this just in...

Developments in a friend’s life can leave a person searching for the right sentiments. Am I supposed to be happy or sad, excited or nervous, honest or just superficial? If I know the person well, I’m as truthful as I can be which often matches his or her sentiments. When my friends hurt, I hurt and when they bounce off the walls, I’m a pinball with them.

Today I shared some exciting news with my friend Rosette from the Congo. I told her I was planning a trip to Africa next summer. She cried out with great joy and delight, but just as suddenly, her cries brought tears. I’ve only ever seen this transformation in the movies, and I think the actors were holding onions. Rosette held nothing back; she didn’t fake a countenance of pure elation. Instead, she internalized the news and what it meant to her. It meant that her home seemed even further away, only to be visited by those who could afford in every way with time, money, and the liberties of US citizenship to go across the ocean. Well, that put me in another frame of mind, praying a pipe-dream of a prayer that she could go see her home and family someday soon. With God anything is possible, but in that small apartment with laundry to fold and lunch to make, that dream didn’t seem all that realistic.

I’m grateful the Bible tells us to mourn with those who mourn and dance with those who dance. Sometimes, when I’m not in the mood I need to just act in obedience to what God asked me to do. Go alongside a person in whatever state he or she might be in at present. I seek to be genuine and honest with my emotions and responses to news, and hopefully where my sentiments fall short God will fill in the gap with his own comfort or confirmation of exaltation.

Beyond just comfort or a God-sized smile, though, I think the greatest gift is Jesus’ promise to be our peace. Both moments of sadness and joy can be coupled with fear and anxiety for what the future holds. Only through the peace of God can I faithfully step forward into the reality of new developments. His peace assures me that I have security and love in him; it’s not a peace from the world that might show happy faces but gossips behind the back. His peace assures me of my worth in his eyes and the value he holds in my friends, especially those who shout with cheer and cry all in one moment.

I'll get sick, too.

Rosette, my friend from Burundi, asked “Why do people not visit one another when they are sick? They like to say ‘Oh you are sick. I will get sick, too.’ And they stay away. It is not like that in my country.”

I paused to gather my thoughts and decide whether the honest answer would highlight a virtue of Americans or make us look as odd as my friend seemed to think we were. I clarified that the generalization that all Americans avoid sick friends might be a stretch, but that her observation was keen. I think “we, in general,” avoid the sick because
1) We’re AFRAID of getting sick.
2) We believe the only way the other person will get better is with rest, not an INTERRUPTION from a visitor.
3) We don’t like to feel HELPLESS.

All of these “reasons” are a bit irrational when analyzed deeply. Headaches and 5 day old flu aren’t usually contagious. As much as rest is beneficial, a happy heart can be an even better cure. And as humans, not just Americans, we will be helpless at some point in our lives. Typically, we like to put our best foot forward and hate seeing others or being seen by others when we’re less than our best. Therefore, it’s just easier for everyone involved to stay away until everyone is back to equal health status.

My explanation didn’t suit Rosette though. “But when we’re sick, that’s when we need others the most to be involved and be with us, not to hide.” We both agreed that assuming what the sick people need is not always the best practice since deep down a sick person will want a friend but probably doesn’t have the energy, humility or foresight to offer an invitation stating such desires.

I thought about this question a lot today. With each rerun in my head, I realized my own role in this cultural faux pax as she saw it. Even worse, I’m not exactly sure how to respond. In a situation when a person is sick for a couple days, a dash to the store for a Gatorade and get well card is easy. But a lifetime of sick also demands attention. Perhaps bedside monitoring is too much, especially for a person who just wants to sleep. But something must be done because
1) I can’t catch it.
2) Interrupting life is inevitable.
3) Feeling helpless is not helpful, but being hopeful is.

A fine balance lies in the relationship of those who are sick and those who are well. Establishing a workable balance might happen for a while, but something will tip the scales on one side or the other. The assumptions made about what maintains the balance will also keep the relationship from finding true equilibrium.

Rosette’s observation clued me into a possible cultural defect. But I believe with the right amount of effort and selflessness, it can be and is worth repairing.

If I Could Blink

Transitions aren’t my forte. In fact, when I first moved to Spokane from Casper, the idea that driving to the other edge of town took longer than 10 minutes floored me. I was late to so many meetings. Downtown was a foreign country as far as I was concerned. I figured an encyclopedia on tape wouldn’t be long enough for the ride. Since those first days “off the ranch” I’ve learned to deal with commuting, transitions and all the stop and go that is implied to driving.

Today, I read a report from Rwanda published in Sept. 2010 that stops all adoptions until the country has been accepted under the rules of the Hague Convention. This is a worthy goal and I’m yet again impressed by this African country which stole my heart when I visited in 2009. And yet, this process that safeguards both adoptees and adopters can take a year or more to implement! That means that all children not already in the “pipeline” for adoption will just have to wait. Of course, people can always try to adopt in non-Convention countries or independently, but that’s even more of a logistical nightmare, not to mention an uncertainty in finalizing the adoption both in the Rwanda and America.

