So many things, innumerable things

Today I am grateful for so many things.

I am feeling a little extra emotional this morning so I am sure that has something to do with it, but I did my usual web check this morning (email, Facebook, Sheena's blog--sheenachristine.blogspot.com, and then the usual round of blogs, most of which can be linked to from Sheena's blog) and feel blessed at the work women are doing all around me. Their honesty. Their strength. Their radical obedience in such a confusing world.

It makes me feel grateful for home-schooling. Not just that I was home-schooled, but that women are still standing up to society and demanding God's best for their family. I am grateful to my parents for fighting for my sisters and me in this same way; it didn't shelter me. It directed me. And I desperately need direction. Don't we all? I am grateful for the families who are honestly sharing their experiences and changing lives (and by that I mean the world) day by day.

Which brings me to my gratitude for those willing to be honest. My inner community has tightened and tightened over the years, slowly whittling away til just a few honest messy ones remain. Of this group I can count my husband. He is an honest one. A messy one. And I can now call him a friend in ways I was ignorant of friendship before. Even my career has slowly born itself out of my willingness to be honest and real with employers, leading me into great blessings. Honesty is not the comfortable, acceptable road to toll. It's embarrassing at times and rejected very often. Hardly ever is it directly understood. And I doubt embarrassed, rejected and misunderstood are the kind of markers most of us desire for our existence. But there is life in the truth. And unending blessing.

Grateful to the Lord for relentless pursuit. (This list is not a linear hierarchy, by the way, but rather each element relates and complements the other.) He doesn't allow mediocrity. Balance, but not blindness. He has done this in ways I have asked and in others where I was fully ignorant. From the food I eat to the marriage I hold to the doggies I "parent" to the aforementioned schooling I received. He receives my honesty and I feel I am in His inner circle--even in my true state. He pursues and transforms me in the good things and He does it in the painful. And today it makes me feel loved. And grateful.

So thanks. Thanks for the radical honest ones that God uses in my life. And really, this all stems from Him. So thank You. I am dyingly appreciative.

Thanks Mom

I hated being poor growing up. Poor, of course, being a relative term here in America. I was given two cars before I graduated college. That phrase alone describes, um, like maybe 3% of the world's population.

But I knew we were poor; we never had enough money to buy Windex. I would shamefully streak our windows with vinegar water and wipe them with newspaper. We were so poor we couldn't afford paper towels, either.

In fourth grade or so our school had an assembly about water. I think there was a guy in a water drop costume and he told us all how bad it is to waste water. I learned:

-To turn off the water while you brush your teeth. (This fact inspired me to run around the house as soon as I heard the sink faucet come on and then berate whichever family member happened to be brushing their teeth with shame for wasting our precious water resources. I was not very popular at home for quite some time largely in part due to this berating.)

-Not to flush dead bugs down the toilet. This was not a problem because my dad always took care of bugs, though I committed to staying vigilant nonetheless.

-That showers conserve much more water than baths. Short showers are the best. I think it took many years for the shame to wane enough to be able to actually relax in a bathtub.

Basically I took these environmental warnings very seriously. I think they partly used scare tactics with us and when you're talking to a first-born 9-year old perfectionist, scare tactics have the potential to rule your life. Which, as you can see from the teeth brushing description, they kind of did.

My mom was her own brand of hippy back then so I knew that she would appreciate my vigilance, but as I became a water conservation Nazi, she had to step in and put a stop to my juvenile extremism--besides, I was making all of my young friends feel very guilty about bath time. So she wisely calmed me down (actually I think she left a sink faucet running and said, "What? What are you going to do about it? The water will be recycled anyway. Get over it!") and I eventually mellowed.

Now, nearly 20 years later, I am working for a web-based environmental group (purely by accident, I assure you) called YourGuidetoGreen.com. And I am learning that my youthful vigilance was right on the money. My boss is very wise, though, and works to ensure that no guilt or stress is associated with a green lifestyle--something both my mom and I appreciate.

I am also learning that paper towels, Windex and other household cleaners are very, very bad for the environment.

Looking back, I am not sure if we really were that poor. Maybe my mom just knew how to make the green lifestyle transition pain-free long before anyone knew about being green. She is just that smart. And wise. And kind. And thoughtful. And I even think she watches how much water the family uses nowadays.

Ripe for Ruin

I don't know about you, but sometimes I am weary of the fight. I am weary of the struggle, the brokenness, the lack of "success." This morning I opened Hosea and read it. Seeking some help in understanding, I turned to google.

And it led me to this from Matthew Henry:

Hosea 5:8-15
"The destruction of impenitent sinners is not mere talk, to frighten them, it is a sentence which will not be recalled. And it is a mercy that we have timely warning given us, that we may flee from the wrath to come.

Compliance with the commandments of men, who thwart the commandments of God, ripens a people for ruin. The judgments of God are sometimes to a sinful people as a moth, and as rottenness, or as a worm; as these consume the clothes and the wood, so shall the judgments of God consume them.

Silently, they shall think themselves safe and thriving, but when they look into their state, shall find themselves wasting and decaying. Slowly, for the Lord gives them space to repent. Many a nation; as well as many a person, dies of a consumption. Gradually, God comes upon sinners with lesser judgments, to prevent greater, if they will be wise, and take warning.

When Israel and Judah found themselves in danger, they sought the protection of the Assyrians, but this only helped to make their wound the worse.

They would be forced to apply to God. He will bring them home to himself, by afflictions.

When men begin to complain more of their sins than of their afflictions, then there begins to be some hope of them; and when under the conviction of sin, and the corrections of the rod, we must seek the knowledge of God. Those who are led by severe trials to seek God earnestly and sincerely, will find him a present help and an effectual refuge; for with him is plenteous redemption for all who call upon him.

There is solid peace, and there only, where God is."

Weary, still I may be. But hopeful that this is bringing me closer to God. And this leads me to press on. Our ways and thoughts are never like His but His are right. And He is working to make our ways His--if we will only ask. In the midst of it all, may I never turn to my Assyria, but to my God. Be encouraged!

