

My thoughts are many these days, and I am excited for the time ahead, a season where I can sit to share them here. A strange new place in life where a night for coffee shops doesn't also have to be a night for homework. I look forward to our conversations there.

crazy talk

2008-08-09T16:13:00.004-06:00

I've been reading the prophets lately, and I am beginning to feel like a lunatic. One might venture to guess that this is because many of the prophets seemed a little looney themselves. It is not necessarily a sane man who wanders around naked for years and cooks his food over dung in order to pass on some sort of message from the LORD. As uncomfortable as it is for those of us who want to be faithful, God called these folks to act like crazy people at times, often incurring the ridicule of their countrymen, all for the sake of God's message. Yet I am still fully clothed, and I cooked my breakfast over good old natural gas this morning. It is not their actions, but the prophets' message that is making me feel a little crazy.

Th concept of social justice--of God's care for the oppressed and disadvantaged--has become increasingly important to me over the past few years. This year, as I read through the messages of these great speakers for the LORD, I began to circle and note every place where I read the word justice, as well as things like the poor, the orphan, and the widow. And it has been incredible. I had always known that such issues are important to God, but a thorough reading of the Old Testament leaves one with the impression that the issue of justice is very near the top of his list. The breaking point for me came a couple days ago in the form of Jeremiah 22:16, speaking of one of Israel's greatest kings, the young Josiah: He made sure that justice and help were given to the poor and needy... Isn't that what it means to know me?" asks the LORD.

"Isn't that what it means to know me?" What an incredible statement. God says here that to give justice and help to those who truly need it is a critical part of our even knowing him. It calls to mind the scenario painted by Jesus regarding the judgement day (Matthew 25). In the very context of calling them to account for failing to give justice and help to the hungry, thirsty, naked, and imprisoned, Jesus sends them away saying, "I never knew you." Do we hear that? "You did not actively love the least of these, and therefore I never knew you."

This is shaking a lot of foundations for me--hence, the feeling a little crazy. So many assumptions within the church are sounding off kilter. I am thinking in extremes, and it's uncomfortable. Yet I need to go there, need to question painfully before I can come around to balance. And so the doubts ring in my mind.

There's the notion that God means the poor in Spirit, so the CEO who doesn't know him falls into the category. In that case, Christians should make sure to enter that realm and minister to that kind of poor. I don't think I buy that anymore. I think perhaps God meant the poor. The oppressed. The downtrodden. Literally. There's the idea that we can most effectively influence the world by making sure we have believers planted in every realm. If everyone dedicated themselves to justice stuff, we'd miss a lot of folks right? It feels crazy, but I don't think I buy that anymore. More and more, I sense that if the Church (and I don't mean the institution) truly dedicated itself to the disadvantaged--and I mean gave up everything for that cause--there isn't a corner of the world that wouldn't have to take notice.

There are so many things I have taken as givens that I am growing completely uncomfortable with these days. It's a little scary. I feel a little crazy. But I want to answer the call of Hosea 6:3-- "Let us press on to know [God]!" Yes, let us press on to know him. If Jeremiah was anywhere near on target, I'm going to have to factor in a few things when I begin that hunt to know him. I'm going to have to consider the words of God himself:

He made sure that justice and help were given to the poor and needy... Isn't that what it means to know me?" asks the LORD.

back in the saddle...or seat

2008-07-28T21:11:00.006-06:00

Due to a lot of travel (posts on Alaska and Michigan to come) and a whole lot of heat in Colorado Springs, I haven't gotten much time on my bike this summer. Poor Pedro (and new road bike, Rosie) have had a little exercise, but not the major outings that summer usually brings. What's a girl to do when it's 90 degrees out?

However, I am writing tonight from Leadville, where I came to spend a couple days with my mom. Leadville is one of the highest towns on the continent, situated at about 10,200 feet above sea level. Anyone who has hiked around high elevation knows that 90 degrees is a pretty unlikely temperature up here! And indeed, to my delight the highs are just in the 70's this week.

That glorious temperature drop meant that Pedro and I got to hit the trail today. After getting directions (and a pump adapter, which I promptly lost) from the guys at the local bike shop, I drove out to a trailhead right next to Leadville's Turquoise Lake. The trail is beautiful, following the pristine shoreline for several miles. Of course, Colorado weather being the unpredictable entity that it is, I spent time in sunshine, rain and hail within just a couple hours. The latter two made for some splendid mud puddles, which in turn made for a happy me.

I had forgotten how much the lessons I learn biking keep me centered. Not quitting, taking on challenges that look scary, smiling at the adventure of it all. Looks like I need to get Pedro out some more in the coming months, even if it does feel like riding in a convection oven sometimes.

the glory of grace

2008-07-02T15:17:00.003-06:00

I have never had an easy relationship with grace. I have been told that I extend it well at times, but recieving it has always been a great battle for me. I put pressure on myself for every little thing--down to the silliest and most insignificant decisions and actions--constantly living as if under the threat of judgment, disapproval, and failure. It's ridiculous, really. But we all know that we fail to see how ridiculous our own delusions are most of the time.

This aspect of struggle can be crippling at times for me. It's the voice inside my head telling me that everything I do is wrong, that I am not enough--not beautiful enough, not selfless enough, not disciplined enough. It is not the voice of truth, but it shouts loudly all the same. As a woman who wants desperately to live a life that in every way proclaims the truth of a gospel of freedom, it is an often uphill battle.

Recently, I read through the Psalms of Asaph, one of the more prominent names attached to these wonderful poems. As I read Psalm 79, a Psalm that mourns sin and destruction and loss, I was struck by the ninth verse: Help us, O God of our salvation! Help us for the glory of your name. Save us and forgive our sins for the honor of your name.

As I read this, I found myself reminded--and newly astounded--by a deep truth: it is to God's glory for him to show me grace. I often feel that it is my behavior and perfection that will bring him glory, and I chastise myself severly when I think I have failed. How can it be to his glory to recieve grace for such failure? Yet there it is in writing. There it is in the middle of the Word of God; he gets glory when he forgives us and helps us as our Great God of Salvation.

I pray more and more that I will learn to recieve that with humility, and even more, with JOY! Yes, I want to live a holy life, and I will seek it with all my heart. But I also want to live a life that expresses this great truth: his grace when I fail can still be used to bring my Father glory.

quiet spaces

2008-05-31T20:18:00.000-06:00

As I sit down to write, my knee-jerk reaction is to explain where I have been, to justify my more-than-a-month of bloglessness. But it is what it is. We all know that life sometimes shows up in ways that push just about everything aside for a while.

It has been a difficult week for me. My heart is heavy with upcoming transitions and sad losses. All the while, the looming monster of homework deadlines makes its presence known. Yet God, in his grace, has allowed a few quiet moments for my heart, and for those I am so grateful.

A few days ago, it came in the form of taking a walk, after finishing one novel and before starting another, both for my Theology and Contemporary Literature class. I read them with homework in mind, taking them in as I would a cup of coffee consumed for its effect rather than its enjoyment. Just to ward off the headache, or in this case, the inability to answer a test question. That is one of the things I look forward to most about graduation, actually; I can hardly wait to read books for their flavor again, lingering over the words the way that I would slowly sip an expensive latte in a favorite coffee shop.

For my walk, I chose a route meandering down the alleys, so that the sound of my footsteps on gravelly dirt could compete with the noise of passing traffic. The alleyways revealed middle-of-the-block houses that would otherwise go unnoticed. They are small, some with neatly painted garages and bright flowerbeds, others with dilapidated roofs and used-to-run cars nestled in unmown grass. Occasionally, there is an overturned canoe or a rusting fishing dingy, both of which would seem more at home if there were water anywhere nearby. There is not.

It is spring, and helicopter leaves (what are those really called, anyway?) are beginning to cover the sidewalks. I paused every so often to toss one into the air, smiling slightly as I watched it spin whimsically back to the ground. At one point I plucked a puffy white dandelion and sent its seeds floating into the wind with a puff of breath. These, too—spinning leaves and floating white seeds--are coffee shop-paced things, but I know by now that I can’t do everything at the speed of productivity and still handle life, so I do them anyway.

Another one of those frivolous, latte moments came in the form of stopping to sit by a pond last night. I had come to the park on my mountain bike, hoping to ride off some stress. Not really wanting to move (sometimes the hardest things to get going is a heavy heart), I managed to drag myself out the door just in time to enter the quiet world of the rugged park at dusk. Just a few minutes before arriving at the pond, an absolutely huge owl had surprised me by lifting off and gliding away just a few feet away, where I had not even noticed its presence. Now, I sat near the water, hearing only the distant hooting of another owl, the melodic chattering of springy-type birds, and the chirping of a single—but very loud—cricket. The quiet of it created some space in me, where I had felt nothing but tightness and anxiety before. Thank God, I thought, for the warm air at dusk, and enormous owls, and ponds and crickets and mountain bikes. Thank God for letting me breathe when I need it most.

The few days ahead are going to be difficult. I know this. Yet I know that God will know just when I need to breathe. And I know that when I didn’t even think it could come, I’ll find myself near an alley garden, or a hidden pond, or another space that only God can create.

the sanctity of scent

2008-04-22T11:39:00.001-06:00

(I recently posted this on another blog, but wanted to share it here.)

When we first moved into the trailer, I remember that one thing stood head and shoulders above the rest when it came to adding difficulty to the adjustment. The ants?A little annoying. The small space? A bit frustrating. The heat? Somewhat aggravating.

The smell? Completely disheartening. It almost put me in tears several times, and not because it was making my eyes water.

I am learning that there is something sacred about smell. It makes sense even when one looks at it scripturally. God refers to Israel's actions and heart as either a pleasing aroma or a stench to him. Disobedience is literally compared to an offensive smell! And indeed, there is something about smell that touches us in a deep place. Ask a missionary what was hard about adjusting to a new place, and more often than not, you will hear about the odor. Observe a mourning family member with their nose buried in the clothing of the lost loved one, holding on to the scent. Watch the way that a particular smell can bring back memories so vividly that one will laugh out loud or melt into tears.

The rising spring temperatures are beginning to bring out the smells that winter had subdued in our home. Walking into the trailer, we are often stunned to feel our senses offended by a foul stench. More than that, we walk out of the trailer knowing that our clothes smell the same way. It is a little awkward. And I can see it on all of our faces: it is disheartening.

In our society, we make quick judgements based on how someone smells. We go so far as to think of someone as lazy, uneducated, or worthless when they walk in smelling badly. Yet here I am, well-adjusted, a leader in many settings, with an almost-completed master's degree, and I smell the same as those among whom I live. It is such a tangible--and uncomfortable--part of living in solidarity. Sometimes I want to just escape it, to run away and live somewhere where my clothes will smell sweet. Yet I realize how shallow that is in the end. Jesus calls us to lay down our lives for him. Period.

Let us be a people, a group of Christ-followers, who give a second thought to our assumptions about those whose odor offends our senses. Perhaps they have a spouse who smokes, and will not quit despite their pleading. Perhaps they work a job that would make most of us cringe, just because they are committed to feeding their families. Perhaps economic circumstances have forced them into housing that, no matter how clean they themselves are, will forever carry the scent of careless previous tenants.

Ultimately, we must face this: the judgment we hand out is a far greater stench to God than anything or anyone that may cross our paths today.

when the ink runs dry

2008-04-12T11:56:00.004-06:00

I am realizing that I am not a writer.

That will sound strange to many who read this, but it is true. I am not, as klerch, a writer. I have nothing to say. Yes, the scarcity of posts over the last few months have had much to do with busyness. But mostly, I am realizing they have to do with the a greater scarcity: on my own, I truly have nothing to say. I am only a writer as klerch, daughter of God, lover of Christ. Writing is his gift to me. When writing comes out of me, it is his own voice speaking to me and through me.

I have known it for a long time now--known it in the quiet places in my mind--but a recent time of worship brought it to the fore: Somewhere in the last couple years, I have lost the sweet intimacy that once marked my relationship with God. I am walking with him, sure. Still learning things. But I could not sing the words that once brought me to tears: "Your love is extravangant...I find I'm moving to the rhythm of your grace." My ink has run dry.

And I have had nothing to say.

Ever so persistently, I hear the Father calling me to return to a place of intimacy with his Spirit. I am weary of watching the writer in me--that sweet gift of his to my heart--collect dust in the corner while I soldier on like a walking set of dry bones. I long for his breath to bring me back to life, for him to be writing his own love and grace all over the pages of my heart.

In Christ and Christ alone, I am a writer. It is the greater truth of who I am. May I soon find myself moving to the rhythms of his grace, and feeling his words flow through my fingers again. I know he is waiting there. And I know he has much to say.

victory has a high regard for the Holy One

2008-03-29T12:27:00.006-06:00

Reading through the Old Testament is both beautiful and disturbing. On the one hand, we get a glimspe of our amazing covenant God. So faithfully he promises his goodness and declares his love for his chosen people. His power in creation and in fighting for Israel is awe-inspiring at times.

On the other hand, there are stories and commands that make me squirm and unsettle my sense of who God is. Is this really the God I know, commanding his followers to slaughter entire people groups--every man, woman, child, and animal? Is this the God I know, who in one place says that no one but the individual is responsible for his sin, and elsewhere kills entire families because of the transgression of one? I am there right now, right in the middle of an endless list of brutal conquests, as Joshua leads the people of Israel into the long-awaited Promised Land. The stories unsettle me as they always have. Those of us who have chosen to follow the God of Israel, revealed to us in Christ, must grapple with such texts. They are not allegorical. They belong to the genre of history. I cannot deny that.