So here I am thinking about transitions again. Kids who desperately need homes can’t drive any faster, nor can their country in its efforts of due diligence. At first I thought this was a waste of time for the kids because they shouldn’t have to wait this long. What will change in that time? But perhaps the orphanages will improve their efforts and programs to fall into compliance with the Convention which would make life for those waiting all the better. This time might be used to promote the country, focus on in-country adoptions, and/or raise awareness.

Still I want Rwanda to be there, now. I don’t want to stop for the light. I want them to have a free pass to “GO” and move forward in making adoptions possible again. If I could blink, I would see this time flash by, this transition as a mere breath in time. But I can’t nor can I make any other transition move that quickly. So instead, I’m thinking outside the box. How can this or any transition bring life and be good in and of itself while we wait? Sometimes I listen to the news, journal about the process, plug in my iPod. These days I’m just praying. A silent drive. A silent transition. An opportunity for earth-shattering growth.

Out of Words

My friend wrote a blog with the same title. I have had an interesting problem with this reality though not for the same reasons as hers. But I feel like if we’re both in this boat, we can share a title. I need all the help I can get!

This week has been spent wishing I had a dictionary to point out the thoughts, phrases or simple nouns that I wanted to convey to various people. At track practice I couldn’t spit out or remember (hard to say whether the mind or the tongue was the culprit) the name of any drill. Thankfully muscle memory rarely fails me. Perhaps I should learn sign language… All that said (or unsaid) I was left moving my body to model what I wanted and using the ever so descriptive words such as “the whatchee” or “you know, This.”
Me: the Pulitzer Prize NON-contender.

Later I ran into situations when I couldn’t properly convey my thoughts and feelings without potentially saying the wrong thing that might hurt. Likewise, when I finally did string words together at an important moment, they came out in an unfortunate and embarrassing way. With such circumstances, I could cry, hoping the tears would spell out something articulate.

I recalled a song by Ben Glover, entitled “26 letters” which explains the limitation that 26 letters has on expressing emotion, hopes, fears, dreams, requests, and simple thanks. This particular song speaks of these actions as they apply to God.

26 letters is all I got
To tell You how I feel about You
26 letters and you know I'm never ever
Gonna write the perfect paragraph
I try to express
with adjectives of thankfulness
But, I don't know if I can do it
With 26 letters

And like Ben, I’m not sure I can handle 26 letters. Not that more letters would be helpful, as I can’t even remember the currently approved combinations. But perhaps like Ben, I realized that that which needs to be said holds such great weight, mere words or letters can’t bear it. What words fully express the gratitude for “being you”? What words truly reveal the desire and need for forgiveness of friends and God? What words offer the ample praise, glory and love that my God deserves?

I won’t stop trying to find the words. I quite like utilizing a vocabulary beyond simple pronouns and body movements. And I also realize after this week that words are precious, missed when not had and discouraging when used poorly.

Full Moon Days

It’s hard to deny the power of a full moon. I’m not superstitious or even a fan of Twilight, but the last couple days have been weird. The moon was only half the battle, but it was also the most helpful and guiding presence throughout.

Monday night I had the pleasure of spending the evening with my sister, but the worst part is leaving. Not just because at 11pm I’m so cozy and ready for bed on the couch but more especially because I have a 30-minute drive ahead of me. I convinced myself that a sleepover wasn’t the best thing to do while I’m suppose to be house sitting on the other side of town so off I drove, in a ¾ awake stupor. My commute takes me through wheat and hay fields, gorgeous in the day and seemingly endless at night. As I drove my other senses took over. The smells of the hay and the embracing light and tide-forcing power of the moon brought me safely to my door.

As I drove home I began to think of Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem. I imagined them walking by light of the moon or the really bright star of God- I can’t remember if that was present on their walk or just after Jesus was born. Regardless, with a donkey and moonlight, they probably experienced a similar journey as I did. They knew they would find a stopping place, they new they were on the right road, but the journey seemed endless especially for Mary. I suspect when you’re pregnant all senses are heightened and so the smells, sounds, and feelings of that trek to Bethlehem would have been unforgettable even if she wasn’t in the prime of health, mentally or physically.

I had planned to write about this trip home once I walked in the door, but the bed called me. And the following 48 hours kept me in a ¾ awaken stupor. Things got done, I think, and great ideas were shared at work and with friends, I hope. But my senses were focused on something else completely. Maybe my body/mind/spirit needed healing from working out, or sleeping poorly, or reading a convicting book, or emotionally investing in people. My senses guided me, though, along with the moon that shone with intensity every night.