Aha! My creation is nearly finished!

I listen to NPR. I know, I know. I, along with all the other liberals, will soon be banished from Sunday school. But alas, I listen.

To be honest, I listen to Family Life Radio on the actual radio. NPR is reserved for podcasts. My all-time favorite--The Diane Rehm Show.

The first time I heard her voice I thought she was dying. I kind of thought it was a joke--no radio station would knowingly give a radio show--that is, an audio, voice-driven show--to someone who required two and a half minutes just to say "Good morning." But I kept tuning in because she did ask good questions and seemed to know her stuff. Plus her guests could not be more interesting.

Which brings me to today. A guest host was interviewing Thomas Hager. (Side note: I've noticed a lot of guest hosts over the years. At first I thought it was because she was perhaps in the hospital or such, but alas, she always returns. I really should try to learn more about her.) Hager wrote, and just released last month, his book, The Alchemy of Air: A Jewish Genius, A Doomed Tycoon, and the Discovery That Changed the Course of History. It's about the discovery (or should I say invention?) of synthetic nitrogen.

Turns out the world was coming to an end about a century ago. A British scientific group back in the 1890's warned the world that the food supply could not keep up with the population growth (see the ridiculous, though well-read, Thomas Malthus). A solution must be sought, they warned, or close to 2 billion people would starve to death. This solution, not surprisingly, would also prove to be very profitable.

As a result, scientists (and inventive people of all skill-sets, I am sure) began racing to develop synthetic nitrogen--the element most needed to grow the food necessary to feed the growing population. A German scientist, Fritz Haber, took home the prize. By developing and patenting the method of turning air into liquid nitrogen, Haber had single-handedly created the science necessary to solve world hunger, ensuring fame and profit for him and his German nation.

Haber partnered with a young Jewish man and they set up nitrogen factories immediately. A new set of Rockefellers were posed to take over the world, using Germany as their stage. With their manufactured scientific element for life, synthetic nitrogen, the future looked fearless.

Then World War I hit.

(While world hunger was apparently solved, the greed and pride of world leaders led to the death of 40 million people in the greatest war ever before seen on earth.)

And interestingly, it was this same German invention of synthetic nitrogen that propelled the German ammunition and in fact enabled Germany to fight in the last years of the war. Synthetic nitrogen not only the most popular way to grow mass quantities of food on soil that should be resting, it is also one the most powerful raw material for explosives in the world. Haber was awared the Nobel Prize in secret (the only time that happened in history) because of the rioting surrounding his very controversial discovery. Our efforts to help fix mother nature's "problem" didn't work out as well as had been hoped. But the story for us doesn't end there.

See, World War I then propelled World War II with its own list of atrocities that no man should have ever had to witness much less experience. Then the economic policies following World War II propelled consumerism spirituality (see http://www.storyofstuff.com/), which (along with a laundry list of other issues, e.g., prayer out of school, Roe v. Wade, etc.) has brought us to today: a confused, post-modern, hardly sustainable world.

Just this last summer, I was listening to NPR in the car while on vacation and sat up straight as I heard the radio announcer. He was describing our current global food crisis. Over a century after the Brits' warning, it seems the crisis was destined to find us. It isn't a food shortage this time, rather it's food costs, but still the irony can't go without being noted.

Here in America we struggle with obesity (Kudos, consumerism spirituality! We didn't need Jesus after all.) and cancer, while the rest of the world starves, unable to purchase and unwilling to distribute food to the masses. While they die for food, Americans are experiencing our own set of economic difficulties and struggling to fight the cancer that strikes harder in the U.S. than anywhere else in the world--a major health concern that can most definitely be traced back to the synthetic fertilizers.

Might it be time we stop trying to "fix" mother nature's "problems?" I have a sneaky suspicion that even our most profitable solutions can't fix a world that isn't broken (see Genesis 1). When will science get back to the basics? When will we take seriously our choices in light of the living God? I fear what we are sowing, knowing that even our soil is manufactured by the single most raw explosive material in the world. What are we doing to ourselves?

Call it what you will

Have I told you lately how much I love my name?

I don't feel even slightly vain for saying that. My name, though it bears much of my identity, has nothing to do with any of my effort or creativity. My name is purely a gift. And I've only truly begun to love it since I got married.

There's something about "Stephanie Starks." It has a ring to it. It rolls off of the tongue. I like it.

I was talking to a friend of mine and used her last name in reference to her household. The "Smith" household, I'll say for sake of example. And she looked at me in kind of a blank, confused way. I laughed it off and explained, "You know, because it's your house so it's your household."

But then she told me how since her parents divorced that name has meant nothing to her. She wouldn't recognize a household with her last name on it--it no longer exists.

I got to feel for a second how isolating that would be. Sure it has a flair of freedom and independence. But I like knowing that I have a household. That Rory and I, though without children, are a family, a household. A unit. A team.

My maiden name was all well and good. Stephanie Cary is just as nice--though it does seem to lack the tv anchor-person sing-songy tone that Stephanie Starks carries. And I love my family and where I came from.

But when I say Stephanie Starks or sign it on the back of checks, I get the distinct feeling that I am in the presence of something new with the power to create something bigger. I am on the verge of building a family, a legacy all my own. Well, all mine and Rory's, but you know what I mean. We are a family already, I am learning. But it's very powerful to be so bonded and united as to share a name and build a household from it.

Marriage is horrible. Ugly and awful and cruel and revealing and strengthening and true and sanctifying. (See all previous blogs.) But uniting and humbling and bonding and creating, and, well, I like that part. And I am glad it's with my new name--Starks.

So this new household we've made/are making will be nothing like anything before. It's all our own. And we get to make it whatever we like.

We may not have chosen our name or created our name but it's ours all the same. And it's nice to share something that sounds so pretty to the ear.

Thanks, Ror.

