small town Sunday: the charm of foibles

Palm Sunday in Green Mountain Falls. My friend Carrie came with me this time. It allowed me to sort of watch the church service with new eyes again, as is usually the case when aware that the person next to me is doing so. Everything about it endeared me as much as ever.

In most other churches I’ve attended, have grown accustomed to a praise band, often times a recording quality one. In Green Mountain Falls, the choir sings their praises from a small choir loft, wearing blue and white choir robes. It is not polished, and far from recording quality. There are a lot of wrong notes, and there are moments of sweet harmony. It’s beautiful. Equally beautiful is the sound of the congregation trying to navigate the melody of some obscure hymn. I do not know who chooses the music, but they seem to have an affinity for the hymns which no one has ever heard before.

The children’s sermon is never void of hilarity. This week, the pastor was trying to drive home a point about courage, and began by asking about things the children might be afraid of: the darkness, scary stories, that sort of thing. When he asked if they were ever afraid of creepy sounds at night, a rather verbose girl spoke up: “Well, I do have mice!” The pastor chuckled. “Oh, you have pet mice?” She does not have pet mice. She has mice that live in the walls of her house, and when they scratch at night, someone has to hit the walls to scare them away. As she cheerily passed this information on to the entire congregation, we all sat laughing, at the same time feeling great sympathy for the parents whose poor living conditions were being exposed to anyone they might ever have wanted to have over for dinner.

Many more winsome qualities marked my moments in that sunny back pew. The old man who read the Scripture passage for the morning had a funny voice and read with many a pause for emphasis. During communion, another old man stood holding the bread and chalice, his aged hands trembling as he offered me the body and blood of his Savior. During the sermon, the pastor poked fun at the quirks of liturgy, and at the awkwardness that can come with the weighty silence of the call to confession.

Afterward, we all gathered in the fellowship hall to raise money for missions by dining on soup, salad, and homemade bread. I discussed seminary with a woman next to me, an elderly member of the PEO with a wonderful British accent. While up to get seconds, or to grab a cup of lemonade, I found that I am able to greet several people by name now. On the way to not feeling new, you know. At some churches that takes a year to accomplish.

As we discussed all the charming foibles of small town church life, Carrie put it perfectly: The imperfection of things there at that tiny church—the unpolished music, the outspoken tots, all the quirky moments—have a way of putting you at ease, making you feel as if you don’t have to be perfect either. I think she’s right. It may be more than the quiet streets that bring me rest on a small town Sunday.

Pedro the Wise

(For any who aren't regular readers here, Pedro the Spikey Bikey is, well...my bikey)

God has funny ways of teaching us, myriad methods of revealing who he is and what life is about. Last week, my teacher was Pedro the Wise.

I learn a lot from my time biking. I have gleaned tremendous lessons about perseverance, and about how we can do far more than we think we can sometimes. Attacking a killer hill has taught me a lot about what it means to refuse to quit. This time around, on a rather rocky stretch of single track, Pedro offered a lesson on perspective.

Now, I still have a lot to learn about navigating rocky trails. Sometimes I hit them at awkward angles. Sometimes I brake at the wrong time. Sometimes I chicken out (errr...make a wise decision?) and walk over them. But one thing I do know about navigating obstacles on a bike: where your gaze is fixed, there your front tire will go.

It isn't natural, that principle. We want to place our focus on the rock or rut we are avoiding, as if keeping our eyes on it will help us make sure we don't end up there. Stare at the obstacle, however, and you are guaranteed to feel your front tire slamming up against granite or slipping into a crevice. The trick is to not look at where you don't want to go, but to fix your gaze squarely on the one safe passage, on that narrow stretch of trail that doesn't cry disaster. It feels unnatural, like I said, but it works. Even if the back tire does it own thing, you have pretty good odds of gaining control at that point.

Nasty terrain isn't unique to mountain biking, however. Sometimes I get stressed out by the rough stretches of everyday life. I get obsessed with looking out for the million ways I could fail, all those obstacles on the way to walking the narrow road of discipleship. I want to keep my eye on them just to make sure I'm not meandering that way, but it often backfires. Like with biking, most of the time our actions follow our gaze; we act on the things we give our attention to, even if the whole point of giving them attention was for the sake of avoidance. It's like trying to clean up my thought life only by keeping an eye out for the thoughts I don't want to have. Talk about tripping over rocks; it just keeps those very things lingering in the back of my mind.

I'm not saying we shouldn't keep an eye out for stumbling blocks. We need to be aware of stretches of rough terrain in our lives. But I imagine that sometimes Jesus is standing there saying, "I want you to look toward me, not all those potential failures. Keep your eyes fixed on me, set my love always before you, and your feet will begin to follow."

side streets and doorsteps

The message of Proverbs features two leading ladies: Lady Wisdom and Lady Folly. One gives life, the other brings death. One is a faithful guide, the other a treacherous adulteress. It's no surprise that Proverbs tells us to embrace Wisdom and avoid Folly. Sounds simple enough.

Still, we know that "simple enough" has never been simple enough for us. Humans have been wandering away from Wisdom and into the arms of Folly from the very beginning, and we are no different. Both women are calling out to us all the time, their messages ringing out from their doorways and from the gates of the city. In, fact, if you read 9:4 and 9:16, you'll see that their messages get off to the same start: "Let all who are simple come in here!"

What's a disciple to do? How, I have been asking the Lord, do I cling to Lady Wisdom and avoid that adulterous Folly--how can I distinguish her voice? My own tendency to wander Folly's way, to either mix up their voices or just plain make a bad choice, scares me sometimes; the question is a crucial one. And as I ask that question and take a good long look at Proverbs, I do learn one thing: it's all about side streets and doorsteps.

When warning against Folly, Solomon offers this advice: "Keep to a path far from her, and do not go near the door of her house, lest you give your best strength to others and your years to one who is cruel." (5:8-9) Later, a poor youth falls right into the adulteress' trap because he "was going down the street near her corner, walking along in the direction of her house, at twilight, as the day was fading, as the dark of night set in." (7:8-9)

But Wisdom also calls out: "Blessed is the man who listens to me, watching daily at my doors, waiting at my doorway." (8:34) Blessed are those who walk in her direction.

Living a life of wisdom, finding life instead of death, is not just about momentary repsonses to the call of Wisdom or Folly. It's about where we walk, the front porches we spend time on, the doorways at which we sit and wait. It's about knowing better than to walk through Folly's neighborhood at dusk, knowing that we are all a little more susceptible to her message when we do. It's a lifestyle of finding out where Wisdom lives and hanging out on that street.

I still don't know exactly what that looks like, but I do know this: it seems that much of my life as a disciple will be all about the side streets and doorsteps I choose.

one man's rembrandt, another man's rent money

I have to laugh sometimes about how a person's place in life affects the way she sees things, particularly money. Take my household, for example, given the possibility of recieving $1,000:

Roommate #1 thinks, "That's gonna buy a lot of Jimmy Choo's."
Roommate #2 is thinking, "I wonder if I could get a ticket to Uganda for that?"
Roommate #3 is asking herself the same thing, but wants to visit Russia. Dollars to rubles, that's what she's thinking of.
Roommate #4 is considering something practical, though none of us can guess what that is.
Roommate #5...that's me. And I am thinking, "Do you know how many credit hours that could cover?"

But it seems that our perspective on money goes deeper than our paricular place in life. To some extent, I think God has purposely created us with unique lenses for seeing all of life, including money. This becomes clearer and clearer in my own life as time goes by.

I spent some time in a rather expensive home earlier this week. You know the type: gargantuan spaces, leather and oak everything, patios and waterfalls and wrap-around decks. A few months ago, I was in an even crazier house, complete with a small indoor basketball court. Growing up near Aspen, I saw things that one-upped even that. Pretty exorbitant, if you ask me.

Though it's hard, I know I can't judge the heart in these situations. These people may have amazing hearts, and they may use all that money in a lot of other generous ways. Instead of judging, I am trying to learn to listen to voice of the Holy Spirit speak through my gut reactions. I want to open my ears to let him tell me how I've been made to see the world.