I’m not sure what to make of it all. I’m sure Mary had the same notion at times. “Um, Lord, are you sure about this? I’m on autopilot now just waiting for you to do another miracle. I’ll follow your light and try not to let the donkey’s breath make me nauseous.” So I live in the miracle of this day that seems so much more alive, clear and bright. I slept well and look forward to using the moon as a companion walking stick rather than a compulsory crutch.

no broken bones

When I was 11 years old remember distinctly wishing to break a leg. To break it for one day. I wanted to experience the pain, the crutches, the extra “get better soon” popsicles and ice cream and the test of maneuvering through school. As I had only had stitches once and no other major hospital visits, I desired the extreme. The extreme of senses and pain, emotion, challenge and in all honesty, attention. Now as a wise old woman (ha!) I realize everyday how lucky I am to be whole, at least with two unbroken legs.

Yet, as a wise old woman I still have childish fancies. I seek extremes in different areas of life. And like that of a broken leg, the extremes are those I’ve seen or heard about happening to other people. When I went to Africa, I so appreciated visiting the village and kind of wanted to stay there overnight. Never before had I been in a place or position of such humility and poverty. When my friend worked as a “sound gal” for a Tony Award winning Broadway musical, I wanted to experience the adrenaline rush of tech rehearsal, post show excitement and drinks, and the feeling of pure genius. And when my closest friends and family are sick or sad in a way that I can’t do anything but stand by, I instead want to feel the extremes of their pain and sorrow, if nothing else but to empathize with experiential clarity.

This thought process is probably the most unproductive wishing though, because not only would my life be completely altered by these circumstances, and not for just one day, but my role as I am meant to play (and am playing) would be lost. What good is a crippled friend to another crippled friend if they need to get somewhere? What good is another tech person when the show needs an amazed audience member? What good is extra heartache in comparison to the dry and waiting shoulder?

This life has offered me a great many opportunities to live out extremes of emotion, senses, excitement, desire, fear, and hope. I’m utterly grateful for these experiences and the ability to embrace them in their proper time. So as the weeks move beyond days of celebrations, heartache, suspension, limbo and the extremes that others knew, I’m praying that I can content myself with my wholeness as is. May I better grasp how that wholeness is a gift to connect me to others instead of the sign of empty empathy.

child muse

Five-year old approval goes a long way especially when it comes to stories. Who better than to nix an idea or give a short though all the same standing ovation for some literary genius? While I wish I could claim either of those titles, a literary or a genius, I do have some clever stories every once in awhile. And this afternoon proved to be a magical moment.

I’m an artist that needs a muse, a muse with a suggestion, however small or off the wall. Were you ever asked to draw something and sit stumped at what profound picture might grace the single page with which you have to create a masterpiece? Somehow a flower always comes to mind. (Tangent: If ever I tried to fall asleep as a kid, the image of the Wicked Witch of the West, rainbows and elephants came to my head. Once the witch flew over these latter pieces of my imagination, I would be out. So flowers seem somehow docile and obvious.) When it comes to stories, a similar block comes to my head. That was until I read a book that suggested inserting 2 things: human, mineral or otherwise. Pink and teacups or grass and telescope can start a myriad of great stories. (This suggestion to get suggestions is key to improv if ever you have to MC without a script…)

This afternoon my listener offered princess and dragon. While almost too easy I decided to put the dragon in the closet and take the princess to 3rd grade. Only my hero, Oliver, could make all things right, all the while sporting green converse sneakers.

I finished not to applause but to a smile. I guess that was a good enough prize; I wasn’t interrupted or booed off the stage, and the audience participated in key ways, even naming the auxiliary characters. What this five-year old doesn’t know is that she gave me a boost, actually a running start at one of my bucket list items: write a children’s book.

Now I just have to find an enamoring title and equally clever way to present the child’s tale to adults. Talk about a tough crowd! Maybe I should hand out beanies with spinners when I present my idea. Weee…

TRAINing the imagination

When did you last watch a train go by and wonder its contents? What did you picture inside each car? Who might be conducting such a long, winding, gargantuan snake of a vehicle down thin strips of metal?

These questions only came to me through a friend’s eyes that were seeing an American train up close and personal for the first time. Growing up in an area where trains passed through on a daily basis, the fascination of a train had escaped me many years ago. Plus I outgrew the Boxcar Children book series a while back. But my new Malawian friend peppered me with questions. And we came up with some great possibilities to the former questions.

The large boxcars concerned my friend. Really anything could be in there, she thought. And who’s to say why not? I told her all sorts of material such as coal (as energy products) and even animals travel in such cars. While riding her bike she so expertly started to jostle about as if the vibrations of the train were affecting her. In a shaky voice she said, “Can you imagine a poor cow on such a ride. Poor thing. Cows in Africa are never treated this way.” To that I could only reply with a chuckle and comeback question. “Do you mean to tell me your cows travel on couches, getting their hooves painted and drinking chai tea?” She laughed, “Of course.”