It's Easier to Hate Them

Isaiah 64: "Do not be angry beyond measure, O Lord, Neither remember iniquity forever"

I feel that way some times. About my own problems, that is. "Please don't remember that I lied. Please don't hold my selfishness against me. Please don't hate me forever."

But then when I meet other women who suffer because of the men in their lives, well, then I want God to be holy pissed off and burn their houses down. Burn 'em up! Destroy the mean horrible selfish b*******!

There's a girl I've had the pleasure of meeting and I recognized something special about her the day I met her. She's beautiful and kind, thoughtful and hard-working. She's inviting and non-judgmental and has everything in the world going for her. She has her degree and is well-traveled. And is working at a strip club. For about $100 a night. And sleeping with some of the guys she meets.

I can't make sense of it. I try to understand the mainstream attitude of strip clubs--it's just fun, the girls make good money, there's nothing wrong with it. I even hear the characters on one of my favorite tv sitcoms Friends talk about strip clubs fairly often. It's light-hearted and humorous banter. But I don't see any of the female stars working there. Why not? For all that isn't so bad about them, what's right with these "clubs"?

Rob Bell talks about the value of people in his book Sex God and how there is a part of every person who knows that harming another is inherently wrong. He says it's because we're made in the image of God.

So would that be enough for my friend? If she knew she was made in God's image (which she kind of already believes in a Hindu/yoga/goddess type way) would that be enough to keep her from dancing? And why does it bother me SO MUCH that she's working there?

That serial rapist/killer told James Dobson that pornography is what slowly hardened his heart so that he no longer saw women as people, but as objects.

And that's when it hits me: how much I detest men who refuse to acknowledge the inherent value in themselves. Because it must be a man who so loathes his own self that he would make women worthless.

So does Hugh Hefner despise himself? Hard to say. I think most of the porn kings do hate themselves. So what with these decent guys my friend finds at these clubs? She likes them and defends their honor even.

And for some reason this is why I hate her father. I don't know him. I don't even know if he's still living. And I regret saying hate, because I can't really hate someone who already hates himself--I have too much sorrow for him. But I am mad. Angry. A little bit seething.

And how did I, a girl with a very strained relationship with her own father, end up with a clear sense of some value above stripping? Is that the Jesus in me? Will Jesus help my friend, then? Will He please make her new and show her the inherent value and worth and beauty within because of her true Father?

I don't know why I think my sin is less evil than the porn kings. I want to say that there is something so inherently wrong with destroying another's value, that the demeaning of another, weaker vessel is past punishment. But then I think of how I devalue those I lie to. How I wounded my younger sisters when they were younger and weaker and looked up to me. How I may not be selling porn, but I sure as heck do my own part to scar and destroy others.

And so I agree with Isaiah. Good, kind, wise Isaiah. Please don't remember iniquity forever. Because if they have a chance, then so do I. And if I have a chance, then so does my friend. And I want more than anything for her to have a chance.

Truth...From a piece of flair?!

For those who don't know what flair is on facebook (and this is addressed primarily to my mom because every single other person I know is fully aware of facebook flair), flair is a cute, demographically-charged phrase for what I used to know as buttons. The little perfectly round buttons that clip onto backpacks and t-shirts that once served to signify support for an election candidate or something you stood for. I had one as a teenager:

"It's better to have loved and lost than to live with the psycho the rest of your life."

And that pretty much summed up my fear of relationships at the time.

But I was given a new piece of flair the other day from a friend and it summed up a new life position for me:

"Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the floor in the morning the devil says, "Aw crap. She's up."

I love the image that phrase creates. It's an image of strength and confidence. And also of battle.

I am not one to shy away from battle. It's in my nature and debate and conflict fit comfortably alongside. But I have had a hard time learning what is worth fighting for.

In the beginning it was politics. This came easy seeing as how I was raised in a conservative home-school environment where Republicans were the highest esteemed officials in the church--I mean, the world.

But as I grew older I realized I had a fatal liberal flaw; I could see both sides. Not to every issue, of course, but even abortion wasn't an easy decision to side on at first. And when I searched the issues I found that there was a lot more going on in the world than politics. There was life.

And life for majority of the world, well, life sucked. I learned about dictators in Africa and the caste system in India. Both resulted in unnecessary suffering--especially for children. I'd like to say that I wanted to help them by bringing them Christianity. But it wasn't necessarily spirituality that drove me to it. It was the urge to fight wrong deep within me. To save the helpless. To punish the evil. It was uncontrollable.

And then the Lord began a deep work within me. He began showing me where change first takes place. Initially I felt lasting change could only start from the home. And He's right. But now I realize that change can only begin within. It's me that's the problem, as I admire Donald Miller for poignantly stating in Blue Like Jazz.

But before I delve into self-loathing or my inner evil that I have been dissecting since high school, I have to share the positive side to being me. (And by that I mean the glimmer of me that was made in the image of God and is daily being perfected in Christ.) Whereas I used to shudder at my natural urge to argue and fight, my strong and defensive instinct, I have found some hope.

And it's in the unlikeliest of places, I assure you.

Proverbs 31.

Now I know that only the godliest of women in the church memorize and model their life after this chapter, but only recently was it explained to me.

The background: this chapter wasn't written for women. It was written from a mother to her son. It's her advice to him in what he should look for in a wife. Ok, interesting, but still something a good Christian wife should strive to be.

The "hidden" truth: virtuous doesn't mean what you think it means. Virtuous conjures up black and white images of an Emily Dickinson-style puritan wife who always keeps her head covered and pearls matching her heels, while joyfully preparing 5 breakfasts--one for each member of her household. This woman's husband doesn't have to die to himself; she's already done that herself for him.

The Hebrew here for virtuous is literally "warrior." An Israeli woman read the Hebrew in Proverbs 31 for virtuous wife as literally, "female soldier."

A soldier? Hmmm...I could get used to this kind of subservience.

So the question remains: what is worth fighting for? What is worth becoming a warrior, a soldier to? The truth as my instinct compels me to answer. And by truth I mean the person of Christ. And by that I mean my husband. And as he strives to love me as Christ does (and this is one dirty, messy roller coaster style of love), I turn my sword to his enemy: his flesh. For this I shall fight. I shall battle and defend.