Yet, as one who lives on the far side of the New Testament, where I read that my battle is no longer against flesh and blood, I find that there is much to learn in these passages. Again and again, God provides the Israelites with strong guidelines and principles for overcoming their enemies and enbracing his promises. His standards for taking the land are high, calling his people to hold obedience--and his holiness--in the highest regard.

One of these principles is indeed total destruction. God warns his people to carry out their conquest fully. He knows that by allowing bits and pieces of the old land to remain among them, they leave the door open to be drawn away from the One who led them there: "You must destroy all the peoples the LORD your God gives over to you. Do not look on them with pity and do not serve their gods, for that will be a snare to you" (Deut. 7:16). The truth of this prediction bit the people of Israel in the proverbial butt many times, as when they killed all but the women, only to find themselves suckered into idolatry by their newly acquired wives. In that place, the blessing of victory falls victim to the curse of a half-assed obedience.

Reading through Joshua this week, a new command regarding taking the land stood out to me. It was one that I had not noticed before. As the Israelites move into the land, beginning with the famed Jericho, God gives them this command:

"The city and all that is in it are to be devoted to the LORD. Only Rahab the prostitute and all who are with her in her house shall be spared, because she hid the spies we sent. But keep away from the devoted things, so that you will not bring about your own destruction by taking any of them. Otherwise you will make the camp of Israel liable to destruction and bring trouble on it. All the silver and gold and the articles of bronze and iron are sacred to the LORD and must go into his treasury" (Joshua 6:17-19).

Keep away from the devoted things. As God has continually told the people to distinguish between the common and the holy (Leviticus 10:10), he calls them here to acknowledge that which is set apart for him. And as usual, the Israelites fall a bit short. A man named Achan takes some of the consecrated items for himself, and the victorious conquest becomes a humiliating retreat at the city of Ai. When Joshua falls on his face before the LORD, disappointed and confused, the God of gods repeats:

"Hidden among you, O Israel, are things set apart for the Lord. You will never defeat your enemies until you remove these things from among you" (Joshua 7:13).

I am sobered by the words: "You will never defeat your enemies until..." I spend so many days--and especially those of late--longing for victory against the enemies I fight, those which are not flesh and blood. There are times when I find myself victorious, but many more when I fall on my face after an embarrassing retreat. This passage brings me before the LORD with a new question: What does it mean to hold onto that which is set apart for you? What does it mean to remove it? I write this post without the answer. Yet as a woman who longs to follow Christ and to claim the land he promised me, I seek to embrace the question. May we all run hard after the God of victory, and eagerly lay aside that which keeps us in defeat.

psalm 51:10-12 becomes my own

2008-03-14T09:31:00.004-06:00

Create in me a clean heart--pure in its affections, cleansed from all that makes me feel filthy, pure and white before you--O God, and renew a steadfast spirit--a spirit that clings to hope, a spirit that will endure a lifetime of fighting for holiness, a spirit that stands strong and plants feet on truth--within me. Do not cast me from your presence, or take your Holy Spirit from me--do not abandon me and leave me floundering. Stand beside me even in all my weakness. There is no life outside your Spirit. Restore to me the joy--joy that sustains and motivates, that glimpses the fact that you are better than anything the world offers--of your salvation--"My God is mighty to save," your saving power every day of my life, the truth that your arm is never too short to save--and grant me a willing spirit--soft and ready to obey, moldable and eager to follow wherever you lead, free and alive--to sustain me--to hold me up until the day I see your face.

somewhere in the in-between

2008-02-14T16:52:00.005-07:00

Somewhere in the last year, everything shifted. Everything changed. Now, in some strange way, even after spending months on the far side of it all, I am suddenly standing back in the in-between and staring silently out at the scenery. As I told a friend only minutes ago, I am suddenly aware that the landscape of my life is drastically different than it was even six months ago. And to my surprise, I am bushwacking my way through thick underbrush of unexpected and seemingly delayed grief and processing.

The sheer amount of change has been a bit disorienting, as I am left with little familiar footing. I find few constants. The question rings in my ears almost daily: Who am I? I know that I have changed along with the scenery; that is part of life. Yet I ask myself now, Have those changes involved developing new muscles and navigational skills, or am I left only with a sunburn and atrophy in legs that once walked in faith? I do not know the answers to these questions, and what answers are out there seem to be slow in coming.

Of course, some things remain. I am an adventurer who aims her bike tires at the mud that most steer to avoid. I will take a road trip at the drop of a hat, and am always doing strange things just to say I did them. I feel stirred to the core by the suffering of the poor and marginalized, and no matter how many generous rich people I know, I still wonder in my heart if it is ever ok for a Christian to own a Lexus. I think coffee shops are a way of life, and poetry gets stuck in my head almost as often as music does. I see my father in me every time something is broken and I absolutely have to figure out how to fix it. I am moved to tears by music and by the beauty God brings out of our messes. I wrestle with myself and with God constantly, and am insanely introspective, at times to a fault. I live my life with legacy in mind, striving to do things with passion, and seeking to overcome the tendency to live out of fear. I like maps and legos and good books. I generally have a smart alec comment on hand.

Still, the larger questions remain. As I search for a clear view and some firmer footing, I call out with the psalmist: "Lead me to the rock that is higher than I." Lead me, Father, through the grief and joy and sorrow and adventure of change, and carry me safely through when my heart feels caught in the in-between.

we'll find each other in the pages of our stories

2008-02-04T14:00:00.000-07:00

My time in Seattle is complete, and I write this while sipping Starbucks in the airport, about to leave the city where the coffee giant got its start. The trip was diverse and rich, and perhaps even more impactful than I know yet. Yes, a good deal of life has come and gone in the course of a few days.

Here in this soggy city, I ate Thai food across the table from a friend with whom I shared games of hide and seek when we were just mountain kids. I held a newborn baby boy in my arms, the first child of a dear friend whom I hadn't seen in far too long. I rode a bike to the frigid waters of the Puget sound and let the waves wash over my usually land-locked feet. I chased down a ferry just seconds before it left the dock, and traveled across the waters to explore the streets of Bainbridge Island, with its cafes and book stores and yarn shops filled with sweaters made by old women. I worshipped at a church that is making an effort to reconcile races that remain divided on the south side of the city, and I grinned as I sang along with the songs that make up African American worship. I listened to the chanting and singing of a compline choir in a great cathedral, soaking in the sound alongside a hodge podge multitude gathered on pews and scattered across the sanctuary floor. I talked over coffee about the injustices of the world and the humor of coffee shop culture, and I talked over dinner about the pros and cons of going for that crazy thing called a doctorate. These past few days leave me with much to let ruminate in my heart and mind.

Spending time with such a unique spectrum of friends has left me thinking about the roles we play in the lives of those around us. I am realizing that sometimes I forget to embrace and enjoy the diversity of these roles at times. Granted, there is room for a sort of natural mourning, the subtle sadness that comes when one realizes that time and space simply don't allow for the kind of sharing life I might wish for. At other times, however, the sadness is the result of elevating one kind of role above another, feeling disappointed and frustrated when relationships can't fit into the particular box that makes me feel secure in my importance to someone. How much I miss when I walk in that limited view!

The rich and unique roles we can play in one another's lives are beautiful indeed. I may not even talk to Emily for years at a time, but I will remain forever someone with whom she shared childhood games and joint family camping trips. I may not be the friend Angela goes to when the world comes down or joy overcomes her, but we will always be able to sit down over coffee and feel a sort of contented familiarity, a knitting together of spirits who once shared college days and heart talks. And I may not be the friend with whom Aly has a rich history of tears and laughter and shared experience, but I nonetheless remain that friend with whom she shared a long trek through British Columbian rain. I remain a friend with whom she witnessed the wonder of God's provision of companionship when it is needed most, and with whom she she is knit in a particular area of the heart--a passion for a discipleship marked by compassion and justice and love for the marginalized around us.

I want to learn to appreciate the beauty of this: we are part of one another's stories. God has, in one way or another, allowed us to make a unique mark on each other's lives. And that is beautiful. It is secure even as it remain uncertain how many pages of the tale we may share in the years to come. It is secure in the mighty hands of the master Craftsman: the Author of our lives.

return to the PNW

2008-01-31T11:28:00.000-07:00

Today, I celebrate a first: I am in Seattle, and it is not raining (at least not as I type this). After my last soggy experience in the Pacific Northwest (see "The Canada Diaries" from July, 2007), I find the brief moment of semi-sunshine to be delightful. I arrived here yesterday on a nearly empty flight; there were 24 of us on a plane that seats 116. The extra room on the flight was consolation for the fact that I had left both cash and food in my friend's car, and would have to use an expensive airport ATM to get cash for a bus, then buy expensive airport food to break said bills. Sigh.

The Seattle public transit system provided the usual moments of bus hilarity. I asked the man next to me when my stop was going to be, only to have him chat my ear off in an Arkansas accent and with alcohol on his breath. Nearby, a teenager (maybe 17) alternated beween jabbering with her friend and sucking her thumb. Yes, you read that right: sucking her thumb. So wierd. A few rows behind her, sitting in the back, was a man who looked like he could have walked straight off the set of Fiddler on the Roof. I wanted to say l'heim! (um...I only know how to write that in Hebrew), but I resisted. I was most drawn to the two young backpackers a few rows up, and I was reminded that I, like most people, have the default button of retreating to that which is familiar.

When I got off the bus in downtown Seattle, I looked at Emily's directions to the public library, where I would wait for her: "Go south 4 blocks." Folks, I am from Colorado. Without the Rockies nearby, I have no idea which direction is South, so I asked directions from a Starbucks barista and headed off in the rain. Thankfully, the airline lost my luggage, so I didn't have to carry too much. (Seriously, not having to carry my luggage, then having it delivered that night is a good deal, if you ask me.) I spent the next couple hours wandering one of the most unusual (and cool) libraries I have ever seen, before meeting with my old friend and going out for some amazing Thai food. I fell asleep that night looking out my window at the Seattle sky line and the Space Needle, all aglow.

This morning, I decided to take a walk before hunkering down to do some work. I wanted to enjoy the fresh air, yes, but I also had a more important mission: coffee. Several blocks up the street, I came upon a durn good place to get groceries: the Durn Good Grocery (true story). After surveying the rather tragic coffee options, I asked the flaming man behind the counter if there was a coffee shop nearby, and he pointed me down the street; "Tell them Steve sent you, the guy from the Durn Good." I finally got my hands on some precious Brew at Irwin's, and headed back to Emily's. So here I sit, needing to get off blogger and start some homework.

These moments away from home, getting myself from here to there between meeting with friends and exlporing new places, are much needed, it seems. Not that I hopped a plane to Seattle to find myself. Still, my self-esteem has been wishy washy lately, and I know by now that it often comes down to a need to be reminded of who I am. It's a battle I have always fought, but it is nonetheless annoying each time I feel my footing get slippery and my heart panics. I forget my own skin and begin looking around me for definition,and that always leaves me a mess. So, as I began a few days ago, I still linger on the question: Who am I? What makes me tick? That post should be coming soon.

For now, I begin with one thing I do know about myself: I will forever be in love with the Colorado sunshine, no matter how much I love a cup of coffee in Seattle.

the soundtrack of my life

2008-01-14T15:24:00.000-07:00

Often times, it seems that my life has a soundtrack. Music has a hold of my heart in so many ways, and often plays a part in walking me through good times and bad, giving voice to anguish and rejoicing alike. Because songs are so connected to life experiences for me, it has become common practice to add a date to any mix cd that I burn. It allows me to look back on the time of life during which the songs were particularly important to me. It is a melodic journal, I suppose.

Recently, I came across a cd labeled, "Fall 2005". I was surprised to hear how obvious the theme was: the love of God. Looking back, I recalled that time, a season in which I was awestruck by divine love. It was a unique time for me, since God's love is something that I generally struggle to embrace. In the fall of 2005, however, it was sinking in deep.

I could not have known when I was burning that cd that the coming season would not only bring a chill to the Colorado air, but would also bring a long winter to my heart, burying my soul beneath frozen ground. Spring would not come around on the inside until another full year had come and gone. Even more importantly, I could not have known that, in the midst of that bleak midwinter, I would be offered a sort of poison with the promise of bringing warmth to my heart.

But the Father knew. I look back now, and I am astounded by my response to that offer. "How can you walk away from it?" I was asked. The response was immediate and real: "I know that it would place a wall between me and Jesus. I have learned by now that it would keep me from his love, and I absolutely can't risk that. I cannot risk the loss of friendship with my God." Those words are not my natural M.O. They were the fruit of the season of preparation represented by the songs on my cd. God was preparing me for what was to come. He was impressing upon me the knowledge of his love, knowing that it was the only thing that could carry me through the long winter ahead.

How beautiful. The soundtrack of my life is a story of God's faithfulness to me. It is the melody of a God who is taking care of me long before I even cry out for help. Honestly, there were many months when I looked at that bleak time and felt that he must have abandoned me, left me hanging. I suppose I had to make my way to a place of hindsight before I could see things clearly.

In the silence that follows the raging storm...it is now that I can hear him singing. Yes, I can hear that he's been singing all along.

sometimes the road seems long

2008-01-06T12:31:00.000-07:00

It’s dark in this place,
this chamber where I fight my lonely battle
with the never-ending onslaught of
temptation,
of shame.
I don’t (do?) want to give up,
but,
[as you know]
I’ve been asking for my freedom for some time now.