Many of the cars on the train were black barrels. When asked, I could only guess what was in them- natural gas, propane, or some other liquid/gaseous “energy” products. I’ve since learned that tanker cars (the proper name for the black barrels) coming through Spokane hold just such substances and are even proposed as training tools for haz. mat. specialists. Eek!
But another image popped into my head. They’re huge licorice treats. Giants use straws made from hallowed out trees to suck out the licoricey juice. Sometimes if the Giants are being naughty they’ll spit the juice like a spitball. This sticky mess actually finishes a lot of highway construction projects without using so much tar.

Finally the driver, aka conductor, came to our conversation. My friend thought it must be the most difficult of jobs, pull all of those cars and driving the winding trail. Indeed, it would be hard putting it that way. I thought the Flintstones had it rough, running in order for their cars to move, but pulling a train is too much. Then somehow the image of the car became tiny or the hand guiding it as if it were a toy train was giangumbous, and I marveled at the smooth movement of it all.

My friend helped me see the ordinary with a childlike imagination. Writing a children’s book is on my bucket list. Such a world as she helped foster offers fertile imaginary ground.

wonder of narration

I admit it. I have a guilty pleasure. It’s a book on tape. And this one is Harry Potter. Yeah, yeah. I know they’re for children or fantasy players or those with way too much time on their hands. Yippee for all of you! I’m going to join the club. I decided to reread/re-listen to the last book before the movie(s) come out.

What I didn’t realize is how captivating that book is despite it’s dark subjects and plots filled with conflict. Perhaps it was Jim Dale’s narration that kept me connected to my iPod without rest or the clever writing of J.K. Rowling. Either way, I was taken. And I wondered why, despite its similar stories of war and love, good verses evil, humble heroes rising to the top, why does the Bible not captivate me in the same way. I read the Old Testament that includes outrageous tales like David and Goliath or Gideon or the 3 brothers in the furnace. Their adventures and tales are no less “magical” and amazing as Harry thwarting a huge dragon or Dobby the house elf saving wizards. Likewise, the world of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic means as much to me as the land of Canaan or Mesopotamia. So apart from the date of publication, few major themes or literary pieces differ.

I wonder if I read Harry Potter as much as I read the Bible if my eyes would gloss over its pages too as is sometimes the case with my reading of the Bible. Similarly, if the Bible wrapped its stories up in a nice little bow at the end like HP does, I might get bored. But while grasping the clear cut message and sometimes even the character names of the Bible can be difficult, the fact that it’s a living document offers a gift that cannot be matched by any other book. In reading and rereading, messages, lessons, and insights dawn on me without the slightest provocation…in fact sometimes I’d rather keep the book shut to avoid the challenges or convictions the Bible might issue.

In the end I suspect that opening a book is the greatest challenge. If one is willing to read Harry Potter, he can’t help but be mesmerized. If one is willing to open the Bible, he can’t help but be thoroughly changed. Does the book’s cover matter or the collection of other readers? Would a better narration or translation suit a book more? Or do we as readers and believers of the Bible and good literature need to show the accessibility, validity and possibility that lies within the pages?

reunion part 2

I think I figured it out. I think I figured out, at least in part, why we as humans love reunions so much and why the church does too. I think I figured out why it’s a big red flag for me right now. (And I think and hope this all flows clearer than it does it my head!)

Reunions often relive the glory days or focus too much on the future. Think about it. Whether you’re with your family, at the 20-year high school reunion or just another Sunday at church, we like to check in and take score. What have you been doing? Where have you been going? And the best, do you remember when… Of course these questions certainly help rekindle relationships strained by distance or time, and they can be as innocent as any other. And if reunion goers aren’t reliving the glory days they’re thinking about the future. If only things were this way, or why did this bad thing happen or this unfair deal pass. For those at a church that’s struggling or in transition, Sunday mornings can be a place to grouse once again about how things need to change for whatever reason. For teenagers or college students at family reunions, the constant question about what’s next gets old.

What happened to today? What happened to living fully present in the moment? What happened to grieving when it’s time to grieve, celebrating when it’s time to celebrate, and embracing now for now?

This pseudo reunion/conference I’m attending right now seems to talk a lot about what the glory days looked like and the future when all the “young” people come to church. And for the present, many bemoan the current realities of declining numbers, misunderstanding, and lack of interest. Well what would happen if we lived out our passions and hope now rather than saving it for that glorious day in the future when everything is as we think it should be? What if parents and aunts and uncles asked, “What brings you joy now? How are you living out your talents today?” What if old classmates asked, “What is a bright spot in life? How create those moments and why are they so bright?”

Since reading the book Switch and trying to live with faith, which Hebrews says is BEING sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see, I can’t help but seek something more from our gatherings and conversations especially those with whom we’ve had history. Faith is a PRESENT tense action (BEING). Faith is not something that will be or was awesome at one point. It IS now and with that present faith we can face the present realities in our lives. Of course that doesn’t mean to use the past to give us instruction for decisions. Nor does it mean we’re to forget what Jesus sent before us to do Now and the Future. Faith simply allows us to use these other tenses as motivation for the work and play and life that must be done presently.