And in my own way I hope to fight against the image Satan has conjured up of good wifery. The kind of puritan wanness that holds her thoughts to herself and God. Our husbands are to be as Christ and that means they get all of us. My thoughts are reserved for God and for that He gave me a husband to talk to. May we all pick our battles so wisely.

Into the wilderness

I had it all planned out.

Leave by 2:30, hit the 89A junction by 4:00 and watch God lead us with bright sunbeams to the exact camping spot He had saved for us.

Are you surprised to hear that we left at 7? 7pm. It's practically dark by then! And I had already started to feel like we shouldn't even go. For starters, I looked nothing like a camping girl with my rebellious hair and stupid clothes. My one friend goes camping and always looks much better in the pictures than I did standing before my mirror. Plus, the house was getting dirtier by the second and we didn't even know if we would find a camping spot.

Frustration rose as I convinced myself that it was a ridiculous idea. Find God in the wilderness? Whatever. How could I even know for sure that God had inspired this little camping extravaganza anyway?

My husband was this close to giving up himself. But he smiled--a real, genuine smile proving his ability to fight the good fight--and said he really wanted us to go and offered to help me. He did the dishes while I changed my clothes--seven times. And then by the time the sun went down, we were ready.

We made great time and everything but by the time we hit a little town about 30 minutes from our destination, we somehow got confused and drove the wrong way through the town--twice. My husband was smart enough to ask for directions (which was helpful because I hadn't even noticed that it was the second time we had seen the same art gallery) and found that we weren't far from our path. In fact, we had just misread one sign. We thought it said "ONE WAY," but didn't realize that it didn't apply to us. All we had to do was go back and turn right.

And that's kind of why we were on this road trip to begin with. We had started our life together headed in the right direction. Sure it wasn't exactly like we had planned (my clothes weren't quite right back then, either), but we went anyway. We trusted and we went. When it came to make some big decisions, we misread a sign and went around what felt much like the circle that winded through that little town.

We weren't so quick to stop and ask for directions back then, though. We got a decent ways off from our path. And true to the camping analogy, I hadn't even noticed til it was almost too late.

This trip was all about re-aligning ourselves. And wasn't perfect. And it was messy.

We searched and scoured for an open campsite that felt secluded and almost settled until we made a last-ditch attempt to find the perfect spot. And although there was no sunbeam or voice from heaven, we found campsite #1 and were shocked at our fortune. We set up camp in the dark (I am still laughing as I think about us boiling water for about an hour over the campfire) and then hit the sleeping bag before we could even get romantic. Morning was beautiful until the bees swarmed the honey we had left out and I had to hide in the car because of my allergy.

There were so many opportunities to throw in the towel. To cry and quit and just give up. But we had each other and trusted that God had us. And in the end, that's exactly what we needed to find in the wilderness. And looking back, that's exactly what we found.

Hate is such a strong word

There aren't many things I hate. But as an extremist, I tend to find myself in either passionate love or hate with most issues. And as I grow older, I find that I hate being a Christian.

Sure, Christianity gets a bad wrap (which probably has something to do with how Christians behave). And Christianity as a belief-system/religion means different things to different people. But that has nothing to do with my personal sentiment.

My personal sentiment comes from God's relentless intention to teach me empathy.

Quick vocab lesson: "sympathy" means to feel with someone else. It's a kind, goodhearted way to have compassion. "Empathy," however, means that you've been there. You feel for them because you know the feeling yourself.

I always sympathized with people in my life. It was the "Christian" thing to do.

But now I am experiencing something new: empathy.

Maybe it's just because I am getting older and experiencing more. But whatever the reason, it is a hard road to toll.

It all started when a close friend suffered a miscarriage. My heart broke for her (sympathy at its best). I did something dangerous, though, out of this sympathy; I asked God to help me understand what she was really going through.

Not more than a year later, I lost my own unborn baby. Same length of pregnancy, similar signs. I am not saying that God caused my miscarriage just to answer my prayer. I am just relaying the info. You can make your own judgment.

But then, I befriended a girl I had known for years but had never been close to. As she opened up, I learned that her husband had been struggling with fidelity. He wasn't out and out cheating on her, but he may as well have been. It destroyed her.

And the sympathy bug bit me again.

I can't recall any direct, specific requests of God with this one but in a matter of months, I found myself in the exact same situation with my husband. I discovered an "emotional affair" between him and a close friend of mine. Destroyed still describes my situation.

And in those two short experiences, I have decided that I hate being a Christian. I am tired of empathizing. After just two brief (though fully painful, let me assure you) experiences, I want out. I want it to stop. I want to cry, "Abba, Abba, why have you forsaken me?"

Christianity is all about being Jesus. And Jesus is all about feeling where WE'VE been. So the closer I get to Him, the more I have to feel. The more I have to suffer. Not in a victimizing way. In a broken, strength under control kind of way.

And it's official. I hate it.

The Puppet

I feel like a puppet today, posting words from another's heart and mind. But they speak so clear to me that it's all I have to say:

“What great gravity is this that drew my soul toward yours? What great force, that though I went falsely, went kicking, went disguising myself to earn your love, also disguised to earn your keeping, your resting, your staying, your will fleshed into mine, rasped by a slowly revealed truth, the barter of my soul, the soul that I fear, the soul that I loathe, the soul that: if you will love, I will love. I will redeem you, if you will redeem me? Is this our purpose, you and I together to pacify each other, to lead each other toward the lie that we are good, that we are noble, that we need not redemption, save the one that you and I invented of our own clay?

I am not scared of you, my love, I am scared of me.