Tuesday morning, I sat at the table in one of these huge houses. For a while, I stared at a huge painting on the wall. It was a nice piece of art, really, complementing the room well. But all I could think was how that painting alone could pay a few months rent for a low-income family. My gaze shifted to a gizmo on the wall that tells the outside temperature and several other weather details (there was another upstairs). I sepculated about how much they had cost, and whether or not it would pay the bill to heat up a home that was as cold inside as the gizmo said it was outside. I glanced down at the large table in front of me. I wondered if it might be better used in a home where the family is too large to fit around their much smaller table.

Great art, cool gizmos, fancy furniture...these are all nice things to have. They aren't inherently bad. In fact, if I am honest I will admit that part of me would like to have them, too. Still, unless I squelch it, the Spirit's voice is loud and clear. The lens he has given me is tuned to see the poor. There is nothing superior or inferior about it; that's just how I'm made. Now, the task is to see what God wants me to do with how I see the world.

So I ask you: When you are giving the Spirit room to speak, how do you see the world? Now what are you going to do about it?

fancy meeting ewe here

Today I took a bike ride up "the scar", a Bighorn Sheep preserve, with a friend. Renell is one of my oldest friends, and we hadn't seen each other for far too long, so it was a perfect way to catch up and embrace a beautiful day. Twice in the journey, we crossed paths with a large group of ewes (I would have taken a picture, but I didn't want to stop halfway up a killer hill). And we had a view of the whole city from the top.

I love where I live. I'm pretty sure Pedro the Spikey Bikey doesn't mind it either.

(a statue at the Bighorn Sheep reserve)

small town Sunday: Oscar

This weekend, I had the joy of having more than just a small town Sunday. My folks came to visit and, having heard me talk about Green Mountain Falls, decided that they'd rather stay there than in the city (see where I get it from?). So we rented a cottage for the night, a cute little abode overlooking the lake and gazebo. With the onset of sheer exhaustion following finals week, it could not have come at a better time.

There were many highlights for the weekend. We discovered that the town literally has no store (the old one is for sale). I ate some of the best prime rib I've ever had, which one doesn't always expect to find in a town that doesn't even have a store, and whose current public bathroom is a porta-potty. In church, the visiting preacher gave one of the most long-winded prayers in known history, and he asked the kids if they had ever heard the term "teacher's pet", while I sat there thinking "They've never heard the word "term", silly." Later, after the service, we dined at the counter of a cafe where we were served by an energetic woman with a classic, rapsy diner voice.

But the true highlight of the weekend was Oscar. We met him walking through the park by the lake, dressed in overalls and slightly hunched as he leaned on his walking stick. He approached us, commenting that he could tell our dog was walking us, rather than us walking him. He was deaf as could be and willing to admit it. Still, he'd just say, "I didn't hear that" and keep talking anyway. Oscar is a 91 year-old Swede who has lived in Green Mountain Falls for over fifty years. He has shod over 30,000 horses in his lifetime, he told us (and my dad noticed he still had strong hands with an iron shake). Looking at the lake, he said, "Years ago, there would be 20 fisherman sitting around this lake every week. Now there are about 2 every month, because everyone is at home watching TV and taking pills. I'm 91 years old and I've never taken a pill in my life! Excercise is the best God damn medicine there is." (Excuse the language for the sake of quoting a hilarious old man.) Oscar was a delight, one of those rare jewels, more full of life and feistiness than most people half his age.

I may never shoe a horse, but I sure hope that when I'm 91, I'll be walking around a small town in overalls, telling my story to those who still have their hearing.

for the sake of their Redeemer

I have been thinking a great deal about the Christian's responsibility to the poor and to social justice. More to come, but for now, a few words for thought:
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"The poor wretch cries to me for alms: I look and see him covered with dirt and rags. But through these I see one that has an immortal spirit, made to know and love and dwell with God to eternity: I honor him for his Creator's sake. I see through all these rags that he is purpled over with the blood of Christ. I love him for the sake of his Redeemer."

(From a sermon by John Wesley, 1703-1791. Wesley was a leader in the Methodist movement, which made great strides in using the gospel not only to minister to souls, but to the practical needs of social justice. Wesley himself spent his life ministering to the poor.)
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"He who oppresses the poor shows contempt for their Maker,but whoever is kind to the needy honors God." ( Proverbs 14:31)
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For words from a more familiar face, I cannot more highly suggest checking out Bono's acceptance speech at the NAACP awards, posted on a friend's blog. The last two minutes are astounding.

small town Sunday: Field of Dreams

I laughed when I drove past this sign on the way into Green Mountain Falls yesterday. I had noticed the run-down, less-than-manicured field many mornings. In fact, I had thought several times that it would be great to get a group of people out there to play some Sunday. But when I looked closer and saw that this bedraggled diamond was the town's Field of Dreams, I just chuckled and thought, "That's awesome." I vowed to come back for pictures after church (which I was running a little late for).


I wonder if they ever came....

The irony of this sign was just too much....

That can't be comfortable...

This base had seen better days and was cast aside. Poor fella'.

When most of us think "Field of Dreams" we imagine that utopian field of green in Kevin Costner's corn field. Or perhaps we just picture some incredible, lush field of our imaginations, freshly chalked with an infield of the smoothest dirt.

But the funny thing is, there are those of us who fell in love with the stubby grass and dry dust of the Sandlot. We come alive during a schoolyard pickup game in a way that goes a lot deeper than enjoying a good seat at a Rockies game. Personally, I played many late-night games of baseball with the rag-tag kids in my mountain neighborhood, and later coached little girls on a slightly overgrown middle school diamond.

That's the part of me that, long before I saw the sign, had fallen in love with the sight of that ball field as I drove by. What to name it just depends on who's doing the dreaming, I suppose. For those who love a day with friends on a small town, simple baseball field, it really does live up to its claim: it's a backyard ballplayer's field of dreams.

grief is never quickly gone

I read Psalm 8 today, and was reminded again that it was a favorite of my friend Jeannie, who died of cancer last August. We sang it at her funeral, and I think it will forever remind me of her. Anyway, I pulled out a poem I wrote not long after she died, and figured I'd let it be today's post.


I didn’t know.
The last time I heard you laugh
when you joked about growing old,
and when you greeted me with a hug-
I didn’t know then
that I should have been memorizing it all.

I would have taken a million mental snapshots:
The look on your face as you led us in song,
hands rhythmically directing our voices,
your eyes ever reminding us to smile;
I would have framed that picture.

I am making mistakes more freely now,
Jeannie,
trying to sing my wrong notes loud and long and strong,
trying to learn to throw my head back and laugh,
to fully enjoy the humor of my own foibles.
I heard those words before,
but I’m listening more closely now.

And how I want to sing!
To raise my voice to keep you near.
“May your gifts always include music,”
you wrote to me.
I’ll do my best, Jeannie
to never live a life that’s void of melodies.

I just didn’t know you would be gone
so soon,
long before I could call to say I’m in town,
long before I could fill you in on every major milestone.
I didn’t know how hard the tears would fall
once you’d left.

The gifts you said I have,
the strength you saw in me,
the life of love you lived…
I heard those things before, Jeannie.
But as they echo through death’s silence,
loud and clear,
I am listening a lot more closely now.

How to Get a Heachache: A Layman's Methodology

1. Go out to retrieve something from the back of your truck (if you own a sedan, read the rest of the instructions and think of a creative subsitute). Flip up the hatch of the topper. Then, gripping the closed tailgate, place your foot on bumper and propel yourself upward so as to be able to reach inside. If you align yourself properly, the edge of the topper will serve to completely halt all upward motion, sending a jolt across the top of the head and down the spine. (Warning: large knots may result from the use of this particular method).

Utter a few choice words, and return to the house with retrieved goods.

2. If, by chance, your landlord has chosen a that day to spackle and prime the walls (this is hypothetical, of course), make sure to tell him NOT to open any windows or turn on any fans for ventilation. For full effect, allow the fumes to build up over several hours and permeate the entire house. Eat lunch, change clothes, check email...however long it takes for the chemicals to soak into your brain and cause it to throb.