Reunions connect people with trust and the gift of that trust is the ability to move together, learn from each other, and be authentic. What a gift for today!

reunion part 1

Have you ever been to a family reunion of a family that wasn’t yours? I think weddings are a bit like that at times because the opposite party is inundated with new names, faces, and lots of history. Hopefully, my future husband will have a chance to meet most of my family, the key players at least including my most beautiful aunt, before getting the pop quiz of a life time.

However, I have experienced this phenomenon where no one is necessarily related.
It’s called church.

There’s a certain joy in entering a church a realizing that its people are well connected and loved by each other. There’s also a certain dread and awkwardness in being the new kid. Without wanting intending to newbies stick out like a sore thumb.
I’m attending a worship conference this week and just on the first day a gal mentioned how nice it was because it felt like a reunion. As a first time attendee, all I could do was smile. I’m sure that woman meant it in a nice way as if to say, “This is a great group and worth being a part of. Just wait, we’ll be calling you sister soon.” WOW…um thanks?

I’ve been trying to come up with solutions for both sides, a fix to the realities of these kinds of paradoxical events. Right at this moment, I have nothing profound. My eyes want to slam shut. But I’m hoping to come back to this thought after Day 2 of “Meet the Fam.”

use your words

Finger paints and popsicles are fun, but alligator tears are not. However, those are realities in the life of a two-year old. So I’m grateful now that I can say, “Use your words,” and the confusion of tears and random wandering is immediately made clear. Oh, is that all? No problem. And can I have a kiss with your blue popsicle lips, please?

I was reading at the bookstore this evening and a kid kept squawking. Squawking turned to long, annoying squeaks and then cries. Looking at my watch, I thought, Mom, go put your little one to bed. Really what child likes to shop for books especially past bedtime? But she continued to chat and the kid kept telling her, without so many words, GET ME OUT OF HERE!

Words make me smile, and while I’ll never win a Scrabble tourney or make it out of the first round of the Spelling Bee, I am utterly grateful we have a way to share all the interesting or weird rumblings in our heads.

But I’m also grateful that God hears whatever our heart says. Whether we have the energy and competence to speak a prayer or just enough life to groan one, God hears and understands us. I’ll use my words to praise Him and thank Him, especially for those times when all I can do is squawk or let the alligator tears fall.

do tell...

Ever hear a story that went beyond your comprehension? A story that was so opposite or implausible compared to your own that it seemed fiction despite the personal testimony?

I love those stories. I love telling those stories of my own outrageous experiences. But admittedly they are difficult to swallow. As a listener, it’s hard to put myself in the other person’s shoes completely. Depending on location and culture, I have a fairly good picture of the physical surroundings and the ways various circumstances such as rudimentary housing, abject poverty, and a palpable desire to survive, could affect a person’s thoughts and feelings. But in the end, there's just enough disconnect to be frustrating.

As the story teller, the vividness of the scenes, the intensity of all five senses and the burning smell of the synapses firing, trying to connect the dots of a new world, are all too much to articulate. It’s like a scientist doing hundreds of hours of research and having to sum it up in a ten-page article. While the results of the research or the successes and experiences of a trip or life circumstance seek the limelight, it’s all the rest that continues to marinate inside.

This thought comes to me tonight as I pray for a team from our church that will return tomorrow from a ten-day mission and cultural immersion in El Salvador. Our pastor has been good enough to blog throughout the trip. However, he repeatedly apologizes for being both too tired and unable to find all the words to articulate how and why the trip has impacted him and the team in a unique way.

Likewise, I had dinner tonight with a friend who lived in a refugee camp for most of her life. She recalled memories from her original home in Burundi and then relayed some images concerning the camp in Tanzania. I desperately desired to know with all five senses and in a heart and soul way what life was like, but my head barely clung to her tale.

From my own experience, it’s a gift to share about times and situations in our lives that profoundly shape us. And each time I return from other trip, look at pictures from an experience, or replay a scene in my head, I realize even more how important that sharing is. I look forward to the return of the El Salvador team, but I am even more excited to help them share, process and grasp the richness of their experience.

As a traveler, always longing to go again, and also a seeker of great moments, I encourage my readers to seek out friends, family and strangers and hear their stories. Most will deny they have such awesome tales to tell, but if honesty comes forth, profound experiences will bubble forth and bless both the listener and narrator.

hope a la mode

My housemate walked in the door this afternoon, dropped her bags and pulled out a bowl that she filled with frozen berries. She proceeded to make a full dinner with broccoli and all…oh and of course the berry crisp! Unless starvation has ensued, neither of us are that commandeering of the kitchen. But she had another mission. It wasn’t just dinner. Or food. Or a new recipe. It was a gift for her friends. Lately her friends have been dealing with the troubles and worries of a complicated pregnancy, one with a lot of questions and few reassuring answers. So my housemate made dinner for the couple and enjoyed a meal and time with them.