I went looking, I wrote out a list, I drew and image, I bled a poem for you. You were pretty, and my friends believed that I was worthy of you. You were clever, but I was smarter, perhaps the only one smarter, the only one able to lead you. You see, love, I did not love you, I loved me. And you were only a tool that I used to fix myself, to fool myself, to redeem myself. And though I have taught you to lay your lily hand in mine, I walk alone, for I cannot talk to you, lest you talk it back to me, lest I believe that I am not worthy, not deserving, not redeemed,

I want desperately for you to be my friend. But you are not my friend; you have slid up warmly to the man I wanted to be, the man I pretended to be, and I was your Jesus and, you were mine. Should I show you who I am, we may crumble. I am not scared of you, my love, I am scared you me.

I want to be known and loved anyway. Can you do this? I trust by your easy breathing that you are human like me, that you are fallen like me, that you are lonely, like me. My love, do I know you? What is this great gravity that pulls us so painfully toward each other? Why do we not connect? Will we be forever fleshing this out? And how will we with words, narrow words, come into the knowing of each other? Is this God’s way of meriting grace, of teach us of the labyrinth of His love for us, teaching us, in degrees, that which he is sacrificing to join ourselves to Him? Or better yet, has He formed our being fractional so that we might conclude one great hope, plodding and sighing and breathing into one another in such a great push that we might break through into the known and being loved, only to cave into a greater perdition and fall down at His throne still begging for our acceptance? Begging for our completion?

We were fools to believe that we would redeem each other.

Were I some sleeping Adam, to wake and find you resting at my rib, to share these things that God has done, to walk you through the garden, to counsel your timid steps, your bewildered eye, you heart so slow to love, so careful to love, so sheepish that I stepped up my aim and became a man. Is this what God intended? That though He made you from my rib, it is you who is making me, humbling me, destroying me, and in so doing revealing Him.

Will we be in ashes before we are one?

What great gravity is this that drew my heart toward yours? What great force collapsed my
orbit, my lonesome state? What is this that wants in me the want in you? Don’t we go at each other with yielded eyes, with cumbered hands and feet, with clunky tongues? This deed is unattainable! We cannot know each other!

I am quitting this thing, but not what you think. I am not going away.

I will give you this, my love, and I will not bargain or barter any longer. I will love you, as sure as He has loved me. I will discover what I can discover and though you remain a mystery, save God’s own knowledge, what I disclose of you I will keep in the warmest chamber of my heart, the very chamber where God has stowed Himself in me. And I will do this to my death, and to death it may bring me.

I will love you like God, because of God, mighted by the power of God. I will stop expecting your love, demanding your love, trading for your love, gaming for your love. I will simply love. I am giving myself to you , and tomorrow I will do it again. I suppose the clock itself will wear thin its time before I am ended at this altar of dying and dying again.

God risked Himself on me. I will risk myself on you. And together, we will learn to love, and perhaps then and only then understand this gravity that drew Him, unto us."

Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz as excerpted from his play Polaroids

To Job or Not To Job

I am in the middle of a faith-walk. It's glorious. Glorious and uncertain. And right now it involves my job. I've already done the stepping out part and now is the patient part.

I really don't think that I am not patient. In other words, it's not the patience part that gets me. It's the uncertain part. I know that time will tell if my step is solid, but it's not time that I trust. It's God.

I trust that He is leading. He knows what He's doing. I am just following. So now that I am having to make some decisions, I have to act. But I am not sure what He's saying.

This is where I hear from a lot of people not to trust my emotions. He he he. That makes me laugh. Don't trust them? Then what do I trust? My thoughts? But my thoughts are a direct correlation to my emotions. My knowledge? My knowledge is filtered through my emotions. How can I possibly shut off the most beautiful avenue to knowing myself, my emotions?

No, I will spend more time exploring my emotions. I will dig deeper and listen. God talks to me all the time, non-stop, through my emotions. They are the voice of my spirit and God is spirit. So exploring my emotions is a great way to talk with the Lord.

If it sounds strange, read a Psalm. Had David ignored his emotions, we would have lost one of the most transparent, genuine, prophetic and poetic books of the Bible. David often struggled with decisions--often even the aftermath of a poor decision--and wrote about it with strong emotion. For now I am struggling with a decision about my job. And feeling some pretty strong emotions myself.

Berries and Gardens

A few things off the top of my head: strawberries don't last forever and nut grass can only be ignored for so long.

It's the end of summer and strawberries are everywhere! And I love 'em. But to get the organic (which is a must) you have to spend a decent penny and, like any budget-keeper, I always try to save anything that costs extra. So I saved my strawberries. I kept them in a nice container in the fridge and saved them. Not sure what for, but they were expensive and wonderful, so I had to stockpile them. I saved and saved and harbored and protected. And then when I went to savor, they had molded.

It's almost as if "things" don't last forever.

The worst part is that I had a chance to share the goodness with friends, but this sudden fear grabbed me: if I share, I can't enjoy! I know it's not true, but I just love those berries. As I threw out the molded ones, I realized that strawberries don't last forever.

I also saw this morning that some people think they don't have nut grass. A weed that can overtake a garden in days, nut grass is as evident as the day. Its tall green blades shoot straight up out of the soil and underneath the roots connect deep to one another, forming a long chain. It doesn't look unattractive, but does serious damage.

I worked in a guy's garden today and he warned all of us that he had lots of nut grass. In fact, I spent all of the morning pulling it up. But I realized that not all of us can be so bold as to confess our nut grass overgrowth.

Some of us would rather point our finger at the man who talks about his weeds. I can see the scoffers and boasters shaking their head and belittling the weed-filled garden.

You know, the same people who stockpile their strawberries from friends.

But it's the guy who works out the weeds, who admits it and pulls 'em up, whose garden grows. Us scoffers eventually have to face the nut grass. And by then it's practically killed everything.

A Midsummer Morning's Dream

I took the roundabout way to the coffee shop this morning. I have a lot of work to do so I fully intended to get there A-SAP, but for some reason I ended up making a few different turns. At any rate, I found myself stopped in front of one of my favorite dichotomies: the local private catholic college preparatory and Central High (the most ethnically diverse, police-patrolled school in town). The two schools sit right next door to each other. As I passed the preppy Catholic school, the turning lane was full with Suburbans, Lexuses, and other shiny, window-tinted autos. Just on the other side, the sidewalks were lined with "the other" kids. The turning lane into the public high was empty, though I spotted a Chevy Cavalier dropping off a student in the parking lot.