But in order not to lose too many brain cells, leave the house...perhaps for a bike ride.

3. When you get on your bike, immediately choose a hill that is far longer than you remembered. Push yourself until you think you might throw up and your heart rate rivals a drumroll. Do not stop. If your stomach ceases its complaint (or empties), your head will take up the call.

Allow the breeze of the downhill to help ease the pounding and continue on.

4. Choose another (equally difficult) hill. While approaching said hill, downshift at just the right incline to throw your chain off the gear. Give your pedals several helpless rotations. This allows time for your bike to decide it should repay you for previous abuse by throwing you into the adjacent ditch. Face first.

Utter a few more choice words and check for blood.

5. Return to fume-ridden house for shower and snack, before moving on to sit through three and a half hours of graduate lecture.


If all of the above fails, just give up caffeine for a few weeks. That'll do it every time.

small town Sunday: the tyranny of the red light rush

There are no stop lights.

I had not noticed this until last week, when I pulled into town after encountering stoplight after stoplight on the trip up highway 24 to the turnoff for Green Mountain Falls. Of course, I did the stoplight dash again today, as I do on many days. Running a little late, battling the moral dilemma of whether or not it is ethical to speed in order to get to church on time(I think not), I approach each intersection of stop-and-go with great anxiety. When the light is red, I sit in irritation, as if the winds of punctuality are refusing to blow in my favor. How dare that little red bulb get in the way of my journey to peace and quiet! This is ridiculous, of course. It is my own darn laziness that has me running a few minutes behind. I let the pace of life keep me up late again, and I let the resulting weariness keep me in bed a few minutes too long. Now it’s a race against the time I wasted.

But in Green Mountain Falls, no such intersections of anxiety exist. I take it slow into town. If I were to rush, I’d be out of town before I’d noticed I was in it. Fifty-five mph would make Green Mountain Falls into about a 5 second experience.

So I was late, which I figured was just one more good reason to sit in that sunny back pew.

During our second hymn today, I actually found myself wishing for the elimination of the third verse. I was clear within a few bars that nobody knew the song, and the melody was far too complicated for “pick-it-up-as-you-go-along”. Even the choir seemed to be struggling to find the tune. I eventually stopped singing and just read along, so as not to miss what the hymn might have to say. I smiled at the musical(?) cacophony going on around me. It was painful. And sort of funny.

During the children’s sermon, the pastor asked the kids if they had ever heard of the country of Chile. One boy responded rather matter-of-factly that he has eaten chili, but is pretty sure he’s never been to Chile. The Pastor later reminded us that such an answer might also apply when asked about visiting Turkey.

I was thinking today about the fact that so much of my church experience on these small town Sundays is new or different for me, whether it is the quiet recitation of liturgy, or the singing of the selections that have gone unsung in my previous experiences with the hymnal. I’m sure that as time goes by, I will discover both more differences and more similarities between my life of faith and that of those in that little church. As I walked away today, pondering one particular thing that had made me squirm a bit, I realized that I do not want to be the kind of person that runs away from things that are different, or even from everything I might disagree with. I want to know and experience the love of Christ in all the diversity of his people, in their unique triumphs and failures, in the fascinating particularities of their varying lives.

I want to live my life with ears open to hear everything that he might say, whether in my busy week or on my quirky small town Sundays.

all in pieces

It caught me off guard. I was reading an article whose first half seemed to offer no warning for the rather explicit nature of the second half. It snuck up on me. I read a few sentences, realized it wasn't going to pass quickly, and chose not to read the rest of the story.

Later, in a wave of grief I could not have anticipated, I wept.

See, I have been reminded in a thousand ways lately that our culture, and humanity in general, has broken God's gift of sexuality to pieces. I know well that we serve a God who mends the broken places and can piece together that which has been shattered, but there are times when the brokenness seems too much, and I wonder if we have a fighting chance.

I have been thinking of the challenge faced by all the godly men I know, to fight against the lure of pornography and indecency in a culture that constantly waves it in front of their faces. Images and messages taunt them left and right, and my heart breaks for the battles they must fight. Women, as well, are bombarded with such images and with messages that destroy their sense of beauty. The fight to regain and maintain purity in my own thought life is an uphill battle every day. I have been thinking of children who will face a lifetime of sexual confusion because someone violated them, awakened them to things at far too young an age. I think of those who truly love Jesus, yet fight every day of their lives against the agonizing confusion and shame of a same-sex attraction. We all know that the list goes on, all the myriad ways in which men and women either give away or are robbed of the sacred.

Many times in my life, I have prayed that God would break my heart for the things that break his, and as I sat and wept yesterday, I sensed his answer. Not a call to abandon hope--he will always be a redeeming and restoring God. What looks like the impossible task of two already broken people being united, he will make into a beautiful possibility. In the journey toward men and women being able to live out godly masculinity and femininity, he will provide strength and perseverance.

But perhaps it is a good thing once in a while, when we are reminded of all that is broken, to weep along with the One who first created it to be whole.

small town Sunday: questions and casserole

It was a poor student’s dream: an unexpected potluck Sunday, just when I’d run out of bread at home. Corn pudding, green bean casserole, rolls, chicken…and the dessert table. There was no cake (seriously, I think I missed my chance), but there sure was an abundance of other tasty indulgences. I had bread pudding, and cherry fudge made by the woman from Texas who sat next to me. Perhaps it’s just because I’m young, but she gave me her card: “The Bridal Path: where dreams blossom.” If I decide to have a wedding sans the groom sometime soon, just for kicks, I’ll know where to get my gown, accessories, and veil, as well as a vocalist for hire.

As usual, the people were wonderful. I was greeted again and again, invited on a hike, asked to a presentation by the historical society (Franklin Roosevelt impersonation), referred to some poetry readings in town, and recommended to teach Sunday School (they found out I am a seminarian). I even received a request to stay after church some Sunday long enough to mosey over to the library and help a woman set up her own blog.

But today was not just potluck Sunday. It was also “Stump the Pastor” Sunday. Last week, congregants had the chance to write down questions and pass them in with the offering. Today, in lieu of a sermon, the pastor addressed them one by one. The invocation began like this: “All knowing God, whose favor rested on Jesus of Nazareth, and whose love is poured out for all humankind, inspire us here to ask questions, to pursue understanding, and to share our faith.”

And so it began. There were questions about evolution, about stories in Genesis, a query about Socrates’ understanding of the soul, and a desire to know how an “old timer” can best serve in the church. People asked about absolute truth and encountering other faiths, about why the Nicene Creed uses the word “catholic”, and about how many of the disciples had wives (and what did those women do while their husbands followed the wandering rabbi?). On and on the list went. He even addressed the question regarding his favorite color. I was impressed by his frank answers, his references to everything from good books to John Mellencamp, and his encouragement to the church to continue these conversations with one another. He ended by quoting some wise words he’d heard a pastor say once: “Our parking lot is for your cars, not your God-given intellects.”

I listened to it all from the back again. I do not sit there for fear of interaction or being noticed. Rather, it is because that’s where the sun shines through the stained glass onto the pew. It is brightest through the window with an ancient symbol for Jesus: IHS. I must confess, missing the "I" I saw the "HS" and immediately thought of the Holy Spirit. I could not help but think of a song I love: “Holy Spirit, rest upon us…”

Yes, let me sense the Spirit like warm sunshine on my face, and let me know his goodness in everything from a young boy’s funny reply during the children’s sermon, to the voice of a gray-haired woman reading to us from Genesis, to the sweet cherry fudge made by my new friend from Texas.

learning to love herbal tea

For Lent this year, I decided to give caffeine the boot. Those of you who know me well understand that this is no small task. Coffee is a way of life for me, and caffeine sure is helpful when reading lots of homework or sitting through a three-hour lecture. Still, I know I depend on it too much. I have known this for a while, but it seems like a harmless vice, really.