A friend from church emailed a bunch of ladies, looking for help. Another church member was undergoing emergency surgery. With boys at home, food had to be provided. So without hesitation, I made dinner for the family. An easy recipe made complete with a warm loaf of French bread was the offering I could deliver in the midst of this precarious time.

A family I love moves to Mississippi in about a month. The couple needed a chance to go out for a “unique” dinner and some time together before packing up their young daughter and heading south. So my sis and I gladly offered to babysit. I brought dinner for us all and then we played with Sesame Street finger puppets.

All these circumstances could have happier parts. My housemate could have gone over to celebrate a couple as they get ready for a new life in their midst. Instead, she just needed to be with them in this less than carefree moment in time. Likewise, surgery or moving don’t wrap me up in warm fuzzies. They are parts of life, kinda the gloomy parts, that have to be lived along with the rainbows and butterflies.

On my way home from babysitting, I thought of how Jesus ate dinner with people who had terrible diseases, women who were shunned from society, and friends who grieved. He could have and often did relieve these people of the heartaches of life, but actually promised to do more. He promised to share a meal, a dinner, with everyone; it was a meal that would help them remember him. This dinner also showed them how life, in all its circumstances, can be endured with perseverance and hope. As the Apostle Paul said, “Hope does not disappoint.”

I realized no amount of ice cream or cards or hugs or petitions to the people in charge can fix a circumstance. I’m good at doing those things. But Jesus didn’t want us to rely on such distractions. He wanted us to remember him because he gives life, and he gives peace unlike any that the world could give. He’s also helps us with perspective which I think is a huge part of persevering. Tomorrow is another day with new possibilities and no mistakes. And when the gloom recedes behind the sun, I’ll take that circumstance in stride, celebrating with a dinner and hope.

Questions

The past couple weeks have taught me a fair amount about questions. We’re all meant to know how to ask them, who to ask, how to ask, and certainly how to write that weird backwards S with a dot at the end of a question sentence. So why then is all of these tasks (save the last) so difficult to really answer?

Innocence?
A conversation I had today with a 5-year old I babysit ignited this train of thought. As we were getting her brothers ready to play in water outback, she asked about swimsuits. “Why do boys only wear shorts and girls wear a swimsuit that covers everything?” Oh the birds and the bees-do I get paid extra for this? ☺ I explained in 5-year old terms the reason and on we merrily went, happily running through the water in a moment’s time. Oh to have her innocence that frees to ask about any and all curiosities. That’s what I miss.

Vulnerability?
One thing that keeps me from asking good questions is the fear of being vulnerable. Oh the assumptions one could make from my question. Oh the inner-character I’m revealing from this inquiry. Oh, the possibility of rejection. Telling it straight is a fine art especially when it comes to relationships. Somehow expressing those thoughts and questions seems as difficult as climbing Mt. Everest, but rarely is anyone that cold to warrant such a fear.

Ignorance?
Sometimes we don’t know what we don’t know. I took a friend to small claims court last week and despite the frustration of the reason for being there, I tried to stay calm when talking to the clerk. But for the majority of us who never have to file a small claim with the County Clerk for such was the case with me, this “talking” us really a lot of staring, searching the clerk’s eyes for any hint of help. What do I need to know? How does this process work? Am I making a good decision? Have I crossed all my T’s and dotted the I’s? I thought of every conceivable question I could and my friend, a refugee from Africa, certainly had no better idea than me.

Insecurity?
Who am I to be here, doing this, with them? I don’t want other people to think I’m stupid, uncultured, or naïve. Early last fall I began work as a stagehand. I handled equipment that was both expensive and unique, making it all-around very valuable. At points I was assigned to do tasks that boggled my mind. You want me to do what, how, where, why? And those questions, though elementary, might have reduced risk of injury and a blown circuit. Yet, among my colleagues, whom I assumed were wise and rolling their eyes at incompetent rookies, I clammed up. I just watched with extra diligence and worked slowly (this is a common trait for rookies seen a mile away). But now, as a seasoned rookie, but very much still a rookie, I learned that part of what make my colleagues wise are their questions and mine to them. We keep each other sharp.

So I offer up a few general questions to contemplate. What question needs to be asked? What keeps you from asking? What can you do to overcome that obstacle?
If you were an animal, what would it be? (Not a general question, but fun don’t you think?)

Old Wisdom, New Ears

Today began the first of four mornings committed to “making athletes out of you.” We’re hosting the 2nd annual track camp at Whitworth. The high school students and coaches alike are relatively new to the Whitworth program and staff, and they’re in for a treat. Toby is funny- at least to the newbies (I was one of them once)- Travis is organized, the throws coaches are huge, and I’m just cute. I mean completely able and competent.
So we started the session with a few house keeping rules (ie “The bathrooms are to your right.”). Then Toby sought initial commitment by telling the athletes to close their eyes and asking them why they came. “Why did you show up and what do you want to take away?” These questions aren’t trick ones and they can be answered fairly simply. But these questions require the athletes to do more than show up. These questions require intentional investment.