A young girl got out and a guy about her same age helped her with her backpack. I thought, "What nice friends. They must carpool." But as she turned to walk towards class, he grabbed her hand. She coyly smiled and let him draw her in. He held her. She buried her face in his chest. She turned again to go, but he held onto her hand making her giggle. For the length of the red light, they embraced each other--obviously dreading their parting. Which is when it occurred to me that he didn't attend school. Dressed in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, he didn't appear to be going to work either. When she finally left his arms and headed for class, he hopped into the passenger seat of the Chevy. Apparently, someone was taking him to drop her off.

As the Chevy drove away I realized how desperate they both were for love. Desperate. Watching the way he seemed to care for her, touch her, hold her, want her near him, I suddenly felt rage for her parents*. I was disturbed that it was a boyfriend who gave her so much attention. It was a boyfriend who figured out a way to get her to school. I wondered what this boyfriend did with his time and if he was someone worth her love. It didn't matter, though. He was the only one there working for it.

[*Side note: in ancient Hebrew there is no word for parents. It's either mother or father. So when I say parents, I am merely being politically correct. For I really mean to say father.]

Here's to moving

The sludge has fallen to just below my knees. It had crept up to my shoulders, really hindering my walking, but know it is more manageable and I feel it slipping even more. Hopefully it will be at my ankles and then gone altogether.

As I prayed about fear and brokenness in my life I had this vision or image of myself walking through sludge. I was not sludge. I was me. But it was as if I was walking along the floor of a swimming pool of sludge as high as my shoulders--maybe even above my head. I was moving--able to walk and press forward. But the sludge, the fear and brokennes, the imperfection and chaos of life around me, remained.

I began to find peace in the midst of the sludge. I wasn't fighting it. I wasn't a part of it. But it did surround me and it didn't stop me. The only one who could stop me was me.

The peace began to fully settle in me as I realized that I didn't have to move the sludge. I didn't have to fight it, remove it, fix it or destroy it. I just had to keep moving, looking to the author of finisher of my faith.

Have you ever felt like a stranger in your own world? I cannot kick the idea that everything in my life is abnormal. Different. Strange. Wrong. 

Granted, I make plenty of lifestyle decisions that set me apart (the way I eat, my education, the music I listen to, to some degree even the clothes I wear). I understand those things. 

I mean that my entire generation does not belong. We are the misfit coutures in centuries of real living. And I can't believe how it only took a generation before us to completely isolate our lifestyle from the world and yet set the glamorous standard of what is not real. Idolized we are hated. Isolated we are invaded. 

And either way, we do not belong. At least, I don't think I do. 

I think back to how centuries of people lived. Functioned, breathed, begat, and flourished. Looking back at the centuries and centuries before us, home entertainment existed in conversation and storytelling. Transportation was a huge venture. Hospitals served as merciful women alongside battles. Food could only be made--not purchased while running errands around town. Babies came from mothers. And slept on floors with families. 

For centuries and centuries, air was clean. Weather determined life. Washing took place rarely. And soap did not come in bars with lotions in bottles. Industry defined itself as your willingness to work or not. Public health included the presence or absence of sewage in the street. 

It probably sounds like I am reminiscing the good days. Harkening to a time of old-fashioned values and inherent purity, but I am not so fooled. Or reminiscent. Just surprised at how centuries and centuries of people lived life in one way and yet with one century (the life of a generation or two) we have revolutionalized it all. And claim to be the only way. The best way. The greatest way. Other countries are pitied, pooh-poohed and anything or anyone not in a car wearing denim and cotton that was born in a sanitary hospital in a metropolitan environment is weird. But it's us. 

In a few decades we have redefined life like never before. And though we have yet to see the results, we assert its superiority. I guess I just find that arrogant. And undoubtedly unwise. I look around at us in comparison to the centuries that already were and feel strange. We are strange. I don't want to be so arrogant to say that just because it is, or worse, just because it's ours, it is right. Such thinking is wrong. And I think that's why I feel so strange. 

Laying It All Down

My husband and I have had a rough week. I've felt an awful lot like a lunatic at times--losing my mind and my temper fairly regularly. I am surprised, though.

Through all the craziness and frustration, I have a deep, inner urge to love him, to care for him, to be with him, near him. But no matter how deep the urge something even stronger doth protest otherwise. And I simply cannot open myself up to him.

I have shared some deep feelings with him and need him to respond. He is overcome with the pride monster at the moment, though, and can only see himself and his needs.

He has no idea what he's missing out on. If he could only lay down his pride, his way and consider how I feel, I would be on him like white on rice (a favorite saying of his--he is 1/4 Asian after all). My true desire is to be near him. I want to take care of him. I want to be with him. I want to love him and be in love him.

And I wonder if that's how God feels.

I know that when I first heard about the life-altering raw food diet, it literally went against everything I felt was normal. It felt almost wrong and my immediate reaction was opposition. (Note it wasn't my "gut" reaction, rather some internal instinct that immediately brought on deep-rooted antagonism. This may be what the Bible refers to as "flesh." Interesting.)

I fought the raw food agenda with everything I had. I don't know why. I didn't pursue it. I didn't consider it. It was an otherwise totally illogical, misplaced hostility.

But the matter wouldn't fade. Raw food kept pestering me--rather God refused to give up on His plan for me, as corny as that sounds. And so finally when I couldn't ignore it or argue against it, I jumped headfirst into it. You know, one extreme to another.

And I found amazing rewards in laying my animosity down. It has been eight months and I can't believe how my life has improved.

I wonder what else my pride is determined to steal from me?

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are my ways your ways," declares the Lord.

Isaiah 55:8

The Big Guilt Just Set In--On my thighs, tush, under-side of my arms, etc.

I am a little out of the ordinary. I am what is called a raw foodist. I eat only raw fruits and vegetables.