Let me repeat that: I depend on it too much...as in, I am dependent...chemically that is. I am a caffeine addict. I went into this expecting a nasty headche and a good dose of yawning, but I've gotten way more than I bargained for! Several studies on caffeine withdrawal have actually led many in the medical field to recognize that a percentage of people experience very real and varied effects (for an example, check out this article by the American Chemical Society). When I read the words, "drowsiness, decreased contentedness, depressed mood, difficulty concentrating, irritability, and foggy/not-clearheaded," I let out a sigh of relief that I wasn't just going insane. I have felt so off-kilter for the last couple days!

One of the worst parts is feeling anxious and weighed down, but not knowing what to give credence to during this time. What am I really feeling, and what is just my emotions being weirded out by withdrawal? I feel panicked about some things...are they really panic-worthy? It is amazing to me that this thing, this subtle addiction, has the power to twist my ability to distinguish what is truth for a while. It totally clouds my perception.

It has got me thinking...what sorts of other things have that kind of hold on me? I didn't notice caffeine did, until it was taken away. What kinds of things are subtly building up the strength to totally impair my ability to recognize the truth someday? What am I dependent on?

These are the sorts of questions I plan to ponder more once that whole "difficulty concentrating" thing wears off.

just another small town Sunday

After being so refreshed last weekend, I decided to go back to Green Mountain Falls for church this morning. I once again felt my spirit calm down as I turned off the highway onto the two lane road that led into town. The Gazebo sat picturesquely by the frozen pond. A couple of teenagers, one of whom was rebelling against small town life (I could tell by her attire), meandered down a dirt side street. The sun was warm on my shoulders as I walked toward the church.

The service opened to the sound of hand bells played by musicians donning blue and white choir robes. Save for one rather sour note, coming from a woman who was clearly nervous about missing her beat, the melody was beautiful. I listened to it from near the back, having chosen one of the pews that catches the sunlight from the stained glass windows.

During the children's sermon, the pastor was called upon to be a sort of human stand for an old felt board. As he did so, an elderly woman did her best to use cloth cut-outs to explain the transfiguration, and this to a bunch of tots who have no idea what the word transfigured even means. Apparently today is Transfiguration Sunday on the church calender. I don't come from a liturgical church, so it was news to me.

While the flannel board bonanza was going on, those of us in the back were treated to a three-year-old fellow who would wander courageously down the aisle, a little closer each time, only to change his mind just before reaching the front. Each time, after turning around, he would walk back toward his parents, shaking his head very seriously at those he passed, and announcing that he'd rather go to the grocery store.

Later, in the fellowship hall (which unfortunately lacked cake this time), I sipped that nasty substance we like to call church coffee and talked with the Pastor. He is a young man from Britain, who was as surprised to be called to Green Mountain Falls as one might be surprised to see him there. "They're a good group though," he told me. And, as is the nature of being from small town Colorado (I am from a different one), I ended up talking to some folks who know a guy I went to elementary school with, and who are related to my middle school music teacher. Small towns are all connected somehow, I suppose.

Driving away, not wanting to leave, I started thinking that I may need to make a habit of small town Sundays. When the weather warms up, take a picnic for the park across the street. Plop down at the local cafe. Buy a coke at the Market.

And hopefully, get another chance at some cake.

whistle stop

T minus two lanes until my insides calm down.
70, then 45, then 35, and now 15
mph through my ever rushing mind.
I stroll down main street with my thoughts.
I learn their names.
We talk longer than the usual 20 minutes.

Seventy in church this morning.
In the fellowship hall,
cub scouts sold their mothers' cake
to old ladies wearing Sunday best.
No talk of calories.

Two, ten
no, sixteen hours til their Sabbath ends.
Time for a cafe brunch,
time for an afternoon nap.
No concern for hours lost.

Population million, thousand, now just
800 stories to tell,
Six generations of friendly hellos.
They played football together,
she watched them as children.
I'll return to a different demographic: a populace of
370,000 ways to rush through the day,
370,000 worries over efficiency and image,
370,000 "just don't have the time"s

There, I'll wake to the longing
for a two lane heart,
a quiet conversation with my thoughts
(what were their names?),
a pew that they know is mine,
a booth in the local cafe.

Sometimes, it's
T minus too many days
til a small town girl
finds home.


(Written after a Sunday outing described in the previous post)

the plight of the third verse

The third verse is an endangered one. I had forgotten about this entirely until I visited a hymnal-using church this morning, for the first time in a while. As usual, hymns were listed in this way: "Hymn #543, omit verse 3" Every single time. I suppose there are two things to be gleaned from this tragic reminder. 1) If you have a favorite hymn, there could be a third verse that you've never even heard, and it could be amazing! Look it up! 2) If you are ever going to write a hymn, put your weakest material in the third verse. Odds are good that no one will ever sing it anyway.

My visit to this hymn singing church was part of my Sunday outing, one which might be titled: "A small town girl tires of the city, and strikes out in search of a small town church and a quiet place to read." I have spent my whole life in small towns (most of them of the mountain variety), save for an internship in Wichita and a year in Honolulu. My heart is just more rested in those places. So, after spending a quiet evening at home last night and heading to bed early, I got up this morning and drove to Green Mountain Falls, elevation 7800, population about 800. On previous drives through town, I had noticed a beautiful, old church--a perfect place of worship for today's outing.

I managed to show up on Cub Scout Sunday, so I was treated to four-foot ushers and a Scripture reading from a young fellow still struggling to pronounce his r's. Jewemiah was the book, if I recall. The Pastor surprised me by laying down an unabashedly forthright sermon about the woes Jesus spoke to the rich and well-fed (amen, brother). I was greeted enthusiastically by several people and offered some amazing looking cake (unfortunately, my sweet tooth doesn't turn on until after lunch, so I had to refuse). When I left, I smiled to be walking down a sleepy small town street on a beautiful Colorado day.

From Green Mountain Falls, I drove ten minutes farther up Hwy 24 to Woodland Park (population just under 7,000--felt like a metropolis after Green Mtn Falls). There I munched on a breakfast burrito and sipped coffee at Java the Hut, one of the best coffee shops on the planet. I sat in the sun, looked out at the back side of Pike's peak, and read Proverbs. The chapter in Proverbs was amazing, and the view of the Peak brought back memories of a very cold journey across the ridgeline...

Now, as cities go, Colorado Springs is one of the best. I don't feel too crowded-in, or like I'm trapped in a concrete paradise. I can mountain bike right from my house. But still, there's something about a small town church and the people filling its pews, or a hometown cafe and the folks in the booths, or a quiet mainstreet where people wave...it just makes my heart feel right at home.

Next week I'll throw caution to the wind and eat the cake.

fun in the mud

I felt like being alone today, so I passed up offers for hiking (wanted more speed than that), climbing (don't actually know how), and polo (just kidding). Instead, it was me and Pedro the Spikey Bikey (aka, my bike). Now any mud lover knows that God made the earth and waters, and when he mixed them together, he called it good--a lesser known and rather loose translation of Genesis. But today I learned that I sometimes need to be careful what I ask for...

Ah yes, I love mud when it splatters. It is less fun when it completely clogs your wheel. Still, I got a good laugh and made it home after cleaning out the muck and getting back to the more solid section of the trail.

But seriously, it doesn't get much better than a ride through the mud on a sunny Colorado day.

fixed on the unseen

Let it all out (get it all out)
Rip it out, remove it
Don't be alarmed when the wound begins to bleed
We're so scared to find out (what this life's all about)
So scared we're gonna lose it
And knowing all along that's exactly what we need

And You said, "I know that this will hurt,
but if I don't break your heart, things will just get worse.
If the burden seems too much to bear, remember
The end will justify the pain it took to get us there."

---------------------------------------------------

The above is just a sampling of a song by Relient K that echoes much of what I wrote about Lot a few days ago. Lot knew it well--the journey away from sin and disasterous decisions is not an easy one. It wounds, it bleeds, it's messy. Even when the journey isn't away from sin--perhaps just allowing God into a hurt or letting him awaken a numb spot--sometimes it can be overwhelming. Dizzying, even.