There are days when
it begins to feel futile,
this pleading with you to remove the poison,
entreating you to lift up the shade
and let some sunshine in.
Yet the venom
it seems
remains,
rising up from some inexhaustible place,
some giant aquifer of tainted water
filling me up on the inside.
I feel
sometimes
that I am like a polluted well.
I am to others
like a glass of water in Mexico.
Like Montezuma’s Revenge,
I am bound to wreak my own brand of relational havoc.

[I admit]
there are other days,
when I am able to see them:
tiny flowers emerging from
what looked to me like a sickening plot
of heart-soil
[a soiled heart?].
Sometime I catch a glimpse of
the paradoxical way
that this misery is mulch,
loam
for the lot
where the beauty of redemption takes root.

Yes, sometimes I’m able to see
that it’s all exquisite
under the light of grace.
But today I do (don’t?)
want to give up.
Today I feel like there’s
no end in sight.

Perhaps in my weariness,
in this dark place,
I simply want to find a breathing space
[for one day]
where a life that displays
his beauty
leaves me in something
other
than muck.

back to life for the holidays

2007-12-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

Well, it's a Scribbled Ink Portrait first: an entire month between posts. That, my friends, is how you know life is too busy. Saying I don't have time to write is like saying I'm too busy to eat or breathe. I'm sure it will take time to catch my breath and get a month's worth of life down on paper.

With that busyness, Christmas has caught me by surprise this year. For the first time ever, I spent my Christmas Eve doing the shopping I failed to get done beforehand. I'll still have some to do when the big day has passed. I haven't even listened to many Christmas songs this year, changing the station when they'd come on the radio. Something in me just wasn't ready, perhaps wasn't in the spirit of it.

In fact, after three hours of last-minute shopping today, wandering through half-empty shelves and navigating a sea of other under-prepared givers, I was in anything but the Christmas Spirit. I felt frustrated, tired, and surprisingly lonely. Christmas was under the grey cloud of family tensions and American consumerism and stress.

Then, I went to the Christmas Eve service at my home church. As we began to sing the hymns, I could not stop grinning. Surrounded by the voices of a community I love, I was brought back to Christmas. We often miss the words, but they are beautiful:

"Joy to the world, the Lord has come. Let earth receive her King! Let every heart prepare him room!"

"Silent night, holy night. Son of God, love's pure light... the dawn of redeeming grace."

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel will come to thee, O Israel!"

"Long lay the world in sin and error pining, then he appeared, and the soul felt its worth!"

I am antsy in my chair just writing those words! They are beautiful, rich with hope and promise and wonder. The last example above, from O Holy Night, is perhaps my favorite line from any Christmas carol, because it is the most precious part of my own story. Can you hear the thrill and rejoicing? Long lay the world, pining away in hopelessness. Then he appeared, and the souls of God's people felt life again. All of this began on a still night in Bethlehem. That is Christmas. It is 100% hope.

Yes, it still feels surreal that tomorrow morning is the big day. But that grin on my face tonight brought life back to my heart. I still need that hope. I am in need of that baby in a manger as much today as the world was in need of him on that silent night so long ago, and he is in my life. In him, my soul begins to feel its worth. May we rejoice!

Yes, rejoice, for Emmanuel has come. Merry Christmas, friends!

invisible

2007-11-18T23:09:00.000-07:00

I recently spent time with some people around whom I often feel invisible. Sometimes they choose to acknowledge me. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes I'm part of the conversation, engaged and laughing. Other times, I begin to speak and eyes turn away, starting new conversations as if I'm not even there. It happened twice just last night, as we were sitting around the table at a restaurant: I would have someone's eye contact, begin speaking, and watch them shift their gaze and join in on a conversation with the person next to me. It is a horrible feeling, a potpourri of sadness and loneliness and anger, especially when it is a group of people among whom you are supposed to belong. Eventually, you just want to stop talking altogether.

Later, I realized something: My evening around that dinner table gave me a taste of a feeling that some people experience every day. It has left me thinking about those in the world who spend every day overlooked and unacknowledged. I think of the homeless, who are often left wandering as nameless, storyless men and women whom no one cares to know. I think of those in lower socio-economic brackets, whose voices are seldom heard by any of those in power. They are not greeted as quickly and with the same friendliness by store employees. They are denied many opportunities that people like me so often take for granted.

Being invisible for one day--not even a full day--can feel crushing. I can't imagine living my whole life in that place. I find myself, in these moments of perpective, called back to the words in Proverbs that have challenged me all year : "Speak up for those who cannot speak up for themselves..." That has meant so many things to me over the past several months. Tonight, it calls me simply to this:

I want the kind of heart that refuses to make others feel invisible. I want to really see people, and for them to know that they are seen. May God grant me the grace, despite all my selfishness, to truly begin to live my life that way.

the colors change and so do I

2007-10-30T13:05:00.000-06:00

I love the seasons. When I lived in Hawaii, land of eternal summer, I grieved their absence rather profoundly. As I have written before, my life sort of follows the changing seasons. They set a rhythm for me, inside and out.

Looking back at a post I wrote last May, I have to pause and give praise to a God who is so faithful to me. At the time, I was still picking up the pieces of a very broken summer, fall, and winter. I was praying that this year would allow summer to come to my soul again, a time of warmth and healing and joy. Oh how God answered that plea! My summer was rich with all three of those things.

Entering fall now, I find myself back in rhythm with creation around me. I feel much of life shedding its leaves, many subtle deaths that, though sad, feel natural. I see a thousand little seeds fall to the ground like those that drop from pine cones, and I look forward to what I know will be beautiful when the time comes back around for things to bloom.

Indeed, there is much change going on in and around me. Relationships shift; some slip away for a season like the sun, others wrap around me like a favorite sweater. Brisk winds blow through the streets of my trailer park and rattle the branches of the way I see my world. School work piles up with the leaves on the sidewalks outside. I joyfully soak up the fall sunshine--so much less oppressive than the summer heat--all the while looking toward the impending cold with a bit of fear and hesitation. The air is crisp as I stand on the brink of all that winter will hold. It is beautiful.

Yes, I love the seasons. Especially fall. Thank God for the sun and the grey, the dying and the new life, the shifting and the growing that come with the seasons of my soul.

collision: a proverb and me

2007-10-23T11:56:00.000-06:00

{The Scene}
A phone conversation

{The Players}
-"my voice"
-my brain
-[my actions]
-(my internal corrective, a.k.a. the Spirit)
-King Solomon, the Proverb man

{Act I}

"Really…yeah."

You have got to be kidding.
Have you lost it?

(listen!)

"I’m sorry, can you say that again?"

[despite effort, return to pondering my rebuttal]

This is

"uh huh….good."

not good.
Shoot, am I lying?

(come on, now , listen! listen!)

"Was it…?"

Crap, that's a loaded question.
[mentally struggle to unload question]

ugh, are you serious?
[start to squirm with irritation]
Is this logical, or am I just...

(seriously, Katie, you’ve got to listen!)

{Enter: Solomon and his darn Proverb}

He who answers before listening— that is his folly and his shame. (18:13)

{Act II}

"Yeah. Good."
This is craz…
[let it settle]

"Mm hmmm"
But I…
(give it time)
[wait]

"Good."
[breathe and let it go]

[sigh]

Oh man, I disagree.
But for now (Lord help me)
before I speak,
I’ll listen.

small town Saturday: tater gleanin'

2007-10-11T13:56:00.000-06:00

I followed in Ruth's footsteps last weekend, and in the footsteps of generations of Israel's poor. For one afternoon in the fields of Alamosa, I gleaned what was left from the harvest, food that would have gone to waste but will now be handed out at local food banks.

I've done a lot of mission trips. Most of them have been with pretty evangelical groups, meaning that the verbal sharing of the gospel was primarily, if not exclusively the goal. My church in GMF, however, continues to show me different ways of serving. Hence, their mission trip for the year involved simply walking the dusty (and windy!) furrows of potato fields, gathering food for those in need. It was an awesome time of being with other folks from the congregation, while learning a little about the life of a migrant farm worker and helping with such a simple yet necessary task. Also included in the trip was a tour of the local mushroom factory, which provided yet another glimpse into the world of a low wage agricultural worker. Truly eye-opening.

As God continues to open my heart to the need for the church to care for matters of social justice, I fell more and more blessed by opportunities to serve in related capacities. I want to know and live out the gospel, and I want to experience it even in the places where preaching the gospel means picking up sack after sack of left-over taters.

small town Sunday: the messiness of being the body

2007-10-06T21:34:00.000-06:00

Being the body of Christ is a complicated thing sometimes. We have choices to make, issues to navigate, denominations and factions to wade through. Granted, we can choose to bury our heads in the ground beneath our particular brand of pew, which has become the sad decision of far too many followers of Christ. In my own life, I believe that would be an irresponsible brand of discipleship.

Green Mountain Falls is not exempt from the complications of being the body. For the coming year, they have hired an intern. She comes to us from a seminary in Denver. She’s also a homosexual.

Now, the church in Green Mountain Falls is connected to a denomination that openly ordains practicing homosexuals, and I knew that. I had chosen to stay because I trust the Pastor and because I don’t want to run from a local body in the name of boycotting its mother denomination. I had chosen to stay even when I first saw the woman come to visit the congregation, because I believe that the church is a place where all should feel welcome to walk in.

But now what? Suddenly I face a situation that is no longer a matter of sharing the pew with someone whose lifestyle I disagree with, or of choosing not to judge a small town church by its big city denominational lines. Now it involves things like sitting under her teaching. While I was away in Montana, the church had a meeting, and I returned to a sanctuary sans many familiar faces. Their decision of discipleship called them away from Green Mountain Falls in the face of what they deem to be unacceptable compromise.

I may catch some flak for this, but I’m not leaving yet. Sure, I’m full of a lot of questions. I do not hesitate to say that I disagree completely with the ordination of homosexuals. Still, I also disagree with division and hatred and fear. Where is the line between these things and discernment? I don’t know. But I believe the matter deserves some wrestling with, and that being the body requires me to think deeply when considering walking away from the people who fill those pews.

As I wrestle in the months to come, I’ll still be here with the stories of a church that will not cease to be beautiful and endearing. The children’s sermons will still provide moments of hilarity, and the pews will be full of wonderful characters. There will be cake to go with the coffee, and the conversations will be memorable.

And me? I’ll be right there too, thinking and praying through all it might mean, this complicated thing called being the body of Christ.

ivy league hiking

2007-10-05T10:08:00.000-06:00

Well, it was a bit last minute, but I managed to squeeze in one 14er before the snow falls and the season ends for those of us who are at least a little sane. After a rather rugged drive to the trailhead the night before, we spent a perfect fall day hiking to the summit of Mt. Harvard (14,420 ft). The Aspen trees were showing their colors, and the sky was that amazing, high-altitude blue. Of course, at about 13,000 feet you always start thinking, "Why doe people do this? We are insane." You know, it's that point when oxygen has fled the scene and every step over a boulder is laborious. But oh, the views and the joy of the summit! Here are some pics from the outing. Since I managed to misplace my camera that morning, credit goes to Joel for these shots.

On the drive to Buena Vista, we say the most incredible sunset as we crested Wilkerson Pass (my favorite part of the drive!) and crossed the high mountain plain.

A stream crossing on the way up. The mountain is the background is Mt. Yale. I was supposed to climb that earlier in the summer, but I was sick. Sigh.

The cairns were massive. It may sound weird, but I think cairns are really beautiful.

I wandered off a little at the summit, just to take it in for a few seconds (it was sort of a crowded summit day, unfortuntely). You can't tell from the pic, but I'm freezing my booty off.

Since the camera flashed, we all look photoshopped in. But I promise, this is not a backdrop at a photo studio.

the signs are everywhere

2007-09-28T10:39:00.000-06:00

Many of you know that I am a big fan of funny signs, always looking out for them. In fact, I saw one yesterday that will have to make its way to this blog sometime soon. For now, though, here are some of my favorites from our journey to Montana.

I don't know whether to say this reeks of pessimism, realism, or faith. But it sure does make me laugh.

We finally found it, the oft-referenced hell on earth. We went the other way, in case you're wondering.

She's just following instructions...

In the "town" of Moran, near Grand Teton National Park. I like my version best.

We all know that rules come about because someone has actually tried the now prohibited action. Apparently, the clientele of KOA has a hair dying issue. We also appreciated the lack of comma in the "thank you" section.

small town Sunday: voicemails and new life

2007-09-27T10:10:00.000-06:00

Ah, relief. Two Dot, Montana was great, but Green Mountain Falls just feels restful. The sun did not shine on my pew until I sat in it, and I felt as if it were welcoming me home. It all felt so familiar: the spoken invocation of God’s presence, the call to a freeing rather than guilt-inducing time of confession, and the chance to say to those around us what Jesus himself might have said—“peace be with you”. I cannot help but want to say shalom every time we do this.

Early in the service, the Pastor did something strange (though he often does, so it wasn’t all that surprising). Telling us we needed to listen to a message, he dialed voicemail and held his cell phone up to the pulpit microphone. “That’s a first,” I thought. The message began with an odd, rhythmic sound similar to TV fuzz. At the very end, a voice: “That’s your baby!” His wife, he told us, had made that call from the ultrasound appointment. It was the sound of their baby’s heartbeat. What a fun way to announce it!

During the children’s sermon, he spoke of forgiveness. “I need to ask your advice,” he said after a few minutes. Still addressing the children, he said, “What do you suggest I do to help teach my child about forgiveness?” When (after a minute or two and few awkward responses) the children walked out and he returned to the pulpit, he laughed and told us, “Hey, gotta start getting advice wherever I can right now.”

