back to life for the holidays

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

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

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

{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'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the beauty of the Bells

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

"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

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

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

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


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