I hear much truth and hope in a song like this. I love that God recognizes the things that hurt us, and that he knows such burdens can seem too heavy. Yet he has the big picture in mind. He knows that the destination will far outweigh the pain. Paul says it best:

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."
-2 Corinthians 4:16-18

If that promise is true, then I want to always give him room to lovingly rip out and remove the things that get in the way of his glory. A life that is ever-increasing in intimacy with him will be worth any pain it takes to get us there.

E.I.N.T.K.I.L.F.M.M.B.

Stands for: everthing I need to know I learned from my mountain bike. Which is proving to be true. Lesson ala bike for the day: the Bible.

After months of pedaling away in the balcony of World Gym, it was finally warm enough (and reasonably dry enough) for a bike ride today. I decided to try a loop starting from my house that I figured would provide a good dose of exercise. It ended up being a great ride; I discovered a pedestrian bridge over the interstate (one less nasty intersection to navigate), and though I had expected the Santa Fe trail to be pretty dry, I got a good dose of my favorite kind of terrain--mud. Mud which I didn't make an effort to brush off before coming in the house, and which I imagine is getting all over everything as I type this.

The difference between riding a bike at the gym and riding outside is beyond compare. In the gym, it is all about checklists. Made it to the gym for the day, check. Cardio for a certain length of time, check. Burned a certain number of calories, check. Set the level pretty high, check. Working out inside is just plain discouraging and boring most of the time.

Outside, however, checklists have nothing to do with it. Out on the trail it is about the burn in my muscles as I push myself up a hill, and the wind in my face when I go down one. It is about navigating terrain, getting dirty, and going just a little father simply for the sake of exploration. It's about pushing hard so that I can push farther the next time, about knowing my metabolism is kicking, about the fact that my body will be ready for rest tonight--about feeling healthy, but only as a byproduct of enjoyment. Even if there was a checklist, it would probably look something like this: Didn't waste a warm day, check. Did not quit on a single hill, check. Got as muddy as possible, check. Found a new trail, check. Laughed out loud as I rode, check.

But the Bible...yes, back to my point. We've all heard it said before, but reading the Word can become a bit like a checklist. It can be like an indoor workout. Read my Bible today, check. Covered at least one chapter, check. Underlined a few things, check. Even if we don't mean to do it this way, even if we really want to grow with Jesus, we sometimes let ourselves end up there. Just trying to stay in decent shape and fit into our image.

The Bible should be about so much more than that! It should be about the challenge of pushing our ways through trial, knowing we are building muscle, and the sweet wind of relief when God opens the floodgates of blessing. It should be about enjoying the journey, getting a little dirty, laughing as we go. Scripture should be alive in us, getting our metabolism kicking, causing us to grow in perseverance and Christlikeness. Reading the Word of God should be the most thrilling ride we will ever take.

And I mean really, even if there was a checklist, it should probably look something like this:

Allowed the Spirit room to radically change my life today, and fell a little more in love with Jesus, check.

turn your back and run

Sodom and Gomorrah. In the likeness of “forbidden fruit” and “Bathsheba”, mention of these two cities immediately brings to mind one thing: sin. Sodom and Gomorrah make us think of outright, nasty offense and indiscretion, along with all of their worst consequences. To the believer, Sodom and Gomorrah represent the idea of sin city in a way that Vegas could never come close to.

For Abraham’s nephew, Lot, however, Sodom was home. His house was there, as was his family—a wife, two daughters and their husbands-to-be. He walked the same streets each day. He saw familiar faces around the city. If we strip back our deeply ingrained images of Sodom for a second, we might see that it was home to him as Colorado Springs is home to me.

But we ask, how in the world did he feel at home there? How did he come to be comfortable with it all? Perhaps it happened slowly--the gradual, almost imperceptible desensitizing that represents the way most of us find ourselves living in a place that reeks of indiscretion and ungodliness.

When Abraham and Lot parted ways in Genesis 13, Lot chose the “whole plain of the Jordan, [which] was well watered, like the garden of the Lord, like the land of Egypt, toward Zoar.” He looked out at good land, and decided to settle there. Then, the Bible tells us, he “lived among the cities of the plains and pitched his tent near Sodom,” where men were sinning greatly. Perhaps he moved is tent closer over time, and began to chat with the citizens. In the end, whatever the final straw was, he pulled up his tent stakes and moved into Sodom. I wonder how long the process was. I wonder how long it took for a man to go from being disgusted by the sin of Sodom to feeling at home in the midst of it.

Lot would have died right there in that cozy home if it weren’t for the prayers of his faithful uncle. But before God brought down his wrath on the city whose sin repulsed him, he sent two angels, whom Lot welcomed into his home as guests for the night. When men tried to beat down Lot’s door to have sex with his visitors, the angels had seen all they needed of the city’s sin, and they said to Lot, “Do you have anyone else here--sons-in-law, sons or daughters, or anyone else in the city who belongs to you? Get them out of here, because we are going to destroy this place. The outcry to the LORD against its people is so great that he has sent us to destroy it.”

Lot rushed to his sons-in-law in the night, but they didn’t believe him. How he must have pleaded! When dawn approached and the angels warned him all the more urgently to flee, even then he hesitated. He was torn. God could have given up on him right there; the angels could turned their backs at his flimsy faith and his attachment to such a home of sin. But the Bible tells us something far more beautiful: “When he hesitated, the [angels] took his hand and the hands of his wife and two daughters and led them safely out of the city, for the Lord was merciful to them” (Genesis 19:16). Yes, God could have turned away; instead, he took Lot by the hand.

Outside the city walls, more urgent instructions: “Flee for your lives! Don’t look back, and don’t stop anywhere on the plain! Flee to the mountains or you will be swept away!” Lot asked to flee to a town instead, the Lord consented, and off he ran toward Zoar, his wife and daughters with him. He had to hasten, for the Lord had told him, “But flee there quickly, because I cannot do anything until you reach it.”

The words echo:“Do not look back, and do not stop anywhere on the plain!”

How amazingly hard those instructions must have been, and how seriously God took them (as we know, Lot’s wife did stop to look back, and she ended up as a shapely stick of sodium). Yes, Lot knew he was being spared, and he knew that he was running away from destruction. But really, wouldn’t you want to look back? Wouldn’t you want one last look before your home went up in blazes? He must have wondered if his sons-in-law were trying to escape, or if anyone had made it outside the gates. He must have wondered what the flames looked like as they licked the city walls. But for Lot, merciful rescue from pit of sin meant never, ever looking back. Not if he heard his name cried out, not if he wanted to remember what the city looked like in the morning light, not if he realized he had forgotten a goodbye. Just turning his back and running toward a town he may have never seen before.

Lot was lovingly, mercifully spared, but being delivered from Sodom was not all smiles and warm feelings. He left behind family, lost everything he owned, and had to run into the unknown without so much as a glance back toward the place he called home.

This story flabbergasts me, because it is so familiar. How well I know the slow desensitization of sin. I know what it means to head out looking for good land, only to find myself scooting my tent closer and closer to sin, until before I know it, I’m living in the middle of it. As Beth Moore puts it, until I'm hanging up pictures on the walls of my pit.

I know of the prayers of faithful friends, and of the merciful ways the Lord chooses to lead me out even when I hesitate. And I know what it feels like to want to look back. How it feels to be sucking wind and running toward the unknown. How it feels to know it was sin, but want to remember what it looked like in the morning light. What if I forgot a goodbye?

In all of it, I am brought back to a verse from Hebrews I wrote about months ago: “If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return.”

May I learn more and more to take hold of the merciful hand that leads me out, and to trust him when he tells me to never, ever look back.

gotta love a blue-sky day in Breckenridge

Yesterday, I went on an outing to Breckenridge with some of my favorite amigas. There to celebrate Carrie's birthday, we took in the final day of the snow sculpting contest and walked around town. When Carrie and Jenny hit the trail for some cross country skiing, Abbie and I went to chill at a local coffee shop. We had a perfect seat by the window where the sun warmed our faces, and we drank chai listening to that sort of hippie coffee shop music that I imagine would be far more enjoyable in some sort of drug induced state. After a relaxing time of just resting and reading, we painted up the car windows with some birthday greetings, pciked up our fellow travelers, and drove home.