There was cake, of course, this time in celebration of a congregant’s 65th birthday. I forwent it in favor of some incredible homemade zucchini bread, and I sat and chatted with various folks about school and life and the 14er I had hiked the day before. That day, I felt more at home there than I ever have before. Now, as the fall quarter begins and my travel becomes less frequent, I find myself ever so excited for a promising new year, full of small town Sundays.

back to the basics...and I mean basics

2007-09-26T16:19:00.000-06:00

This quarter, as I begin to apply my long year of Greek to the work of actual exegesis, I am also entering the world of biblical Hebrew. I cannot yet compare it to Greek for actual grammatical and structural difficulties, but I do know one thing: that darn alphabet sure looks funny! It is a whole new ball game learning a language whose characters don't resemble anything I've used before. So, in hopes of developing legible--maybe even beautiful--Hebrew handwriting, I have gone back to the basics. Bring on the Scooby Doo writing notebook, complete with helpful dotted lines!

This, however, looks nothing like what I was doing in kindergarten.

small town Sunday: Two Dot

2007-09-24T14:20:00.000-06:00

Away from home again, last Sunday found me driving across Montana, hoping to cross into Wyoming before stopping for the night. In the name of taking a bike ride, we had chosen a route along state highways, rather than the interstate-only version (which I generally avoid anyway). One of the highlights of this Sunday drive was passing through the town of Two Dot (population less than 100). I mean, the place is named Two Dot...it doesn't get much more small town than that!

Note the vehicles parked out front. Yep, that's a 4-Wheeler.

Check out that fire truck!

Something tells me "State Bank, Two Dot" has long been forgotten by the rest of the state...

World Famous? Seriously? I'd like to know the story behind this sign.

Two Dot highway, a ribbon of asphalt stretching to nowhere, which apparently didn't even merit the paint for a center line.

the problem with bootstraps

2007-09-21T15:47:00.000-06:00

I'm not a fan of streaks when I feel like I am posting only pictures, but I have felt a little speechless lately. Yes, I have been busy as well, and there has been little spare time for pausing to compose any sort of profound post. But more than busyness, it has been the heaviness of heart, the whirlwind of thoughts in my mind, that has made me a woman of few written words.

Any writer knows, there is a sort of nakedness when one comes to an empty page. Sometimes it is a refuge, a place to write the myriad thing you are dying to say. Sometimes it is scarier than that. Sometimes we know that nakedness of the unwritten words will call us to name a darkness--a barren place--that we would rather let linger, anyonymously and unacknowledged, somewhere in the back of our minds.

In my life, there is a certain place of weakness that causes me to panic a little. A fairly intense fear of abandonment kicks in, and my mind begins screaming, "Pick yourself up! Snap yourself out of it! And do it quickly, or you'll find yourself alone." Of course, we can't always do that. We aren't always strong enough to pull ourselves up by our proverbial bootstraps. Right now, I don't feel like I can even find my bootstraps. Maybe not even my boots.

When, in desperation, I picked up 2 Corinthians 4 one day and started to read a passage my heart knows well, I was reminded of a great truth: God is made great in my weakness. We talk about that a lot, but it is a very different thing to embrace it when one feels painfully, embarrasingly, helplessly weak. We'd rather proclaim that truth from the pulpit than be found clinging to its ankles when the world has knocked us to our knees.

Ultimately, as I realize the truth of it all, I see that it comes down to a matter of what I want my life to say. If I want others to be astounded at me--"Look at that amazing girl, the way she picks herself up and walks with strength"--then I'd better start looking for my boots and take a hold of the straps. But if I want my life to be a testimony to God's goodness--"Look at that girl. God shows himself so strong in her life."--than the call is to stop squirming, stop striving, and embrace my weakness. God calls me to relax myself into it, and to turn my face in surrender toward his great glory and strength.

I think of a song I've been listening to, speaking of the fear to be weak: "But I guess I was wrong. I should have known all along: when I'm weak, you are strong in me...My deepest point of need is the better part of me, because when I'm weak you are strong in me."

The kingdom of God is paradoxical, isn't it? Turns out, in that topsy turvy kingdom, that the greatest strength I have to give is the true offering of my weakness. The greatest thing I can offer anyone is the strength of the God I love.

I'd say that's a good thing. After all, I don't like boots much anyway.

breather

2007-09-06T14:25:00.000-06:00

It's been a chaotic few months, to say the least. Travels and trials and the adjustment to trailer life have made for little writing and a less than calm heart at times. Over Labor Day, however, I got one night in the wilderness, and a much needed moment to sit high on a rock, soaking in the evening sun and being still. In the hills with my Creator...I love the view from there.

small town Sunday: wahoo

2007-08-27T11:47:00.000-06:00

The world has been moving too fast for me. Even when I did make it to Green Mountain Falls a few weeks ago, I found myself unable to sit down and record the hilarity of it all. That particular Sunday was surprisingly packed out, due to a baptism, a dedication, and the conclusion of the week of VBS. As one baby was baptized, another dedicated, I found myself almost in tears. Somehow the beauty of watching a community commit to stand behind these children, of watching parents hope the best for their children, got to me.

Upon walking into the sanctuary, I had been a little confused by the amount of cowboy hats and general western gear to be seen in the pews. Was it in honor of the town’s upcoming festival? Not long into the service, I discovered that all the down-home decorum was to celebrate the end of VBS, which was called “Avalanche Ranch”. The kids sang some awesome songs, all dressed in hats and bandanas and such, and we all learned a new way to say amen: “Wahoo!” I like that.

Afterward, as I sipped coffee in the courtyard, I chatted with a group of people about the upcoming move, and about the imminent journey to Canada. They listened with genuine interest and support, and faithfully asked me about it when I returned. There are few things as encouraging as being among a body that actually takes interest in one another’s lives.
Needless to say, I breathed a sigh of relief to be back in my sunny pew yesterday. The children’s sermon included the usual moments of hilarity. The pastor, who told a story about going to see the local wolf preserve on the night of a full moon, asked the kids if they had seen the preserve themselves. One of them let the church know that his parents keep breaking their promise to take him, but they said they’d go next month. The pastor promptly looked out at the crowd and said, “Note to parents: You’re going to the wolf preserve in September. You heard it here first, don’t let ‘em down.” I loved it.

In fact, I loved so many parts of the morning. My British friend sat behind me, and I could hear her endearing accent as we prayed the Lord’s Prayer and as we sang our hymns. The elderly woman who shaved her head in honor of kids with cancer is sporting a nice grey shag as it finally grows out again. At the potluck, I chatted with new friends, and compared stories of frustrating weekends with the man sitting next to me. I was so encouraged by his honesty about how sometimes he just gets mad when things go wrong, mainly because I spent the day before in a state of fury as one thing after another failed to go my way.

Perhaps most importantly, I found my heart at rest in the rhythm of the liturgy again. We sing it every Sunday: “Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.”

Wahoo to that.

nice mug

2007-08-19T22:57:00.000-06:00

The crew from our weekend in my hometown. Cool cats, if you ask me.

the beauty of the Bells

2007-08-19T22:28:00.000-06:00

Here are some pictures from a recent trip to one of the most beautiful places on earth, the Maroon Bells. As Chris said, it's one of those places where it is so beautiful, one wonders if it is real. Pretty dern amazing.

one man's legacy: a second snapshot

2007-08-19T10:02:00.000-06:00

"Climber remembered for kind heart, adventuresome spirit."

This was the title of the article written after Peter's memorial service last week. The article is chock full of more examples of the impressions he left.

"He was a man of peace. He longed for peace."
"His courage level was second to none."
"He touched others with his life."
The list goes on, words describing who Peter was in the eyes of those who shared his life.

For the full article, check out http://www.aspentimes.com/article/20070815/NEWS/70815010/0/FRONTPAGE

a fresh page for a new story

2007-08-16T20:58:00.000-06:00

I've begun a new adventure in life over the last couple weeks. In fulfillment of a long-time dream, some friends and I have moved into low income housing for the year to come. In this case, low income housing has taken the form of a trailer park. All of our stuff is currently half-in and half-out of boxes, all strewn across the floor of a dingy, white single-wide trailer.

I know that our year will be full of adjustments and lessons and tale-worthy happenings. In light of this, another blog has been created, one that can be focused only on chronicling our experience of living in the trailer. So, for any who are interested in keeping up with this new adventure in my life, I refer you to the newly added link "Trailer Tales,", under the "places to go, people to read" section of this blog. Hope to see you there!

even the young leave a legacy

2007-08-14T09:35:00.000-06:00

I recently returned from a week in my hometown. It was a fantastic time, hanging out with family and friends, then hosting some friends from Colorado Springs. We visited the Maroon Bells while they were here, which I will post some pictures of soon.

Another thing happened this weekend, though, that has left a mark on me. A high school friend of mine, Peter Jessup, died while summiting the same Maroon Bells we hiked to the base of on Saturday. Those of you who know me, know that I am constantly asking the questions, "What do you want your legacy to be?" I think it is one of the most important things we can think about.

As I read his obituary today, I felt like I got a glimpse into someone who lived out a solid legacy in his short life. I just thought I'd put it out there for any who have begun to ponder the question.

"Peter Brian Jessup, 27, highly respected humanitarian, died Aug. 9, 2007, while descending South Maroon Peak at the Maroon Bells, 12 miles from Aspen. Peter was born Aug. 9, 1980, to Ted and Judy Jessup. He attended Glenwood Springs schools and graduated in 1999.

As a high school student, Peter had a dream of becoming a marine biologist. This past year, he was determined he could still chase that dream. He traveled to Colombia, South America, where he sought PADI scuba diver certification, and obtained his open, advanced and rescue certifications.

He attended Creighton University in Omaha, Neb., and graduated with a major in theology in 2003. During his summer vacations, Peter worked as a nurse's assistant at Glen Valley Care Center, providing care for senior citizens. He also participated in a semester abroad program, in which he traveled to the Dominican Republic. There he became fluent in the Spanish language and assisted in medical care in rural areas.

Peter was a cancer survivor. In the summer of 1997 he was diagnosed with leukemia. Upon his remission, Peter determined that his mission was to help others. Peter spent several years employed by Catholic Charities, Western Slope, where he coordinated assistance and advocacy to Latinos of the Roaring Fork Valley. He also mediated and interpreted cases within the local court system. Peter was awarded the staff award in the 2005 Garfield County Humanitarian Services Awards in February 2006, given by the Garfield County Human Services Commission and the Post Independent newspaper. He was nominated by Tom Ziemann of Catholic Charities.Peter became the community organizer at Congregations and Schools Empowered/Metro Organizations for People, again assisting communities from Aspen to Parachute.

This summer, Peter returned home to begin his next adventure, becoming a river raft guide for Whitewater Rafting in Glenwood Springs. He planned to return to Colombia later this fall and obtain his master scuba certification. His ambition was to dive the Great Barrier Reef off Australia. We will never know where Peter's adventure and love of life would have taken him and his sparkling eyes, and his infectious smile and laugh.Peter loved the outdoors and all it had to offer, good music, dancing and reading.

Peter is survived by his wife, Alejandra Rico Jessup of Glenwood Springs; his grandmother, Ruth Jessup; mother and her husband, Doug Britten, of Glenwood Springs; father and his wife Mary of New Castle; sister Jennifer (Jonathan) Wachtel of Denver; stepsister Sarah (Zeph) Williams of New Castle; half-brother Kip Jessup; half-sister Morgan Jessup of New Castle.Visitation is from 5-8 p.m. Monday, Aug. 13, at Farnum-Holt Funeral Home in Glenwood Springs.Msg. Tom Dentici will officiate the funeral service and resurrection Mass at 10 a.m. Tuesday, Aug. 14, at St. Mary of the Crown Catholic Church in Carbondale."

how to get lost near Green Mountain Falls

2007-08-05T21:38:00.000-06:00

When hiking the Catamount Trail near town, make sure to follow the trail, which is clearly marked with yellow cirlces.

Uh...........

Early Church Fathers: words of wisdom

2007-07-30T22:18:00.000-06:00

This week, I have been studying about John Cassian, a monk/priest who lived in the fourth century (360-433). His two most famous works are the Institutes and the Conferences. In the latter, he records conversations with some of the more famous monks who had fled to the deserts of Egypt when Christianity was made the official religion of the empire by Constantine. I was especially encouraged by these words from his conference with Abba Moses, where they discuss the trouble of wandering thoughts and the challenge to fix the mind on God. Since thought life is one of my most difficult daily battles, I was totally blessed by these words from a man of faith from whom over 1,500 years separates me, but with whom I am connected as a fellow disciple of Christ.

"This movement of the heart is not unsuitably illustrated by the comparison of a mill wheel, which the headlong rush of water whirls round with revolving impetus. It can never stop its work so long as it is driven round by the action of the water. But it is in the power of the man who directs it to decide whether he will have wheat or barley or darnel ground by it. Whatever the man in charge of the business puts into it certainly must be crushed by it. So then the mind also through the trials of the present life is driven about by the torrents of temptations pouring in upon it from all sides and cannot be freed from the flow of thoughts. But it will provide the character of the thoughts that it should either throw off or admit for itself by the efforts of its own earnestness and diligence. If, as we said, we constantly return to mediation on the Holy Scriptures and raise our memory toward the recollection of spiritual things and the desire of perfection and the hope of future bliss, spiritual thoughts are sure to rise from this and cause the mind to dwell on those things on which we have been meditating. But if we are overcome by sloth or carelessness and spend our time in idle gossip or are entangled in the cares of this world and unnecessary anxieties, the result will be that a sort of species of tares will spring up and afford an injurious occupation for our hearts, and as our Lord and Savior says, “where the treasure” of your works or purpose “is, there your heart” is sure to be also."