Hold that thought…

Following the pep talk, I led the group of over 30 kids through a warm-up. For some, the warm-up might have been a good enough workout for the day but we carried on. I told them to keep their knees up, stay tall and encouraged them with the fact that anything they could do backwards they could do forwards. (Try it sometime.) We even did a set of Happy Jacks so round out the warm-up. Perhaps they weren’t the most applicable, but smiles are just as important to good performance as loose muscles.
Throughout my 30 minutes with the athletes and the following hour with my hurdle crew of 4, there were athletes who just took for granted that they could stand up straight and run much less “play track and field.” And yet, I cheered and critiqued them both in my head and verbally. First days set the stage.

We ended the morning with lots of abs. Lots = 8 minutes. Try it, 8 minutes is a long time. And then Toby gathered us all again to ask, “What did you learn? What will you take away? Now go write it down.”

It dawned on me that the attitudes we bring to life each day we wake up breathing another blessed breath should be checked by this question: What do you want to learn? What are you going to be intentional about? What are you going to take away? It’s easy to go through the motions, bring your knees up only so high, say your prayers only until you fall asleep, love your kids enough to keep them from crying. But we’re told to strive for perfection and commit. We’re told to love God with ALL our heart, strength and mind. We’re offered a choice to go big everyday. However, this choice does not come with an autopilot. Making a choice to love or pray or eat right or do great work requires an intentional investment. Some things we need to do with some automation such as breathing, but we can be intentional about deep breathing for relaxation or breathing hard during a work out.

So why did you show up today? What did you learn? How have you been intentional in your relationships, work, mind and soul?

Recommitting

I just woke up from a Sunday afternoon nap, but didn’t actually want to get up.

I have a few things on my "to do" list, many of which I would enjoy, but they seemed so daunting compared to my soft pillow.

And one such item on my list was to write.

Of course, that “to do” has failure scribbled all over it. It’s like when a little kid asks me to draw a picture. Where to start? What’s the subject? What color crayon?
But adding such a to do on the list was my first real intention at recommitting to my blog, to journaling, and to writing as a joyous hobby. I’ve looked over the number of entries for past months and realized I wrote because I thought there was something worthwhile to say. I was touring the USA with kids from Africa. I was teaching English and kissing giraffes in Kenya. I was running for ridiculous distances (ridiculous for a sprinter).

So here I am, Sunday afternoon, doing normal life, looking at my “to do” list, maybe eating lunch and realizing, writing doesn’t always need an exotic subject. A picture can be a simple pink flower.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t see the value to rehashing the mundane thoughts behind laundry- though I did read an interesting blog from a mom with nine kids who prays as she folds clothes, a prayer for the wearer. I do see real value, however, in putting down one word at a time. Making a switch to act rather than to sloth about.
Part of the gas fueling this ambitious engine is the book Switch by Dan Heath and Chip Heath. They write about the simple things that can change behaviors, attitudes, and realities. They have many profound and practical techniques that I’ve already begun to integrate into my work and personal life. (Perhaps I should dedicate this blog entry to them.) I highly recommend the book but in order for this thought to move off the screen and into action, I invite you to use a few of their suggestions:

1)On your list write: Look on Amazon.com for Switch.
2)Or Look in the telephone book for the library’s number to call and ask if they have it.
3)Better yet, find it on tape. The book’s already read for you. All you have to do is drive while the narrator reads. You’re half way done.

I love writing. I love reading. I love making dinner, working out, practicing music, emailing my friends, even brainstorming and executing projects for work. But sometimes it takes a little more enthusiasm and tactical trickery to get my elephant of motivation working.

Another one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, puts it like this. Her brother had a report due on the many species of birds in his home state. As any good teenage student would, he left it for the last minute. Stressed out and only slightly motivated, he sought advise (more in the form of HELP ME, DO THIS!) from his father. The father simply said, “Son, you’re just going to have to go bird by bird.”

I plan to modify my "to do" lists slightly. Say one prayer for someone you know in the world. Stop for 5 minutes and think. Put on your running shoes and go out the door. Pour yourself a half a glass of water. And now another. Write one sentence about what you see out your window. These aren't profound. They're not even interesting. But they're a start, one step in many miles.

his enduring way

Ernest Shackleton gave his life to the exploration, to the craft and most significantly to his men. This Antarctic explorer from the early 20th century led various adventures to the frozen continent, only to be faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles. And yet throughout it all, his responsibility to his crew drove him to every extreme that earned him great respect, loyalty and deep devotion.
I finished a book about his leadership called Shackleton’s Way. It’s an incredible collection of stories summarized the key elements of his leadership style and skills. I highly recommend it.