At the end of the day, I found myself reminded that I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, have some of the most incredible heart-friends around, and that we should pause a lot more often to celebrate them both!

what I'm saying is...

One of my goals for this year is to read Proverbs each month (made handy by the fact that there are 31 chapters). As with most wisdom literature, it is a little scattered; each chapter contains several different principles and challenges to digest. In the same chapter, we find both a command not to eat so much honey as to yak, and a dismal description of the pains of living with a nagging wife (25).

One of the most prevalent themes within Proverbs is that of right speech. Again and again, gossip is condemned, as are false witness and pointless flattery. The things that have challenged me most, however, have to do with words of encouragement, loving admonition, and apt replies. These are described as gold and silver, as sweet to the taste and refreshing to the soul. It's beautiful, really.

As I think about how we, as Christians, approach our speech, I see that we often define godly speech by what we don't say. We don't cuss, we avoid gossip and hurtful sarcasm, we try not to make too many crude jokes. These are all very important, each of them listed in Scripture as things to be avoided. Still, Proverbs has been challenging me on a new level. Perhaps we should not stop at what it is we shouldn't be saying, but be asking all the more how it is we should be using our words. Is it enough that our speech is clean, even if it is still a little fruitless and less than useful?

Ephesians 4:29 says this:
"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen."

My speech isn't usually all that unwholesome (though I make no claims to be angelic). But does it really benefit those who listen? Do I speak only what is helpful for building others up? These are important questions for the follower of Christ, and to take them seriously would involve much thought and intentionality. The Bible is pretty clear that the tongue is a powerful instrument, whether used for good or evil. We all know that the spoken word has the power to encourage and to destroy, to open eyes and to blind them, to guide and to lead astray. What an amazing witness we would become if we went beyond avoiding that which brings Christ disgrace, and strove to purposely foster that which brings him the greatest glory--learning to speak words of life. I want to be one who speaks a kind word to a hurting heart, a loving rebuke to a wandering friend, an apt reply to one seeking wisdom. I want to be one whose words are purposeful and rich with truth.

Are your words life-giving, or just acceptably clean? May it be that our speech is a noticeable part of our discipleship, and our conversation always full of the love of Christ.

engrave it upon my heart

One of the most challenging quotes I have heard in the last year, found in a coffee shop we stopped at on the way to the Grand Canyon:

"Engrave this upon my heart: There isn't anyone you couldn't love once you've heard their story."

-Mary Lou Kownacki, OSB (Order of St. Benedict...she's a monk)


...Credit also goes to Sister Kownacki for "most fun to say" last name of the week.

Early Church Fathers II

John Chrysostom (349-407)

As Bishop of Constantinople (though he was first a lawyer, then a monk turned preacher), John fearlessly spoke out against the injustices that had begun to overtake the church. Since the time of Constantine, who declared Christianity the official religion of the Roman empire in the early 4th century, large sectors of the church traded the simple, profound faith of common people for a national religion marked by pomp, politics and decadence. John, seeing the dangers this posed to the gospel, would have none of it.

Despite holding a position in the largest church in the empire, regularly preaching before the most powerful of political figures, John spoke boldly against the gross abuses in the church, particularly those which exploited and neglected the poor:

"How think you that you obey Christ's commandments, when you spend your time collecting interest, piling up loans, buying slaves like livestock, and merging business with business?...And that is not all. Upon all this you heap injustice, taking possession of lands and houses, and multiplying poverty and hunger."

"The gold bit on your horse, the gold circlet on the wrist of your slave, the gilding on your shoes, mean that you are robbing the orphan and starving the widow. When you have passed away, each passer-by who looks upon your great mansion will say, 'How many tears did it take to build that mansion; how many orphans were stripped; how many widows wronged; how many laborers deprived of their honest wages?' Even death itself will not deliver you from your accusers."

John's forthright words led him to several terms of exile (though the people always demanded he be returned to Constantinople), and brought about persecution, banishment, and torture for his friends and followers. Even in exile, he wrote against the actions of the Emperor (whose influence over the church was immense). John's death came on the journey to his final place of exile, when the soldiers escorting him pushed him beyond the limits of his failing health. Kneeling before the altar in a small roadside chapel, John's final sermon was this:

"In all things, glory to God. Amen."

Props go to John today, for using great influence and a gift for preaching to ruffle the feathers of the complacent, and to give a voice to those who would otherwise never be heard.


(For some more not-too-dense reading on early church history, check out Justo L. Gonzalez' "The Story of Christianity", Vol. 1.)

perspective for the academic

There are those who seek knowledge for the sake of knowledge;
that is curiosity.
There are those who seek knowledge to be known by others;
that is vanity.
There are those who seek knowledge in order to serve;
that is love.

Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153)

you're it

Alright, it happened to me, and now it's happening to you. If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged and get to answering these questions on your own blog!

1. What’s the most fun work you’ve ever done, and why?
Working at a home for troubled boys, and creating new ways to teach material to special ed kids, just because both are so darn rewarding.

2. Name one thing you did in the past that you no longer do but wish you did?
Dancing. I have no idea what has made me so hesitant now. Drawing and singing would be right up there, too.

3. Name one thing you’ve always wanted to do but keep putting it off?
Work on publishing some writing. There are so many more, but I'll spare you the lengthy list.

4. What two things would you most like to learn or be better at, and why?
I'd love to learn to play the guitar, simply because I am a lover of music and would enjoy being able to play at the drop of a hat. I'd like to improve on my knowledge of outdoor skills--all the cool things that open doors for even greater adventure.

5. If you could take a class/workshop/apprentice from anyone in the world living or dead, who would it be and what would you hope to learn?
For today, I'd want to sit at the feet of John Chrysostom, a monk, bishop, and preacher who lived in the 4th century. I'd want to learn what it means to live in simplicty and humility, yet speak out boldy against injustice.

6. What three words might your best friends or family use to describe you?
compassionate, authentic, adventurous

7. Now list two more words you wish described you…
disciplined, peaceful

8. What are your top three passions? (can be current or past, work, hobbies, or causes)
learning (writing is a outgrowth), the poor/overlooked/ashamed, and adventure

9. Write–and answer–one more question that YOU would ask someone.
What do you want your legacy to be?

Honesty and freedom, leading to deeper love and compassion. I want the church to be a little more authentic because I was there, and for the world to feel more accepted because I shared my own junk and learned to see people, not failures.

Early Church Fathers

Really cool church father for the day: Polycarp of Smyrna (69-155 A.D.)

Reasons I'm a fan:

1. His name is Polycarp. Believe it or not, that does not mean "many ugly fish". Still, it's just a great name.

2. Here's the real reason: Standing before a Roman official, Polycarp was commanded to acknowledge Caesar as lord and king, and to curse Christ. (This command was at the threat of being burned at the stake.) His reply was this: "For eighty-six years I have been the servant of Jesus Christ and he never did me any injury. How then can I blaspheme my King who saved me?"

Polycarp was matryred that day, but he left a legacy so profound that a seminary student 1,852 years later is giving him props on her blog.

why the middle of nowhere is better than point A to B

I actually like getting lost. I love detours. I am a fan of wrong turns and U-turns and it's my turn to decipher the map. I like it because life, to me, is all about good stories. And good stories are seldom found on smooth rides from point A to point B. Granted, good conversations can come about in those times--but really, why not get lost and have a longer talk?

It's not just about travel, though. It's about all of life's day to day occurrences. If we approach life without our expectations set in stone, without an obsessive need for efficiency and smooth sailing, the best things in life will often show up when circumstances go amiss. That place of not-quite-how-I-planned-it is where most of my best memories lie.

...Like the time Karen and I dropped Brent's football down a storm drain and had a serious adventure getting it back out (see earlier post).

Or when the plunger didn't quite work, and our bathroom flooded...

(we both agreed this was the best part of our week).

Or how about when Carrie and I took a bit of a wrong turn while biking in Moab, and got to discover what it's like to mountain bike at night, without head lamps (photo is as the sun sets on our farthest point from the trailhead)

Or perhaps the time when our nice little ride around a reservoir became a forever-long, frozen toed, "please just get me home" opportunity for laughter. Almost as good as starting out for a nice fall hike up Pikes Peak, only to face freezing winds, slow going, and a boarded up building at the summit.