But today I am finding myself a little more normal. I ate breakfast from McDonald's. In my car, no less.

It's true.

This whole week my husband and I have been frighteningly close to divorce and/or killing each other. And so this morning all I could think about was the Super Size king of fast food.

So I did it. I drove around trying to find a Micky-Dee's near my office and the sight of the golden arches from about a mile down the road actually brought me glee. I was freakin' thrilled.

As I pulled in, my Toyota Camry drove itself right up and threw the drive-thru. (I think it was in ecstatic disbelief just to be in the parking lot.)

The worst part is that I downed that sandwich before I even hit the traffic light at the corner.

And now, my pants don't fit. Ok, that's not true. But it's one thing to get the lunch you want and eat it, whatever that may be. It's an entirely different story to be eating out of emotional compulsion. In all my life I never really experienced shame from eating.

Today, though, as I licked the crumbs from the wrapper, guilt set in.

Who knows what I'll be eating in the future, but I will be sure from now on to eat only what I want, when I want it. I don't eat raw to "be good" or because it's the "right thing to do." I eat raw because I like it. I like preparing food that way and I like the quality of life. If I am going to eat fast food, then I want it to be for the same general reasons--because I want to!

That way if my tush does get larger, it will be from all the hydrogenated oils--but not guilt.

When the right thing is the wrong thing is the right thing

Doing the right thing doesn't always look the same. It isn't quite as clear cut as sharing crayons, being honest and using your turning signal.

For my mom about ten years ago she went against her gut and did what she concluded was the right thing. While our emotions are not necesarily something to trust cart blanche, going against your gut is rarely the right thing. But for my mom she was forced to choose between her mother and her step-father--a man who really saw and treated her as his own daughter. But in her mind, the right thing was to honor her mother so she severed her relationship with her step-father, the man I knew as my grandpa.

Grandma eventually remarried and my youngest sister knew this new man as her grandpa. I hated him, thinking of my "real" grandpa who I never saw anymore. (I don't think I ever knew why we didn't see him anymore, but I still felt loyal).

Last week, my uncle informed my mom that their stepdad, my "real" grandpa, was in the hospice, down to 65 pounds and on the verge of dying. He had developed Parkinsons and probably would not survive the week.

Guilt overran my mother. The pang that she had ignored refused to leave. We got the family together (my sisters, parents, etc.) and met at the hospice Father's Day to visit him for what we knew was the last time. My mom had been in bed all day--guilt-ridden and sad. When I saw my sister who also remembered this grandpa, the tears trickled down my face. She took my arm and a deep breath, smiled and said, "Be strong. Just be strong." She made a bright face, looked forward and we walked down the hall.

As the group of us made our way to his room, a whistle stopped us and we looked into the comfortably decorated visiting room to our right. There was Grandpa. Sitting in a wheelchair. Looking suspiciously over 65 pounds.

The facts didn't add up. But seeing him for the first time, brought us all to tears. I looked over at my strong sister and the tears were coming too fast for her to wipe away.

He was in a wheelchair. Gaunt but not dying. Suffering and unlikely to recover, but still very much alive.

We hugged him and greeted him one by one. When my mom got to him, he cried. He struggled to get the words out (the disease affects his speech as well as the tears), "It's been a long time." He complimented her on how good she looked. He kept staring at her. He loved her. In all my years, I never knew he had missed us. And I never could have imagined how much he loved my mother. I sat there in the room pondering why we had let so many years go by.

We made small talk and I introduced him to my husband (grandpa had not been invited to my wedding--a mistake I still cannot make out other than the fact that it would have ruined my grandmother's life), and in the middle of all the laughing and joking Grandpa looked up at my mom and told her, "You said you wanted your girls to have a grandmother. You knew they needed a grandmother. And looking at them now it looks like you made a good choice." He was crying as he forced his thoughts into words.

My mom took his hand, tears across her face, and told him she had been wrong. It wasn't the right decision. She had made a mistake. No doubt about it. Someone else said something about the past being the past or something like that and everyone moved on.

Nearly fifteen years of broken relationship healed up just like that.

My grandpa wasn't dying. He is not well, but he's not dying. My overly excitable uncle relayed the wrong information to us (165 pounds became 65 pounds in his mind). But I am so glad he did. I have my grandpa back and he has his family.

Not up to anything much, just pondering the meaning of life

I have to blog this one out. (To those of you brave enough to read on, I do apologize. The following is most likely going to be messy. And long.)

I think I need to call someone to talk this one out, but I have no one to call. Husband is working. Have to talk with him later. Mom is working. Again, later. Friends, well, I don't have any friends to talk about this kind of stuff with.

Today I am struggling with the meaning of life. And what money has to do with it.

Last night was a party. A great party for a great friend. It was in a beautiful, upper-middle class home. The attendees, alas, were also beautiful, upper-middle class people. It was a fairly shallow gathering. Small quantities of alcohol. BBQ-style food.

I also have other friends. Friends who are lower middle class. Touching on the definition of poor. They, of course, think I am rich. (I am not. I assure you.) I cannot figure out what makes these groups so different.

Is it money? Is it mentality? Education? Religion?

What makes one person poor and another rich?

What bothers me is how uncomfortable I am in the second friends' home. Is this just a result of my mentality? My upbringing? Or is there really something inherently different?

Both groups have single moms. Both groups have children. One group owns their home, another rents an apartment. Both wear decently nice clothes. (In fact I wouldn't be surprised if they both shopped at Target at times.) Both are rude at times and then generous at others. Both are insecure. Neither are more friendly than the other.

So what makes them different? Is it just the amount in their bank accounts?

I don't think so.

So which group would I rather be in? How then would I like to live?

When I think about the upper-middle class I think of security. Not financial. Not physical. Emotional. Money isolates. I won't need anybody else and I will be in control of my own life. Think about Escalades. They are big, self-sufficient, popular and impressive. They take up two parking spaces so no one damages their exterior. The people in the driver's seat always wear sunglasses. And if eyes are windows to the soul, they keep theirs locked and hidden from view. And this is attractive. Desirable. A worthy goal.