(From Cassian’s Conferences: Conference I, Chapters 15-18)

The Canada Diaries: epilogue

2007-07-27T13:39:00.001-06:00

Something in my heart was at rest as I walked the base camp shoreline alone, taking a moment of quiet before boarding a boat and heading home. My short prayer was mainly made up of saying thank you to God for all he had done. Soon we gathered near the dock, said our goodbyes to Aly, and stepped onto the boat that would take us to Malibu Club and then back to Egmont. Our time at the Club was sweet, sitting and talking over coffee. It was the final pause before the crazy journey home.

I returned knowing something had changed in me. I had entered the week expecting to offer wisdom to some teenagers and see some beautiful sights. I had not expected to be affected in ways that ran so much deeper. It wasn’t until a day or so later that I thought back to the hope I had voiced at the beginning of the week—to walk away with a renewed sense of who I am—and I wondered how God might have answered that prayer. I realized then that he had done so in ways that exceeded what I could have anticipated or hoped for.

My time in Canada had allowed me to get reacquainted with myself, to see myself from so many different angles. I had been reminded of who I am as a mentor and minister, sharing life with teenagers for a week. I had seen who I am as a colleague, working alongside my fellow leaders. I had glimpsed myself as a friend and peer, surprised by Aly’s friendship. I had looked into my own story and love for the Word. Thanks to the rain, I had been given a chance to see who I am when trials test my mental and physical fortitude. And perhaps most uniquely, I had see who I am in the face of one who shares much of my heart, and had been granted the chance to realize how much I enjoyed her.

Of course, the view was not all roses. But the petal to thorn ratio with which I had been viewing myself for the last several months was proved to be radically skewed. I pray now that I can take that vision home and cling tightly to the one who granted it. I end these entries with the Scripture that nourished my soul as I walked through the wilderness of British Columbia. It is my prayer for myself, and for all who will read it here.

"For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom his whole family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.
Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."

The Canada Diaries: part 5

2007-07-27T13:32:00.000-06:00

July 20th, Day 6:

There is a point where constant rain changes what seems important. Cameras and journals and Bibles remain hidden anywhere there remains some hope of keeping them dry. Periods of silence on the trail become more frequent. It comes with a slow resignation that the sun is not going to come out, and that the only way back to base camp is through the rain. At that point, finding the trail, eating meals, and staying warm take precedence over everything else. Still, there is much joy in doing it all as a community.

I have been completely impressed by our kids, who have hardly voiced a word of complaint. Most of yesterday’s journey, stressful though it may have been, was marked by attempts to maintain a spirit of laughter and encouragement. After a journey down a snow-covered boulder field, we finally left the snow behind us. My own spirits rose when we passed through a section of thick, slimy mud. I fell at one point, and could only grin as I looked at my mud-coated jacket and rain pants. I guess I love mud just about anywhere I find it.

The last section of the trail, however, was a low point for almost everyone. Having found a puddle where our campsite was supposed to be, we decided to press on for another hour and a half (which became two) through thick Alders. The soaking wet journey through a never-ending mass of face-whipping branches was almost too much. Thankfully, our campsite was a beautiful, rocky area overlooking the foggy valley below. Dinner was delivered to our tents again, and Aly crawled in later to join our little warming hut. She and I laughed rather hysterically when, after deciding to sleep in bras rather than wet shirts, we found that our trail-ripe bodies were too sticky to be comfortable. We cracked up and put our shirts back on, realizing that it was we, rather than notoriously giggly high school girls, who were breaking the wilderness silence with late night snickers and (partially) stifled guffaws.

Today began with more Alders and finally dropped us onto the familiar logging road that would lead us home. We did a short solo hike on the last section, where I pondered the week and the Scripture that had started to be woven into the way I see my world. When the boats finally came for us at the dock, I rode back to base camp on the smaller craft with Aly, and we had a few minutes to express a shared gratitude for friendship as we waited for the others to arrive. It caught me by surprise to discover such a kindred spirit in her this week, and I hope that someday I will find myself sitting across the table from her, drinking coffee and talking about life and faith.

When all were on shore, we made our way to camp, several of us taking a freezing cold but much needed shower before eating dinner. With full bellies, we headed down to a gathering with the other groups, who had likewise endured longs days of heavy drops and light drizzles, chilling winds and thick clouds. It was good to hear stories and to sit in an atmosphere of joy and laughter about the experience. Our group ended the evening huddled in a tent, talking about what we surrendered on the mountain two days before (I confessed that I had not been able to do it), shared what it is we hope to take home with us (other than soggy clothes, of course), and spent some time affirming one another. Despite droopy eyes, it was a beautiful time. Now we cram into a tent for one last time, and I am suddenly realizing what a family I have found and how sad I am to leave them. I feel like I should be heading home to find them all a natural part of my daily life.

They gave us dry sleeping bags for the night. Nothing could feel better.

The Canada Diaries: part 4

2007-07-26T18:22:00.000-06:00

July 18th, Day 4:

Our boots have been wet since the first day, and I think we are all starting to feel it as we wake up in colder temperatures and slide the soggy things onto our feet each morning. The sky was a dull grey when we got up today, and the rain began to fall early. As we ascended the snow fields on the way up to Point Erickson, our last major marker before summiting Zion, Dane followed alongside the group and told the story of Rumplestiltskin. It was a great distraction as we made our way up wet snow under muted skies. The rhythm of my steps and the ice axe are starting to settle in my mind, and they mark the passing time like a natural metronome. Step, step, axe. Step, step, axe.

We were blessed to get a beautiful, albeit foggy glimpse of the surrounding mountains from Point Erickson, where we huddled together near a rock and awaited the impending rain. Eating our Beyond bars, I sat and laughed with Abbi and Aly. When the rain came, a deeper cold began to settle in on us, and we got up and started moving toward the summit. The rain increased, and a steep drop required that we rappel, which took an exceedingly long time. With the wet starting to penetrate even more, it was clear that body temperatures were dropping. When we stopped on the summit for lunch, socked in by thick fog, I found myself trembling rather uncontrollably. Sarah was doing no better beside me.

We had all carried a rock up the peak from camp this morning, each planning to symbolically let go of something before God by throwing it off the summit. As I sat there shivering, I realized that I not only don't know what to give up, but that my heart is not in a place of surrender. The rock will go home with me, and for today I simply picked up a pebble, and I cast my right to complain about the day off into the thick, white air surrounding Zion.

The trip from summit to camp 4 should have been a short one, but another rappel made the process long. By the time we made it to camp, having stood in the rain for nearly the entire day, Dane, Rob, and Aly told the rest of us to immediately try to get warm and dry in our tents while they made dinner, which they delivered to us. The possibility of being dry is almost lost, but spirits raised immensely inside the tents once bodies started to thaw and food was in our bellies. Aly made good on her promise to join our tent and help keep warm. Nothing like telling pee stories and spooning to bond a group of girls together quickly.

I am realizing the miracle happening under my nose: I have had poor (though not absolutely terrible) sleep for days now, and both mind and body are doing well. God is gracious indeed.

The Canada Diaries: part 3

2007-07-26T15:33:00.000-06:00

July 17th, Day 3:

We have officially left bushes and forests behind and are headed into the land of rock and snow. It began raining this morning and didn't let up until the afternoon. As a result, the first half of the day consisted of a cold and wet journey across a boulder field and up a steep, snowy slope via handline. The fact that we had to ascend the handline one by one meant long periods of standing still, waiting in the snow. It was uncomfortable, to be sure.

However, the long wait also meant a little time to chat with Aly, who stood at the bottom of the whole deal, since I was last in line and stood with her as we watched a kid go up in front of me. I shared with her that I seem to be wrestling with myself today. The other leaders are all highly trained in mountaineering, so it is a challenge (albeit a good one) to fight the battle of believing that being loved has nothing to do with be seen as competent. It was good to talk to her and to voice my thoughts. It is indeed a battle within myself now, but I see a good deal of potential for growth in it.

One the journey up, I recieved my first glory wound of the trip: a black eye a la ice axe. Just like the golf club incident long ago, I was simply standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, and caught the tip of the axe as it swung around on the pack in front of me. They all seem to think I'm hard core for not being all that upset. I'm just excited that it wasn't my eyeball and that I'll have a good story to tell.

We had "snow school" today, where we learned how to self-arrest with an ice axe, should we ever lose our footing and find ourselves hurdling down a steep snow field. The importance of the whole thing became a reality when, as we headed up a long and ridiculoulsy steep snow slope, Fedya slipped and had to employ the arrest. I must admit that I was frustrated and afraid on that particular hill. I finally began singing "In Christ Alone" and just staring at things step by step, and it made things at least a little better.

We are camped tonight on a snowy ridge near some glacial water, a beautiful, idyllic blue. As I stepped away for a moment to stand on a rock overlooking the valley below us, I found myself using our theme verse for the week as a prayer. From Ephesians 3, I prayed that I might be rooted and established in love, knowing who I am, and that he would give me power to grasp the measure of his love. It was awesome. That passage is coming alive to me this week.

Tonight we ate the meal I was carrying, so my pack will be just a little lighter tomorrow. Excellent. Aly prayed with me before I made my way to the tent, asking God to grant me the sleep that eluded me last night. I go to bed now both thankful for her friendship and hopeful for rest. And of course, looking forward to tackling the girls awake in the morning...

The Canada Diaries: part 2

2007-07-25T16:01:00.000-06:00

July 16th, Day 2:

Having set up camp sort of in the middle of our journey through the bushes last night, we began our day by whacking through the rest of them, dodging roots and crawling over logs. After a couple hours of untangling ourselves from branches, we stepped into Yashir forest, a never-ending cathedral of gargantuan trees, green mosses, and cascading streams. The journey was steep, to say the least. Were it not for the fact that I was floored by the beauty of it, I might have found the constant upward travel a little tiresome. But how can you complain about a chance to explore a place like this?

Slowly, as we emerged from the deepest parts of the forest, we began to see glimpes of our greater surroundings--a giant cliff face and boulder field to our right, and snow-capped peaks to our left. Being in a rather silly mood, my conversation was a mix of wisecracks and oohs and aahs. The view opened to us fully as we crested a ridge, and we paused on a large, warm rock in the hopes that our still-wet boots might dry during some quiet time. Dry they did not, but the sunshine and views were welcomed.

Less welcome were the flies that began to swarm as we made our way down the ridge, toward the lake where we set up camp. When they had handed us bug nets at base camp, I wondered if it was a bit silly. I am obviously not from around here, because tonight I think I might have gone insane without it. Those who did go insane were Sophie and Fedya, who leaped into the freezing waters of the lake after the sun had set, which was in my mind the only thing that could have warmed them after the frigid dip. Apparently they are more warm-blooded than I am and seem to be totally unfazed. Even more insane was the image of a group of fairly well-adjusted people, leaders included, attacking a candy bar with a wooden spoon while wearing mittens and a beanie. It's amazing how true colors can come out when chocolate is involved.

It would surprise most of the others, since I am a rather outdoorsy Colorado native, but tonight will be my first night in a tent set up on snow. I chose it over the one on the rock for that very reason, a chance to try something new. Hopefully it will be a place of satisfying sleep.

The Canada Diaries: part 1

2007-07-25T15:11:00.000-06:00

July 15th, Day 1:

After a good deal of long and diverse travel, we are finally on the trail. I have come to British Columbia with Youth for Christ, bringing with me two girls from my hometown, and meeting up with a larger group from Oregon. We arrived at base camp yesterday via boat ride, and were greeted by counselors jumping and screaming in the same way I did so many hot summer days working as a camp counselor in Texas. Camp songs, crazy skits....yes, I was definitely back in the land of youth ministry. To our group of four leaders was added a fifth: our guide, Aly. In the evening, while gathered around a campfire, we were all asked what it is we are hoping for this week. I replied that I am hoping to have a renewed sense of who I am, of who God created me to be and what he sees in me. It sounded a little heavy alongside Dane and Rob's business oriented goals, but it was the only answer I could offer with honesty. I am curious how God might go about answering it.

After setting off from base camp by boat, we arrived on shore and began our day on an open logging road, later moving onto a narrower trail through the tall trees. Ever since getting off the boat at base camp, I have been struck by how green and lush it all is. We don't see too many rainforests in Colorado, mainly because it seldom rains. Here in Canada, on the other hand, we have already gotten a taste of rain, which began falling not long into our hike and made for a very wet lunch. However, the skies cleared up as we made several stream crossings (our boots are officially soaked) and bush-whacked our way to camp. I say "bush-whacked" having had the term redefined for me today. I'm not sure I've ever been smacked in the face by so many wet branches before. The experience was saved from being irritating by a long session of laughter and question-asking with one of the kids from Oregon.

After dinner, I took my turn telling my life story. There is something powerful about telling that tale to teenagers, recounting my own time of being transformed at that age. I emphasized to them something that has become more and more important to me: we must tell our stories. We must be telling the stories of God's work in our lives and in our world. Each of them will have a chance to practice that this week, and I am excited to hear the things they have to say. I am especially looking forward to hearing the stories of my co-leaders, who have exceeded what I could have hoped for in this potluck sort of arrangement.

Early leaders meeting tomorrow. To bed with me.

GMF goes retro

2007-07-08T13:14:00.000-06:00

When a friend and I drove into Green Mountain Falls on Saturday, excited to hike a nearby trail, we happened upon a gem of an event! It was the annual hot rod show! Music blasted loudly from the gazebo, and the lake was surrounded by at least a hundred shiny classics. Most of the town was out to see it. Here are some shots of a few of the awesome automobiles.