The list goes on and on. The hospital visit in Argentina that brought together a less-than-united mission team. The wrong turn while backpacking that got us so lost we had to spend an extra night out in the wilderness. The attempt to clear out a drain in the sink using a clothes hanger, only to hear a little pop and watch water pour forth from the newly punctured pipe. The two hour "where are we?" drive that made us just late enough to be in the right place, at the right time to share the gospel with a troubled teen.

Things go wrong...a lot. When I have the wrong perspective, I complain...a lot. But I think God meant for us to enjoy the fumbles and foibles in life and in each other. Who knows? Abundant life just may be waiting for us one wrong turn off our nicely planned trip from A to B.

winter's wonderful side

As a little relief from a lot of text (enthralling though it may be), I offer some pics from a recent hike up Queens Canyon. Like so many places in Colorado, it finds unique beauty in each season. Though the hike itself was slicker than owl snot (as my friend Brent would say), the surroundings were well worth the time spent on timid steps and narrow misses.

Hmmm...I wonder, What does it means for our own lives if God shaped his creation to display unique beauties season by season?

God, culture, money, and me

I recently hit a little financial trouble. Any graduate student knows that such tight spots are bound to come. You buy the cheaper brands, eat a few too many microwaveable things, and try not to drive anywhere that requires a lot of gas. All of this is just in the hopes that your tiny number in the black will not turn into a huge number in the red before that loan check finally comes in.

Unfortunately, due to a mistake or two, my black turned into red. Big red. And that loan check? Nowhere in sight. Thankfully, I still have a solid supply of canned spinach, tuna, and instant grits.

Clearly though, the stress level has gone up a bit. To those around me, I'm sure it seems that I am worried about running out of food, or not having gas when I need to get somewhere, or staring at red when rent comes due. And though I do have some concern for those things, they really aren't the reason I feel stressed out. See, I have seen God come through for me in the most incredible ways when money has grown scarce. He has never let me down--not once. I don't expect that part of his faithfulness to change.

These financial straits don't make me worry about practical lack; rather, they stress me out because they leave me wondering if I am enough. Every bone in my culturally-conditioned body begins to ache with the weight of feeling as if I am failing to be "productive". Failing to provide for myself so I never have to accept charity--though many times undeserved gifts are exactly how God has chosen to provide. I don't take on the crazy schedule I see among some other students, balancing family and school and a full-time job. I don't do it because I know the importance of rest for my rather precarious health. I don't do it because there have been times when I have genuinely sensed God asking me not to seek a job for a season. I don't do it because it just looks miserable to me. And most of the time, I am ok with that.

Yet all of this flies in the face of my culture, the American dream and the worship of the almighty dollar. Concern for image creeps in, and I begin to wonder if I appear lazy or irresponsible to others. What do my friends think? Am I insane to be living my life the way I do? Then, as I allow the questions to swirl, the voice of God and the voice of culture lose their clear distiction. Is my culture disappointed in me, or is God himself wondering why I don't just put in some more work and earn my keep? Does my culture think it pathetic to accept the gift given when I am in need, or does God himself think I am a lazy freeloader?

Here is where I must again and again spend time listening to the Father, the kind of time that can clear out the clouded questions and plant my feet on truth. I write this blog on the beginning side of that process, still confused and feeling unsure of myself. But I know that, rather than wake up and worry about whether or not I'm enough, God wants me ask him all my questions and listen for his words of truth. Ultimately, it doesn't matter what my culture says or what those around me think. It matters that I have listened for His guidance and obeyed. Sometimes that will fit the mold of cultural normalcy; other times, it will be countercultural to the core. But in the end, he is my Master--not money.

The question is not, Am I enough? The question is, Am I listening? Am I allowing him to show me who he is, right in the middle of my big red mess? Only then will I be able to hear him tell me who it is I need to be in that place, too. Not a matter of being enough--just a matter of being His.

living in broad daylight

Over the last few months, I have been struck by how often the Bible speaks about light and dark. As believers, we are reminded that darkness was once our dwelling place, yet we are encouraged again and again to leave behind the "fruitless deeds of darkness" in order to "live as children of the light". However, John paints a pretty good picture of how the people of God often respond:

"This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God."
(John 3:19-21)

The writers of the New Testament knew well the temptation faced by every man and woman: to keep at least some part of our lives hidden in the dark, either because we are not ready to give something up, or because we fear shame. Many people feel like hiding is the easier, safest option, because it lets us avoid the messy process of changes and exposures and restoration. It doesn't require us to face ourselves and deal with what we see, nor does it demand that we risk allowing anyone else to really see us. It lets us control our image without actually lining our lives up to match that image (though we all know it will backfire somewhere down the line).

What I am beginning to realize is that we've got it completely backwards. Living in the dark--fearing exposure and clinging to things that will kill us--is a far more exhausting and complicated way to live. Choosing to face the temporary embrassment of allowing our lives to be exposed is followed by the incredible freedom that comes with having nothing to hide. This is the freedom for which Christ has set us free! (Galatians 5:1)

More and more, I find that I want nothing to do with the shame and struggle of clinging to the things of darkness, no matter how tantalizing and comforting they may look. Yes, I am quite attached to some of those things, and yes, there are some of them I would rather not bring out where the world can see them. But that life of hiding is no life at all. I want a life that I can live in broad daylight, unafraid of being "found out." Sure, I still squirm when I have to confess taking a dark detour or embracing one of the fruitless deeds I have been called to leave behind. That uncomfortable squirming, however, is worth knowing that any love and respect I recieve from those around me is based on the real me, not just the pleasant parts I choose to let them see. When sin tempts me into the shadows, stirring in me overpowering longings for its false answers, the joy of that freedom pulls me back into the light.

As John said, it is when we live in the light that the world can see God's power through our often messy lives. And if it's true that we can trust God to do good and powerful things in our lives, regardless of our struggles and weaknesses, then we have everything to offer, and absolutely nothing to hide. We are free to live our lives in the brightest light of day.


"Wake up, O sleeper,
rise from the dead,
and Christ will shine on you."
(Ephesians 5:14b)

the prophet's words, take 2: for a people

Sing, my people!
Shout your joy from the rooftops!
Let your hearts be glad!

I am relenting from my anger.
I myself am pushing back your enemies,
those instruments of punishment,
all who have made you tremble and grow weary.
I am among you, your king!
You do not need to fear;
No, never again will you need to be afraid.

I say to you, "Lift up your heads!"
I am with you,
a mighty warrior on your behalf.
You are my people, my delight.
Be at rest in my love for you,
hear the songs of joy I sing over you,
my people, my children.

The weight of your sorrow and mourning
will lift from your shoulders.
Vengeance is mine against those who have hurt you.
I am your defender; leave them to me.

Ah, my broken people, I will rescue you;
I will gather those scattered by fear.
In every place where you were put to shame,
I will restore you to honor,
and the world will know that I love you.
like a Father loves his children.
Yes, the whole world will see.

I promise this to you, my scattered people-
wait for me, and I will gather you to myself.
Yes, I will bring you home.


(for earlier post on this passage, see "the prophets words become my song")

deaf

To a prostitute, filthy and ashamed, who wept at his feet and poured out her perfume:

A proclamation of forgiveness in the presence of those who would condemn her, and a promise that her great love will be remembered through the ages. Then, "Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you; go in peace."

To a woman who had been bleeding for twelve long years, declared unclean and untouchable, rejected and isolated by her community:

A call to emerge from the crowd to be seen and restored. And then, "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering."

To an adulterous woman, judged by Mosaic law to be worthy of stoning, dragged into daylight and exposed in her sin:

A defense before those who would end her life in shame, and a reminder that her sin is no greater than any other. Then, "Neither do I condemn you. Go now, and leave your life of sin."

Thousands of years later, I stand before the same Jesus and wait for words of disappointment, disgust, and a resigned acceptance that is void of delight. Have I been listening to single word he said?