But is it really? Is this the meaning of life? To be hidden and locked away from view? Admired externally and removed internally?

Yes, I think so.

Life is messy. Uncomfortable. Painful. Ridiculous. Impossible. Frustrating. Uncontrollable.

Unless you're driving an Escalade.

Do Escalade drivers need less help than others? No. Are their relationships better? Not necessarily. (In fact, divorce may be more common in this group than most others.) Do their children love them more and respect them better? I don't think so.

Do they watch television less? Eat better? Okay, maybe. But again, not necessarily.

So what is so undesirable about poverty?

The mess. The vulnerability.

I don't want to sound like a communist here. I fully believe in competition and success. Working hard and earning rewards. And there are many people who drive Escalades simply because of this fact.

But for me, what would be my motivation to drive the Escalade?

Fear.

I don't want to be a mess. I don't want to be vulnerable. I am deathly afraid of failing. I want a sense of control. And pride. And accomplishment. These aren't inherently evil desires. But they do distort the truth.

I am not in control. While I have complete power to get in my car and drive anywhere or work for an education in any degree I choose, the outcome is not guaranteed. I can affect change and make things happen, but this is merely cause and effect. Not control.

I don't want to be poor because when you're poor, your toilet breaks and the landlord won't come to fix it for days. The air conditioning in your car goes out and it may not get fixed before the summer. If you accidentally run into the mailbox, the dent in your car will drive around with you everywhere, to be seen by everyone. This certainly isn't superior to driving around in the shiny SUV with your soul hidden away.

So then what? How then ought I to live?

Work hard. This is good. I can control my attitude and a hard-working one will only make me feel good about myself. If it ends up making riches, I ought to recognize that it isn't because of something special about me. This is humility. Recognize that my life is still hard. Relationships are still work. A day where the money runs out is always possible.

If my hard work only results in enough money to rent an apartment, also recognize that it isn't because of something special about me. This, too, is humility. Recognizing that my life is still hard won't be hard to do, but knowing that a future of wealth may await me would be hard to believe.

Most of us know that the ability to purchase everything we want, while certainly very nice, does not bring contentment. My generation is learning this, believe it or not. The day of Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, the Industrial Revolution, the Baby Boomers and the 80's and 90's have shown us so. Lives of celebrities today also make this painfully obvious.

But we have believed with all our heart that poverty is bad and wealth is good.

Why?

What about wealth is inherently godly and poverty insufferable? What about me feels better in the upper-middle class house than the apartment downtown? If money doesn't buy happiness, what about it is so desirable?

I can think only that it must be control--or, rather, a sense of control. And I am a control freak. Who is often ruled by fear.

I think I hear the engine of my shiny new Escalade revving outside. Where did I put those over-sized, steel-framed, UV-protected sunglasses???

Breathe deep everyone. Breathe deep.

I do yoga. Yes, I know it's nothing special anymore--you can do yoga at the corner gym these days for crying out loud--but it's been working for centuries for Hindus and it's sure working wonders on my thighs and my breathing.

My yoga teacher is set on teaching us to breathe. I didn't know I needed a lesson in it, though, until I started actually doing it her way. It's not so hard to breathe--you may be aware of this as your involuntary respiratory system forces your lungs in and out, in and out even now as you read this. But when you're in the midst of a tense yoga pose with arms stretching in pretzel-like twists and a bent leg wobbling to hold up against the pressure, my yoga teacher will command, "Breathe!" And I'll realize that I hadn't been. In fact, as soon as I try to inhale and exhale, I can't.

I hate to ruin the suspense, but I'm not dying or anything. I am breathing, just not in yogi breath. Yogi breath is deep and purposeful. It commands attention and control.

I rock yogi breath when I'm lying down or bringing my hands to heart-center. But when I'm in the midst of the pretzel twist suspiciously aware of my knee's threat to break off and run back to the good old days of watching tv from the couch, I do not breathe so easily.

I forced a deep inhale, though, the other day. It took all the strength I had, but I slowly and intently filled my lungs with oxygen and then pursed my lips and maintained a steady exhale.

You know what? My pose got stronger. My knee committed to sticking with me for a few more hours at least and my arms steadied themselves. My shoulders lifted up higher and I retained the pose. I felt yoga-ish.

Towards the end of the class, my instructor began work on my psyche. "What has master over you?" She asked. Is it greed? Sex? A desire to please others? Selfishness? She dug deeper and asked us to find what had been lording over us in place of the Lord.

I used my breath and began exploring my inner-being. I searched everywhere for the power that controlled my existence. (I would like to say that as a Christ-follower, Christ is the only ruling force in my life. That would be great, but untrue.)

So as I pondered and examined and sought after the Lord, one word finally and instantly satisfied my quest: fear. Fear is my master. I have been serving it faithfully since childhood and use every bad experience to instill its tenure further. It has been a comfort to me when I couldn't control my circumstances and an excuse when I preferred laziness.

I had hoped that it would be greed or gossip that controlled me--I can get those kinds of problems under control.

But fear isn't so neatly packaged. It's harder to recognize and almost impossible to live without. It has become, for me, like breathing.

I wonder what would happen in my life if, as in my pose, I took what strength I had and focused it on breathing correctly. Sure, I had been breathing all along as I wobbled and wiggled in my pose, but when I stepped outside my circumstances and took control of my breath, I replaced unsteady balancing with sure-footed strength. I replaced my body's mastery over me with my mastery over it.

Breathing deeply felt a little risky. I doubted I could manage it and I never even expected it would strengthen my pose and forever change my practice. In fact, I'm not sure why I even did it.

But my instructor suggested it and she's nice and kind and much better at yoga than me. So I guess I just trusted her and went with it.

"I tell you, my friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body and after that can do no more. But I will show you whom you should fear: Fear him who, after the killing of the body, has power to throw you into hell. Yes, I tell you, fear him. Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. " -Jesus