Doesn't this things look like it could be some sort of batmobile?

This one looks like a cartoon character, as if it just might start talking at any time...

For some reason, this car just makes me think Dick Tracey.

Look closely and get a laugh from what is painted on the back of this fine car...

small town Sunday: home again

2007-07-08T12:33:00.000-06:00

I've been gone too long. From a jaunt around the southwestern part of the state, to a trip home followed by a backpacking venture, and on to a journey to Arkansas and back, I have missed too many small town Sundays. As I sat in the pew last Sunday (I'm a little behind on writing), I joyfully recieved one of God's birthday gifts to me: the chance to be in the quiet of Green Mountain Falls again.

In a rather rare occurrence, I arrived early to the service. I eased into the pew behind my artist friend, and was soon joined by another woman who is always full of warm greetings and interesting conversation. She calls me Kate, a name that only a few seem to pcik up naturally. The artist told me about how she was recently commissioned to do some work for an Indian reservation, and was laughing about the mess of wood and tin and paint that currently fills the rooms of her house. Both of them offered me my first birthday greetings of the day with smiles, and I grinned inside.

The woman teaching the children's sermon offered a lesson about being the light of the world, doing so by showing different kinds of light: she lit a candle, struck a match, and held up a light bulb. I leaned over and asked my neighbor if she thought we'd get to see a blowtorch. When the pastor returned to the pulpit, he remarked that the lesson was a good reminder to make sure the building was up to fire code. In that case, perhaps the blowtorch wouldn't have been such a great idea, but I was a little disappointed none the less.

The main event for the day came after the service. The church recently acquired the town's old community building, hoping to restore it and put it to use. In celebration, there was a gathering at the building, including some words about the woman for whom it was named (Sallie Mae Bush) and, of course, food. The best part was that the congregation made the quarter mile journey to the building as a group, a mass exodus from church to community center that filled the entire two lane street and stopped traffic. The police actually blocked the road for a few minutes, just to allow the momentous event to transpire. It looked like a cross between a parade and a victory march, young and old marching toward the building in their Sunday best. I could not help but smile, depsite the fact that my schedule for the afternoon made it so that I was one of the cars held up by the march, rather than one of the mighty throng of walkers.

Yes, I had been gone too long. But despite the fact that a week is seven days long no matter where I go, it just doesn't feel the same when I'm far from my small town Sundays.

artistry in the sky

2007-07-02T17:44:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, while out for my first Colorado bike ride in far too long (and a birthday ride, at that!), Carrie and I looked up to see the most amazing display of cloud and light in the sky. We couldn't stop staring at it! Here are a couple of the many that came from my camera-happyness.

strangely, you don't need a passport

2007-06-27T09:16:00.000-06:00

The journey from Colorado to Arkansas is always an interesting one. It is a pilgrimage that takes me, mile marker by mile marker, from my beloved mountain home into the border regions of the Deep South. The landscape shifts dramatically, from the majestic peaks of the Rockies, across the flat farmland of the Texas Panhandle, through the prairies of Oklahoma, and into the green, rolling hills of Arkansas. As we passed through Fort Smith this time, my mom and I drove over the Arkansas River, broad and calm, moving sluggishly across the muggy landscape. I could not help but think of the weekend before, when I had stood near the raging headwaters of that same river a thousand miles away, its waters rugged and wild and swarming with thrill-seeking kayakers.

The landscape is not the only thing that changes as one sojourns across this stretch of country. Rising steadily alongside the odometer reading is the calorie count at any given local restaurant. My whole grain roll is replaced by Texas Toast, an infamous slice of white bread cut about an inch thick and slathered in butter. Waitresses in t-shirts and white aprons become plentiful, and both the server and the served are suddenly speaking with a twang. At Old Sutphens Barbeque in Borger, Texas, a young man in the booth behind me was showing off a picture of his sweetheart: “That’s my girl," he said rather proudly, "She’s got 13 tattoos.” At McClard’s Barbeque in Hot Springs, Arkansas, we were served by a woman who has been working at the family owned restaurant for 47 years. Her eighty year-old hands trembled as she carried plates overflowing with down-home goodness, and we silently wondered if she’d get them to us without dropping them. Later, we learned that our fears were silly: she was recently voted waitress of the year.

Passing through towns, one notices a sharp rise in businesses ending with “barn” or “mart”—places like Pizza Barn or Burger Mart—as well as convenience stores with names like Pick n’ Tote. At a gas station in Siloam Springs, my mother looked up from cleaning the windshield to see a man holding the gas hose, preparing to finish off the pumping and replace her gas cap for her. “Around here,” he told her quite plainly, “we try to pump the gas for the ladies.” A New Yorker might have slapped him. I smiled, knowing that he was just showing the manners his mama taught him. My mom just laughed and said, “Well then, I’ll do my best to act like a lady.”

For all its quirks, the region is beautiful. The sun sinks in a special way, all orange and slow, over the contourless horizon of West Texas. In Oklahoma, roadside meadows are literally blanketed in yellow flowers, and windmills form distant silhouettes in far-off fields. Here in Arkansas, as I kayaked across the calm waters of Lake Hamilton, I paused amid the lush surroundings to watch a baby turtle bob its head above the water, and smiled in awe when a Great Blue Heron looked at me with its stately gaze before lifting off and soaring low over the water. The shores are lined with fancy houses, built by rich southerners who want a summer home on the lake. Of course, I was most intrigued by the ramshackle cabin hidden in the trees, long abandoned but looking as if it must have many childhood stories to tell.

I am writing this from perhaps the first little coffee shop I have ever seen here. It is a place to feel at home, a respite when Arkansas begins to feel like a place I need a passport to visit. But then, I will head outdoors and feel at home in a different sort of way—at home in the sense of exploration, at home in the warm, accented greetings I knew in college, and at home in the okra I’ll eat tonight, fried just after it’s been battered in my grandmother's love.

home sweet Colorado

2007-06-21T13:38:00.001-06:00

Here are a few photographic reasons why I am, and will always be, a Colorado mountain girl at heart:

Lake Hartenstein, where we camped on a recent backpacking trip.

The view from inside my tent.

A nearby stream, perfect for washing my face and filtering fresh mountain water.

Olin on the final part of our ascent of an unnamed peak near the lake.

Sunset on the lake.

the world is full of funny things....

2007-06-20T18:28:00.000-06:00

I have much to blog about, but until I can gather my thoughts, here are some pictures from the last few weeks (I've been out of town most of them) that have made me laugh.

small town Sunday: ice cream and other vittles

2007-06-09T15:17:00.000-06:00

Trinity Sunday in Green Mountain Falls, as the liturgical calendar would have it. In a courageous move, our pastor broached the topic even with the little ones: "I now invite the children of the congregation to come forward to talk about ice cream." He talked about the Trinity in terms of Neopolitan ice cream: chocolate and vanilla and strawberry are all very different flavors, but they are all ice cream, and together they make up Neopolitan ice cream. Of course, any adult in the room will admit that they understood this sermon for children far more than the one targeted at us adults.

When I walked forward to take communion, I passed by the elderly woman who shaved her head for cancer research. She was wearing a sequined ball cap that said something about New York. The only other cap in the room was on the head of another elderly woman: it was bright pink and said, "Country Girl." I like a church where old women wear fancy ball caps.

During the announcement time, a bunch of kids in cowboy outfits joined their teacher in announcing that VBS ("avalance ranch") was a-comin' up and they were looking for help. Holding up an old campfire coffee pot, they invited us to join them for some vittles in the fellowship hall to raise money. Vittles, of course, consisted of coffee and a cake that said Avalanche Ranch, but the mood was set nonetheless: each person who walked into the fellowship hall was greeted by a 3 foot nothing boy with a bandana, asking if "y'all" wanted some coffee.

As usual, though, I walked away challenged as well as smiling. I was challenged by the fact that the church sent money to a pastor in Greensburg, Kansas, so the he could put it to use as they recover from the devastating tornado that hit weeks ago. I was challenged yet again by the way that the pastor reminds us that speaking the affirmation of faith is telling a part of our story. Most of all, I was challenged by the invocation:

"Disturb us, Lord, when we are too well pleased with ourselves
When our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little,
When we have arrived safely because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when with the abundance of things we possess,
we have lost our thirst for the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life, we have ceased to dream of eternity,
and in our efforts to build a new earth, we have allowed our vision of the new heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
to venture wider seas where storms will show your mastery,
where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.
We ask you to push back the horizons of our hopes;
and to push into the future in strength, courage, hope and love."
(Francis Drake, 1577)

May those words challenge you as they challeged me, and as our Pastor often says, may the disturbance of Christ be with you.

waterfall weekend

2007-05-31T22:48:00.000-06:00

I'm sure it saddened Pedro a bit, but last weekend was mostly a hiking weekend for me. On Saturday, we hiked up Cheyenne Canyon to St. Mary's Falls. The hike was beautiful and strenuous. The weather smiled on us until about halfway back, when the smile turned down and all we could say was, "What the hail?" That's the second time in a week I've been pelted by frozen bb's. I came away from the day a little wet and with a badly bruised knuckle, but smiling from the adventure.

(On the way up to St. Mary's Falls, this peak taunted me the whole time. It was far too late in the day to go past the falls, but I sure as heck was tempted.)

On Sunday, after church, we hit a trailhead that leaves straight from Green Mountain Falls. This one far exceeded my expectations, definitely one of those hikes that is less about destination and more about the beauty along the way. The trail follows a cascading stream and leads up a steep, shady, and root-woven mountain. In fact, I couldn't tell exactly which falls we were supposed to be looking for--that water was a-fallin' the whole way! This time I came away having bashed a different knuckle, and with a mystery rip in the rear of my pantalones, but again I was grinning like a kid in a candy store.

Key thought from the weekend? Thank God for waterfalls and shaded forests and unruly roots and granite peaks, and for friends to exlpore them with.

now that's hilarious

2007-05-29T17:25:00.000-06:00

You know that stuff about there being only one rule in the Garden of Eden? You know, just don't eat from that tree? Apparently, there were a few other provisos that the author of Gensis may have failed to mention...

small town Sunday: only in Greece

2007-05-29T16:25:00.000-06:00

Only in Greece, we learned on Sunday, should one teach a children's sermon involving Greek words. In celebration of Pentecost (or perhaps just coincidentally), a new banner hung at the front of the church, a golden cloth with the word "agape" written on it. When the pastor asked the kids (who were apparently totally wired for the day) what it said, there were several fumbled answers, followed by one very bright girl who replied, "it says agape" (as in, my mouth hung agape as I watched him try to teach Greek to tots). After informing them of its true pronunciation, he moved on to ask them what language it was:

French!
No.
Hebrew!
No. (but great guess, eh?)
Chinese!
No.
Spanish!
No.
Mexican?
(Too much laughter to allow for a no.)

He finally gave up and just told them it was Greek.

His eventual goal, you see, was for them to know that agape love is how we are to love one another, and that it is a different kind of love from loving our toys. This in itself almost backfired when he asked a little girl if she loved her mom more than her plastic pony. No, the little girl told us quite plainly, she did not. Then, within a few sentences, the pastor managed to mention the word candy, and it was a total loss from there. At one point, he actually looked out at us and asked with a smile, "What would you do right now if you were me?" When the kids finally left to go to Sunday school, he laughed with us about how unpredictable children's sermons can be. But before moving on, he paused, and his face turned thoughful and serious; "Thank God," he proclaimed, "that things don't always go as planned. Thank God that he surprises us." We were all struck by it, and I realized that sometimes the children's sermon ends up being for the adults, too.

In the sermon, he bravely spoke about hip hop music to a crowd of small town (and partly grey haired) mountain folks. "You may not listen to it," he said, "but your children and grandchildren do." He talked of the typical hip hop protagonist, the "player", and how our disdain for such characters is somewhat compromised by our own likeness to them. We, too, he challenged, find ourselves characterized by manipulating things to our own pleasure, our own ends. Disciples, he reminded us, are to be odd, to be different. We are not to fit the cultural mold of self-satisfying players, and yet we so often do. He quoted Flannery O'Connor: "Then you will know the truth, and the truth shall make you odd."

As he finished, his final sentence almost echoed: "Now I say to you, players, may the disturbance of Christ be with you." The weight of his words lingered for a moment as music began to play and the service moved on.

Bill came in late and sat right behind us (a friend joined me this week). "Just in time," he said out loud as the offering plate came his way. He told us later that he had rushed back from Breckenridge (where he had gone to see a grandson graduate) and hadn't quite had time to put on his "church duds". He showed us the cane that his son gave him in an effort to make him walk less hunched over. Turning it upside down and taking a golf stance, he grinned and explained to us that it would be better used as a putter. Inside, I was smiling at the joy of his company.

Agape. I sensed it from Bill that morning, and I sensed it in the pastor's words. It came through in the many hi's and glad to see you's. I'm sure it was present over the coffee I didn't have time to stick around for. That place, that little church in Green Mountain Falls, is full of agape--enough to leave your mouth agape.

my trip to Greenland

2007-05-29T16:16:00.000-06:00

Greenland Open Space, that is. Twice this week, I have had the chance to go riding in this beautiful place near Palmer Lake. It is such an idyllic landscape. On my ride today, you could see the wildflowers starting to bloom. I'll have to post some more pictures someday, but here is a little taste!

The evening sun on the rolling hills. The shadows and light each evening are awesome.

Kipps Loop is my favorite. It passes the prettiest little pond, with a great bench next to it.

Carrie rides ahead of me on the smooth single track.