I pray today for ears that hear.

pity the man who stands alone

Temptation caught me off guard yesterday. Or rather, a reminder of a temptation which I fear my own vulnerability to. It was one of those almost-opportunities that makes you wonder what you might be capable of in the actual-opportunity. These are times when I am angry to see the things that appeal to me. These are times when I am discouraged that no amount of effort seems to take the struggle away. And sometimes, these are times when I feel afraid that there is no way I will make it through a lifetime's worth of almost and actual opportunities to bite the dust.

Thankfully, a dear friend and mentor called me not long after, saying, "Oh good, I can hear that you're already at the coffee shop. How 'bout I stop by in a little while?" She did, and we talked over coffee for an hour or so, chatting about several things, including my own recent frustration in all its ugliness. As usual, she expressed a not-so-shocked understanding that made me feel at ease.

As I walked back to my car after saying goodbye, my mind wandered back to that same temptation, and suddenly it held no appeal at all. Being in the presence of another Christ-follower, talking about the things of him, and sharing hearts with honesty, had momentarily made the lies look a little more like...well, lies.

I was reminded then of the importance of walking in community with the body of Christ. On my own, I really should fear the lifetime's worth of opportunities to sin, because I probably wouldn't make it. My strength comes with the choice to remain firmly rooted in relationships (even when I feel like running into hiding) that are full of the presence of God, to never cease being fully transparent with all my faults, to always grant those I love permission to speak truth into my life. I needed my friend yesterday, to step into my temptation and remind me of the something better that is the love of Jesus Christ.

We talk about it a lot, but I think we often forget just how much we really need one another. The truth of this become more and more clear to me as time goes on; if I attempt to do faith as a solo flight, I'm guaranteed to hit the ground.

"Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching." (Hebrews 10:23-25)

"If one falls down,
his friend can help him up.
But pity the man who falls
and has no one to help him up!"
(Ecclesiastes 4:10)

the prophet's words become my song

Sing, my daughter,
shout with joy like children do!
Play! Laugh! Dance!

Come out from your hiding,
from all your fearful cringing.
Open your eyes, look up!
I have taken away the hand
that was raised to strike you.
It's over now,
You're safe with me.

Don't hang your head, my daughter,
I am with you!
My strong arms will calm your trembling,
and my deep love will quiet you
until you can see the delight in my eyes,
and hear the songs I sing for you.

All the sorrows you have carried,
the weight of guilt,
the burdens that are all you have known-
I am lifting them from you shoulders;
Rise up, stretch, run without heaviness!
I have seen the wounds you've taken.
I will deal with those who crushed your spirit.
I saw it all, and I am for you.

Though you limp, I will call you to me.
I will gather every broken, scattered piece of you
and you will be whole.
Yes, my daughter,
I will bring you home.
Every place in your heart that has been ashamed
will know its worth.
I will lift up your head
and you will stand before the world as my precious prize.

I have good things for you, daughter,
gifts of love withheld from you by others.
I myself will lavish them on you now,
all your needs and longings will be restored to you,
restored before your very eyes.

This, my daughter, is your Father's promise to you.

(from Zephaniah 3:14-20)

It's when he's chasing after me

Someone asked me recently, "When do you sense that God really loves you? When do you believe it?" For a moment I was afraid I wasn't going to have an answer, because there are times when I have a hard time believing it at all. I didn't want to be exposed as the doubter I often am. It was only a moment later, however, when I smiled and knew my answer: "It's when he catches me off guard, when he sends me surprises. That's when I know he's chasing after me."

I've seen this pursuit a lot in the area of encouragement. Years ago, I made a sort of pact with him that, when most discouraged, I wouldn't try to find encouragment on my own. I wouldn't call everyone about my miseries and hope that they could fix my need. Rather, I would wait, and trust that God would initiate the process.

What an incredible journey it has been! I remember the time when he asked me not to write an email of discouragment to my friend, Amanda, and honored my waiting with a handwritten letter from her in the mail that day. Another time, as I chose to wait through my sadness, I received something like six phone calls from people just calling to say hi. Other times he seems not to provide encouragement, and it later becomes clear just how much I needed the time to sit with him, or to soak in a lesson to be learned.

Lately, however, he has been after my heart. For some reason, the last couple weeks have brought about several conversations about singleness. Sadly, I have let much of my desire for romance grow numb and cold over the last few years, moreso than I had even realized. What God knows, however, is that these conversations have heightened my awareness of the whole thing. And so he is chasing after me: comments about beauty I haven't heard in years, teasing about boys that is seldom risked with me, a hundred tiny awakenings. I have laughed to myself several times, shaking my head and saying to the Lord with a smile, "What are you up to?"

He wants my heart, that's what he's up to. He loves me, but he knows I won't quite believe it unless he sneaks up behind me with flowers or shows affection I cannot claim to have earned. That's when I know it--when I realize that, even on the days I don't chase him, my awesome God is chasing after me.

satan loves four-letter words

But I don't just mean the ones that most of your moms taught you not to say. I have written about one of them several times over the last few months: FEAR. Tonight I am reminded of another: QUIT. The enemy would be pleased as punch if we would all just quit.

My battles with self-esteem can complicate things for me relationally. I find myself haunted by a mild panic, and I often find myself stumbling around through a minefield of insecure comments and unneccesary apologies. It's not always this way, of course. But there are times when the fear of abandonment kicks in, I start acting like a weirdo, and it just spirals down from there. Often times, I can hear exasperation in the voice of a friend, and the self-loathing doubles. When I walk away, the enemy comes at me: "QUIT," he says. "Throw in the towel, give up the battle, surrender any visions of overcoming. QUIT. Save them the trouble of more exasperation. Hide away. You are always going to be too much work. You will never overcome the nervous comments and annoying insecurities. QUIT."

"You are beyond hope. QUIT."

I heard it loud and clear as I drove home tonight. And I was ever-so-tempted to say, "You know, you're right. I'm not worth the trouble. I give up." Oh, how he would have loved that! Why? Because he wouldn't have to be afraid of me anymore. That's right, I said "afraid of me". The enemy knows full well that if I fight for truth and continually let God bring beauty from my ashes, my life will be a spiritual force to be reckoned with. Satan fears me when I say, "I will not quit until I see every part of my life redeemed by him who loves to redeem, and restored by the one who loves to restore. I will not quit until I have allowed him to make me a blessing, because he and he alone is able to do so. I will not quit until I have seen that he can make all things, even me, beautiful in his time. Heck no, you filthy liar, I will not quit."

On nights like tonight, it takes everything in me not to throw the towel in. But I have been given a different four-letter word: HOPE. Hope that God really won't give up on me, and that he will delight to make masterpieces out of my messes. I know that this particular journey is going to continue to be a bumpy one for me. I am going to have to get up tomorrow morning and risk rejection and failure all over again. But I have hope that, if I let him, God will show me yet again that he does not give up on me.

When the people of God choose hope over fear and defeat, we are a force to be reckoned with indeed. When we let him be the redeemer he is, the God who is able to make all things new, then we make way in our lives for God to express himself in a ways we could never have imagined. His incredible power is made perfect in our weakness, and the world is changed.

Unless, of course, we quit.

homesick

I live in Babylon,
a land of riches.
I am presented with abundant fare,
amazing feasts,
only to find each mouthful laced with poison.
I am offered a million pleasures that turn out to be
the slowest kind of dying.
My captor feigns generosity,
appeases to quell rebellion,
all the while slaying
through a million toxic subtleties.

I cringe at times, to see myself
sample the hemlock from hunger,
reach for the pleasure from longing...
embrace captivity
because I know nothing of home.

I have never seen my country-
just postcards and letters.
I sit so many mornings, so many evenings,
staring out at the expanse that separates me from You,
watching until it seems that hope
disappears over the curve of the horizon,
the promises a million miles away.

You sent word once through a messenger:
"On that day, I will gather you..."*
Our captives returned,
our shame wiped away,
the land stretching out, vast and free, before us.
My heart open wide, whole and free before you.
But tonight I go to sleep again
in Babylon.
How long, my God,
until you bring us home?

I'll watch for you,
until you bring us home.


*Zephaniah 3:20