The tracks run next to the open space, and actually just make it more picturesque.

This sign cracks me up. Apparently the citizens and pets of Palmer Lake qualify as wildlife.

little by little

2007-05-24T19:10:00.000-06:00

"I just want to be done with it."

I've said those words so many times. When I am reminded of a sin struggle that seems to drag on and on, it's all I can think to say: I just want to be done with it. I often feel at a loss to understand why God doesn't pull us out of battles against sin when we are pleading with him. I don't understand why some things seem to show back up at my door no matter how many times I have tried to slam and lock it, perhaps even change my address. Leave me in loss, leave me in challenge, leave me in need...ok, that seems hard but perhaps more understandable. But leave me floudering against sin? I just don't always get that part.

Recently I came face to face with an old struggle, probably among the top 3 "just want to be done with it"s in my life. I was frustrated and discouraged. Then I did my homework. I did my Pentateuch homework, that is, reading Exodus for the sake of answering a bunch of questions. I was probably avoiding thinking about my struggles, honestly. Still, there in the middle of a task that wasn't much about looking for life lessons, God chose to speak. He chose to speak directly to the heart of me, to the place that was begging to be done with the battle against sin.

As God is preparing his people to enter the Promised Land, he says these words:

"I will send my terror ahead of you and throw into confusion every nation you encounter. I will make all your enemies turn their backs and run. I will send the hornet ahead of you to drive the Hivites, Canaanites and Hittites out of your way. But I will not drive them out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you. Little by little I will drive them out before you, until you have increased enough to take possession of the land. " (Exodus 23:27-30)

The same basic words are actually repeated later in Deuteronomy. Apparently, it has been the human condition for a long time now, this wanting to have victory and to be done with the battle ASAP. God knew that the Israelites were probably expecting (or at least hoping for) him to step in and wipe out all obstacles as soon as they set foot in the land. So he graciously tells them ahead of time: "I'm not going to do this as quickly as you'd like me to. This might seem like a long battle at times. You're probably going to feel like I'm not making good on my promises. But believe me, I alone know how strong you need to be before you can really take this land, and I will not set you up for disaster by giving it to you before you are ready." It brings to mind some words Jesus spoke once: "In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." Take heart, though the troubles will be persistent. Take heart, because I am the victor in the end. It reminds me, too, of a Proverb: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding."

I often look out at the enemies I must go up against to conquer the land, and I feel small and weary. Sometimes I do feel like maybe God isn't making good on his promises. But then, perhaps I didn't hear those promises quite right: "Katie, I have good, good land to give you. I have blessings and freedom in store. But I want you to know that the battle will seem long sometimes. I want you to trust me to make you ready."

That promise gives me hope. It makes me want to seek him even when the battle seems to be taking forever, so that he can do whatever work must be done to make me ready to claim that good land. I want to let him make me ready for the amazing and loving plans he has in store. It doesn't always make sense. I most certainly don't always like it. But I need to trust that this little by little will someday bring me home.

small town Sunday: the heart grows fonder

2007-05-22T13:41:00.000-06:00

I originally planned to title this post, "bedside Baptist". That was the old joke around my college when we didn't make it to church some weekend. Sadly, two nights of terrible sleep and a paper due the next day made me realize it was unwise to get up earlier than absolutely necessary this Sunday.

Now, I have been able to feel myself grow more and more attached to Green Mountain Falls and my little church there. But my disappointment in missing it this week made it all the more sure: I am in love with small town Sundays. I love feeling myself calm down as I turn off the highway and pull into town. Last week, I had to slow down so as not to hit some folks walking right down the middle of the road. That, I have always thought, is the sign of a good town--walking down the middle of main street and not being crazy to do so.

I love the familiar faces as I look around the sanctuary: the choir in their blue and white robes, the elderly woman who sits up front so she can wear earphones in order to hear the service, the twins coloring and chattering behind me. I love the coffee hour, and am even developing a taste for church coffee (notriously nasty in small town churches). I love being called by name, and being able to return the gesture.

I am sad that this summer will include so many Sundays away (the summer schedule is getting packed!). I'll have to collect some stories to tell along the way. For this week, I figured I'd just offer some pictures I've taken as I've meandered around town. Meandering, of course, is just the thing to do on a restful small town Sunday.

These are obviously taken a couple months ago. The lake is thawed now and glittering with sunlight when I drive in each week.

The local motel. There are lots of nice cabins and things, too, but I love the character of this place.

Green Mountain Falls' most popular restaurant, The Pantry. Amazing food, and home to the exuberant waitress I told you about.

The Sheriff's office. Doesn't it just make you think Mayberry?

My two favorite cars to see parked around town (in second place is the truck with a frog stuck on the hood)

small town Sunday: what mothers are for

2007-05-14T23:18:00.000-06:00

Mother's Day in Green Mountain Falls. At church, the children's sermon served as a reminder that kids are almost never going to give the answers you think are obvious. The Pastor began this week's mini-message by asking, "Now, you guys know what today is, right?" His question was answered enthusiastically, the kids' voices in unison: "It's Sunday!" Only a second later did one little voice add, "Oh, Oh...and it's Happy Mother's Day, too."

The pastor moved on to ask the kiddos what it is that mothers are for, what sorts of things they do. One tiny girl, after an almost endless series of um's, told us quite plainly that moms exist to feed you and to clean your room. Another boy chimed in to mention that mothers are there to pay the bills so you have somewhere to live. (Seriously, what kid under 10 thinks of that? Let's hope he's not one of the ones who will be giving the same answer at age 30.) The pastor finally recieved his segway when a little girl said with great innocence, "Mom's are there to teach us how to be good and to believe in God." In the world of Mother's Day children's sermons, that answer is the equivalent of saying "Jesus" in Sunday School.

Despite the service holding some good laughs for me, the real highlight of this small town Sunday was the coffee hour afterward. Remember the old man who steals kids' lemonade? Well, this week I plopped down next to him at one of the plastic tables in the fellowship hall. We were both sipping coffee and dining on Mother's Day cake (yes, I finally got some cake) as he introduced himself and began to tell me stories, all the while offering his big, wrinkled smile and easy laugh.

Bill (or Mr. Bill, as the kids call him) has spent the last 21 years worth of mornings down at Ute Pass Elementary school, just to be there with the kids and help out around the school. "They just won't graduate me," he told me with a grin. Having originally come to Colorado because he was stationed at Fort Carson, Bill spent 25 years as the fire chief in Green Mountain Falls. He also spent many of those years as the director (and pretty much every other position) at a local boy's ranch, being a father to boys who needed one. He served as a Cub Scout leader for eons, whether for the boys at the ranch or for his own sons, a position which he said led to more ascents of Pike's Peak than anyone would really care for. On his first trip, he told me, he sat down for a rest not far from the top, only to be passed by a man in his 70's: "Next thing, I looked up and saw that the person blazing up after that old man was an old woman! I said to myself, 'Bill, you'd better get off your bottom and get to the top of this thing.'"

As I sat there eating my cake (he said he was eating his piece in honor of his mom), I just felt blessed to be able to talk with a man whose many long years are brimming with so much life, so many stories. Though he is a widower with an aging body, Bill is full of more joy and vitalty than most of my 20-something peers. He is a treasure.

I may never run into him on Pike's Peak, but the scenario seems familiar all the same: Bill is that old man who passes by with enthusiasm and vigor, and leaves you thinking, "Man, I'd better get off my bottom and start living some good stories to tell."

at least there weren't tigers and bears

2007-05-11T21:22:00.000-06:00

“I should have brought a knife.”

He said no more, but I knew without asking what he was thinking, and it unsettled me. The threat had seemed a little more manageable when I was the only one who had thought of it. I mean, I could have been exaggerating, right? But Chris is far more logical than I, and now he was admitting that the possibility had entered his mind, too.

“Do you think mountain lions hang out in dark places during the day?”

“I don’t know, maybe. They’re nocturnal, right?”

“I don’t know.”

I didn’t like that we didn’t know. Yes, he should have brought a knife. We picked up rocks instead.

Since leaving the car an hour or so earlier, Chris and I had been making our way down an abandoned railroad bed, which passes through a series of six tunnels as it meanders across the mountain face beside highway 24. The first four tunnels aren’t anything daunting. They’re short and well lit, so they have a sort of open feeling. The only risk in those tunnels is getting wet from the water seeping through the cracks high above, or perhaps being startled by an equally startled bird.

Earlier in the hike, we had talked about rattlesnakes, and Chris mentioned that he likes to mess with them. I had told him that he is the reason people get bitten by snakes. I found myself wondering if the rock in his hand was to fight off an angry cat, or to mess with it.

The fifth tunnel is sort of a transition. It is long, and though we could see the end from not too far in, there were still moments where we had been blind, walking carefully through stifling darkness. Our flashlight was fairly useless, save for illuminating the next few steps to help avoid tripping. Our reentry into daylight was one of both relief and exhilaration.

Now we were headed into the longest and darkest of the tunnels, which I remembered being blocked off about halfway in (I had done the hike once before). Rocks of defense in hand, we entered the darkness slowly to allow our eyes to adjust. This tunnel was full of junk—an old box spring, a scrap of carpet, a dead bird. We picked our way through it until we reached the barrier to the rest of the tunnel, just some chain link fencing. Getting closer, we saw that someone had cut an opening through it since I was last in the tunnel. A quick scan with the flashlight revealed even more junk covering the ground on the other side of it.

“We probably shouldn’t go back there.”

“Do you just not want to walk around all that junk?” (Believe it or not, the idiot suggesting we continue on is me).

“You want to see what's back there? I guess we could try it.”

Chris stepped through the opening and into the second half of the tunnel. After reminding him to shed some light on my own steps, I followed behind. Just inside, I heard sound and figured it was the traffic from the highway. We took another couple steps. The sound came again, and I slowed a little. It was a strange sound for traffic. I listened more closely.

When the noise came a third time, we froze in our tracks.

From somewhere in the darkness, not far ahead, came a distinctly feline growl. We had our answer: yes, mountain lions do hang out in dark tunnels. No, they do not like being awakened from afternoon naps. Yes, we were leaving. We walked back through the barrier slowly and began to pick up the pace. Someone suggested running, but we remembered after only a few quickened steps that running is supposed to be the worst thing to do. In fact, we were supposed to be backing away while maintaining eye contact, but we decided walking quickly would do. Thankfully, a nervous glance over my shoulder revealed that we didn’t seem to have a stalker.

Stepping back out into the light, I breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be putting distance between us and the angry cat.

“Oh yeah, that’s going on the blog,” I said, expecting us to continue away from the tunnel.

Chris was less focused on relief, or on retreat for that matter.

“That was…..AWESOME!!! I wonder if we can get up above and see it from the other side”

I thought back to the rattlesnakes, and to the rock in my hand. Any doubt that had been there before was now removed: Chris and I do not have the same instinct when it comes to avoiding deadly animals.

Maybe I’m the one that should have brought a knife.

not since the playground...

2007-05-10T10:18:00.000-06:00

...have I been tagged so much! This time, instead of being challenged to post a groggy mug shot, I have been tagged to post 8 random things about myself. Here we go:

1. My very first instrument was the violin, which I started to play when I was a wee lass. I loved it, but didn't have the discipline to practice. Not to mention, there are few things like a screeching violin in the hands of a seven year old to drive a parent insane. Sometimes I wish I'd stuck with it, but I guess some strings just aren't meant to be--heh heh.

2. I haven't actually been a mountain biking fanatic for as long as you might guess. A couple years ago, I broke my toe (tripped over a dumbbell), which put a serious damper on an active hiking schedule. Pedaling a bike, however, can be done without putting too much pressure on the little digit. Long before the toe was fully healed, I had fallen in love with biking. Now I'm that lunatic that sings to her bike named Pedro: "God bless the broken toe that led me straight to you."

3. One of my favorite college memories is playing quarterback for my intramural flag football team. My freshman year, I was on a team called Rowdy, but I spent the remaing years on a team originally called Single (followed by Still Single our junior year, and Last Chance when we were seniors). The nicknames printed on our shirts followed the theme. For those first two years, I was "No Hurry". During our year as Last Chance, however, I was "Exp052403", aka: expiration May 24, 2003--my graduation date.

4. I'm a huge fan of the fine arts. Though most people know I write and love photography, I also used to compete vocally, and I was part art major in college. Going to great choral or dance performances, visiting art shows, and seeing fantastic theater--these are a few of my favorite things. Sadly, I do it far less often than I used to.

5. I am a Colorado girl to the core. I was born and raised in the Roaring Fork Valley (where Aspen is), where my dad owned an apres ski bar and restaurant on Snowmass Mountain. I was on skis before I was out of diapers (literally) and a good portion of my childhood memories involve camping with my family or just playing around my mountain neighborhood. One of my dad's best friends (and my pseudo uncle) was Mr. Rocky Mountain High himself, John Denver. Yes, I spent a few years away, but Colorado always calls me home.

6. I lived in Hawaii for a whole year and never learned to surf. I was working for the Baptist Collegiate Ministries, surrounded by surfing students, but I was always a little freaked out by the idea of paddling out to the reef. I body surfed the shore break instead (Waimea Bay was my favorite), and got a year's worth of learning just how much sand can fit into one swimsuit. What I miss most about Hawaii, however, has nothing to do with the beach. It's the food--there are so many things there that you just can't find anywhere else. Mmmm...manapua.

7. The only bones I've ever broken were in my face (save for the aforementioned toe). When I was in fifth grade, I was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, and managed to get smacked in the face with a golf club--caught the swing on the full follow through. Let's just say that it took few hours of surgery to put things back in place.

8. I have a huge desire to go to Iceland, though I know it's a little random. Perhaps its the explorer in me (I LOVE to explore), but the place just intrigues me. Glaciers, natural hot springs, cute fishing villages...it's the stuff vacations and honeymoons and exploration are made of.

The rules of this game, as passed on to me: Each person starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves. People who are tagged need to write their eight things and post the rules. At the end of your blog, tag eight people and list their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.

I'll leave it up to my readers to consider themselves tagged, though a few of you know that I'll be looking....

rise and shine

2007-05-08T21:31:00.000-06:00

Morning face...here's mine. This is ala a challenge from Carrie (who recieved the challenge from someone else) to post a picture of yourself first thing in the morning. For most people, that means pre-makeup etc. For me, that mainly just means pre-clothes change. Still, I struggled with this more than I anticipated--funny thing is, it's not so much my morning face I'm afraid of. It's what the camera can do to it! Note the groggy eyes: They are the last to wake up each morning.

I pass on the challenge to any who struggle to believe they are beautiful until they've done a little remodeling. A great deal of true beauty comes simply from courage, so take that morning pic and post it proudly!

small town Sunday: townsfolk

2007-05-08T10:25:00.000-06:00

It is a storyteller's gold mine, Green Mountain Falls. If you are struggling to dream up quirky characters, people that a reader will fall in love with, you'll find plenty within those small town city limits. At least, I know I'm falling in love with them.

Of course, there's Oscar, the 90 year old feisty Swede whom I encountered walking around the lake when my parents came to visit. We met him as we made our way toward the local cafe, where we were served by a lively woman with the most classic diner voice I have ever heard: loud, a little raspy, and full of "honey" and laughter. She served me what might be the best cornbread I've ever eaten.

At church, I often sit behind one of my favorites--a quiet, unassuming local artist whose face provides a sort of comforting familiarity. This week she was next to an elderly British woman who is full of questions, and who told me this week how much she loves retirement. When she first met me, she immediately tried thinking of ways to help fund my rather expesive education. None of the ideas panned out, of course, but I was delighted in her effort none the less.

During the coffee hour, you'll see an old man, hunched over but full of life, who sneaks up behind unsuspecting kids and pretends to steal their lemonade. They all know him and laugh. Meanwhile, twin 8 year old boys run around looking for mischief and usually finding it. Even better are the twin 2 year olds--a boy and a girl-- who often sit closeby during the service. The girl is shy but smiley. Her brother just chats away, oblivious to prayer or Scripture reading or song. It reminds me a lot of my own brother and me, though we aren't twins.

One of the quirkest characters is a middle aged woman from New Jersey. She hasn't lost an ounce of the accent, nor of the personality for that matter. She told me once her dream would be to become a missionary, though her husband would never go for the idea. I smile as I think of it; The only way to truly paint the picture would be to title it, "My Cousin Vinny Goes Evangelical". I hope she gets that dream someday.

I am starting to find comfort in this town full of eccentrics. They begin to feel like home the way an old rocking chair does. Those in the that tiny church cannot be united by social or economic homogeniety, or by a common age group, as is the case in so many churches. No, they are a band of characters held together by the glue of Christ and small town hearts.

When the ties that bind are as simple as that, it's no wonder that a stranger like me can so quickly feel at home.

seasons of the soul

2007-05-05T10:07:00.000-06:00

Spring has come. Sunshine and rain take turns in the process of bringing everything to back to life. The tree outside our house is blooming in pinks and reds, and the grass required mowing yesterday. I ride my bike in a t-shirt and shorts again. Yes, spring has come and with it the annual rejoicing that the cold of winter has passed.

I have often told people that my spiritual life tends to follow the seasons. Spring and summer generally mark times of joy and growth, which fade into a time of reflection in the fall. Then comes winter, usually a time of refining and forging character, and at times a sort of dark night of the soul. Some would blame it on the weather. Either way, it is how things go with me.

My first year in Colorado Springs very much followed that pattern. The summer months before actually leaving Glenwood were some of the richest I have known. I delighted in time outside, in a job I loved, and in amazing relationships. The fall brought the natural reflection and beginning sadness of adjusting to a new place, with few friends and a new sort of schedule. In the winter, I had spine surgery and spent the following cold months recovering in more ways than one. The warming was a slow one after that, but it was steady. Spring came, and brought with it renewal and hope.

But the summer of my heart was a short one.

Sandwiched between a series of three deaths in a matter of few months, I faced one of the most painful and heart-deadening experiences I have ever walked through. I was hurt in a way deeper than I have known in many years, if ever. I was alone and slowly dying on the inside. By the end of the summer, and even into the fall and winter, it was all I could do to keep my head above water. There had been many joyful moments throughout the summer, yes--but it was most of all a dark, dark night of the soul.

My head is back above water finally, but I guess you could say my seasons are a little off. Still, I believe it's time for them to be changing. It's time for air that smells like rain, flowers in bloom, sunshine on my face. I have already heard peals of thunder threaten in the distance. The enemy desires to steal another summer from my heart. I pray for spring instead, for new growth and rejoicing. And then for summer.

Yes, Father. Let this year bring your summer to my soul.

shanty town Sunday

2007-04-29T17:03:00.000-06:00

I woke up this morning in a house of cardboard and tarps. Inside, seven friends slept beside me. Outside, 4,000 others crawled out of ramshackle huts and sleeping bags strewn across the ground. On a hilltop in Parker, CO, the sun was rising on a chaotic mess of cardboard shanties and unshowered people, all cramped inside a make-shift displacement camp.

We were there for an event called Displace Me, put on by an organization called Invisible Children (IC). For the past couple years, IC has been beaking the silent shroud surrounding the 21 year war in northern Uganda, and has been opening the world's eyes to the atrocities being committed there. For years, rebel forces called the Lord's Resistance Army have been raiding villages, conscripting children and teaching them to kill. In this time of chaos, the Ugandan government has moved millions into crowded displacment camps, lacking ample food and water, as well as proper sanitization. Many people have been in these camps for over 10 years. IC began with a documentary on the issue, and since then has been effecting change in northern Uganda in ways they could not have imagined. Displace Me was just one small part of it.

I would like to say that my night on the hilltop was about understanding what the people of Uganda go through, but that would be ludicrous at best. I did have moments where I felt crowded-in and uncomfortable, and was stunned at the thought of doing it for 10 years. And when we were waiting for crackers and water to be distributed at the "relief station", I really was hungry and thirsty (Saltines have never tasted so good in my life). Yet I know that one night in a cardboard box, hanging out with good friends and knowing I have home waiting for me the next day, does not even come close to providing a glimpse into their lives. No, my night of displacement was about raising my voice. It was about being one more body, one more face in the swarm of people speaking out on behalf of the oppressed.

During this year of reading Proverbs, one proverb has been the most impactful:

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,
for the rights of all who are destitute.
Speak up and judge fairly;
defend the rights of the poor and needy.
(31:8-9)

The people of northern Uganda are not the only ones around us who don't have a voice, who cannot speak up for themselves. The homeless man in the park, the underprivileged child, the refugee, the migrant worker, the sick who have no access to healing...all these people lack the power that we take for granted--the power to speak up and actually be heard.

Is there a particular group of the oppressed that stirs your heart? Do you hear the cries of the poor and orphaned and widowed? We have the power to say something about it, to effect change even when we feel like we may only be making a tiny dent. When we see the forgotten, the silenced, the invisible, we have the power defend their rights. The task seems so daunting, and at times hopeless, but I believe the gospel challenges me to overcome that.

It challenges me to stand up and raise my voice.

(for some great links to practical venues for raising your voice, check out my friend's post about the event http://ransomedjourney.blogspot.com/2007/04/raise-your-voice.html)

simple joys

2007-04-23T22:39:00.000-06:00

These are a little outdated, but I wanted to go ahead and post some of the pictures from a great bike ride. It was a little cool for diving into the mud, but I found other ways to entertain myself.

I mean, really...the company of Pedro and one of my dearest friends, a nice sloppy mud puddle, and a stick for digging around in it...it doesn't get a whole lot better than that!

small town Sunday: the few will bless the many

2007-04-23T21:23:00.000-06:00

In the eyes of most people, Green Mountain Falls is clearly a town of little consequence. New York City has 10,000 times as many citizens. My house is bigger than their Town Hall. There isn't even a store there, remember? But don't tell that to the people in my church. I have been encouraged again and again by their sense of connectivity with the world.

When our Pastor went to visit his ailing grandfather in England, he took with him a prayer shawl knitted by the women of the church. He returned to tell us that the gift had brought tears to the eyes of his grandfather, who asked why someone so many miles away would care about him. A similar prayer shawl was recently sent to a missionary in Indonesia, the nephew of a church member. Before it was sent, the shawl was passed around the church so that it might pass through the hands of everyone present, prayed over individually by each soul in the sanctuary. When I held it in my own hands, praying briefly for the man who would recieve it, I was suddenly so aware of the bigness of the body of Christ.

Last week, when students 1,500 miles away were killed at Virgina Tech, the church did not simply make brief mention of it, using it as a point of departure for a theological discussion of suffering. Rather, each victim's name was read aloud, slowly and clearly. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of the church bell, sounded once for each of the deceased. The pastor told me later that he'd heard many pastors talking about their plans to discuss Earth Day, or to simply continue with the sermon they had planned before. To him, this was unthinkable--the suffering of our brothers and sisters must be recognized, and names must be remembered.

The examples go on. As the weather warms, many migrant workers will be coming in for the summer work. In Green Mountain Falls, church members are creating small bags of hygeine products for them. In support of children with Cancer, an elderly woman shaved her long, grey hair. How beautiful.

In the sleepy, unknown town of Green Mountain Falls, I am learning a little about what it means to care for my world. I am witnessing a group of people who are abundantly generous, despite having a budget that is probably less than ten percent of most of the more recognized churches. I am learning that being small doesn't have to mean being insignificant. Yes, it's true that the vast majority of the world has never heard of Green Mountain Falls, but those small town hearts are loving and blessing their global body nonetheless.

unoccupied

2007-04-21T16:24:00.000-06:00

A week or two ago, during our Bible study, my small group decided to look at Matthew 12 using the ancient practice of Lectio Divina. Through quiet reading and contemplation, we allowed the Spirit to speak to each of us through some element of the passage. Honestly, I went in knowing which section I wanted to focus on. Yet, all the while I knew that God had other plans, something else to say. As I reluctantly listened, he pointed me to a particular set of verses:

"When an evil spirit comes out of a man, it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it. Then it says, 'I will return to the house I left.' When it arrives, it finds the house unoccupied, swept clean and put in order. Then it goes and takes with it seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they go in and live there. And the final condition of that man is worse than the first." (Matthew 12:43-45)

The goal of Lectio is to allow God to highlight a specific word or phrase from the larger passage. I have never been able to do this well--I am too indecisive and always end up with a ridiculously large chunk I've "narrowed it down" to. That night, however, the Spirit led me to one word: unoccupied. I could not stop staring at that word.

I thought about some recent battles I had fought, brutal fights to drive out the enemy from places in my heart. By God's grace, I had been spared from total disaster and was now trying to pick up the pieces and put things in order. I have done so with gratitude, but also with an element of fear; I know that the enemy still desires to bring death to that part of my heart. The years have shown me that he leaves us the same way he left Jesus in the wilderness (Luke 4:13): he goes away already waiting for a more opportune time.

What did the Spirit desire to show me through that chapter in Matthew? He wanted me to see that it is not enough to clean house. It is not enough to pick up the pieces and open a window hoping for some fresh air. We can walk free from sin for a period, and yet still leave our hearts unoccupied. We can get back on our feet, all the while leaving our hearts spiffed up like a hotel room, ready for uninvited guests who will just bring even more pain and destruction.

The most important thing I can do when picking up the pieces is to truly let God take up residence in my spirit, in those places of my heart that have been violated and vandalized by the enemy. I need to face and tear down whatever boundaries I have set up that have kept him from moving in. And then I need to put out the welcome mat and let the King of Kings, my Strong Defender, make himself at home in me.

Then, when the enemy returns for my precious heart, he'll find that someone's home: he'll find a heart that's occupied.

a talent for distraction

2007-04-21T16:17:00.000-06:00

One day, while enduring too many hours of Greek on end, I made a great discovery: you can completely distract yourself without even getting up from the table where you're working. I offer here the fruits of my procrastination.....

fodder for dreamin'

2007-04-20T13:06:00.000-06:00

I took a bike ride today in a place I've never explored before. After driving up into a canyon, we parked and hit a dirt road (with sections of trail). The terrain was a little skree-esque, so it was slow pedaling at points, but the views were awesome. Other than doing a face-plant while attempting to cross a stream (I know that at least one of you is laughing now), the day was perfect.

And that dreamin'? Well, apparently the road goes all the way to Cripple Creek. Good long ride, ice cream from the general store... Yep, pretty sure I'm a-goin' to have to do that sometime before winter comes 'round again.

Chris forgot his shoes. You can't tell, but he's navigating this sweet stuff in loafers.

Man, I love where I live. I biked last summer when I was in Oklahoma, and believe me, it did NOT look like this.

See the rock in the middle of the stream on the right side? I have a beautiful impression of it on my shin now. I'll be honest...that really really didn't feel good. But it was a great fall otherwise!

long awaited....

2007-04-19T14:41:00.000-06:00

It is that time of year! It's the time to say (with great rejoicing):

Adios Winter!

Welcome back Spring!

(All of those from Colorado know the sad truth: I have just jinxed us into one more giant blizzard....ooops).