As I read the tale and reflected on many of my own actions as a leader or follower but certainly as one who could learn a few life lessons from this great man. One of his qualities that I admire and can relate to is his dedication to his people. From the first to the last moments of a treacherous expedition, his devotion to his people and sincere desire to see them safe and happy at all times gave him the motivation to stay alive and push forward. Those tasks may seem simple, it meant not sleeping for days on end, trekking up and down cliffs for 36 hours straight, and sacrificing and replacing any complaint to an optimistic and encouraging word. In order to keep this countenance he relied a great deal on his faith and on the words of poets and great writers such as Dickens, Shakespeare and Robert Browning. The authors commented that rather than focus on the annoying/aggravating/debilitating issues facing him, he would instead focus his attention on big ideas such as life, love, camaraderie and choice.

This notion both convicted me and inspired me. How often I seek consolation from a willing ear to hear a silly grievance or internally brood over something I deem as a slight or worse? And yet, I have so much to be thankful for. I have been blessed so much. And with most of these simple aggravations of mine, they will pass and be forgotten.

Shackleton sought companionship, honesty, and laughter. He gave out these qualities from his natural personality, his sense of responsibility and joy. May we continue to grow in our ability to give abundantly, request with fairness, and leave the past mistakes behind.

one faithful step at a time

I found about 33 cents on my run today.
How can you find ABOUT 33 cents, you ask?
Well the uncertainty comes from the exchange rate. See, I didn’t just find 3 dimes and 3 pennies or a quarter and change. I found cans. Aluminum cans. 27 of them. And at the current price of aluminum, that’s about 33 cents.
And why pick them up for such measly money?
Because my sister and I are fundraising. And each pop can goes toward funding education for children in Africa. A day in school can be mere cents.

But this story isn’t really about the price of metals or making money. My run today was a clear reminder that God will work in AMAZING ways if we just let him.

Over the past couple days, I’ve been running the same trail/street route near my house. The road goes deep down into an industrial area and undeveloped land. Alas, trash is thrown about with little care of who will see it or who might clean up the littered area. Along this route, I typically see beer bottles, water bottles, pop cans, and a random shoe. The last two times I’ve run, I’ve seen a pop can both on my way out and on my way back in. The first day I almost stopped, and then feeling guilty that I didn’t, I thought about turning around. But then my legs got the better of me and raced forward. The next time I saw one, I wasn’t in the mood. What was one lousy can? I’ll ask friends to start collecting them (which I haven’t), and I gather them at school (which I hadn’t). Mass collection seemed so much more appealing, productive, and well, not quite as inconvenient and dirty as jogging along with an empty can.

Today I ran the other way. (Note: Sometimes running the opposite direction on a course gives you perspective.) So about half way through I saw a can. A beer can. A fat, unsquished, shiny beer can. And I passed it. Suddenly, I turned around and smashed it and picked it up. That’s not a victory or worth writing home about but that’s what happened. I wasn’t quite sure how I would run with this crunched up metal in my hand especially as I felt a little self-conscious of its original contents. I continued to run and came upon another one. Perfect- one for each hand-I’ll be balanced. Then across the street, a shiny object caught my eye. I veered for it and thus had 3 cans. At this point I realized I wouldn’t be quitting my hunt anytime soon so I expanded my search for a bag and there it was, right next to another can. On it went. I would find a fat can, smash it, and put it in the ever growing plastic sack. I even ran across the Mt. Dew can I had ignored a few days before. I deviated from the path toward the metal objects, grabbing them from the easy road side and ducking in behind bushes. Sometimes the can spewed remaining contents on my legs and shoes, but that seemed to be all part of the fun. Seven minutes after my typical time, I returned home to count my earnings. It was loaves and fishes.

The reward for the day was pretty cool, totally unexpected, and way beyond a cardiovascular workout. I trained for life. First, I took a faithful step. That first beer can on the road was a wake up call that I could make a difference. The first can of the day also reminded me that if we take care of the little things, God will give us even greater responsibilities. I didn’t just have one can by the end but more than 2 12-packs.

When I picked up the first can, I showed God I was in. Big or small, I was in. So he gave me more. And then he gave me the tools I needed to succeed in his plan. He gave me a sack. I could not have gathered 27 cans. At 4 I was sort of doofish looking as I ran with dripping containers. Thankfully, I was willing so God made me able.

About 7 cans in I realized my run was sort of over. Over in the sense of I’m going running, period. The agenda had changed though I still got to workout. In fact, because cans were all over the place I probably ran further than I had originally intended. God does that a lot when we allow him to use us. Sometimes the path will be familiar but more oft than not, he leads us to unexpected places, letting us mature even more.

For the last month Jami and I have been collecting cans, randomly, with a system, or when it worked for me. I hadn’t made much effort apart from gathering my own used cans and those of a few friends when I remembered. Last night, however, I saw how much she had collected from friends, people she’s talked to and her intentional collection sites. She has over 5 garbage sacks full. I don’t feel the need to compete with her, but I do feel the need to pull my weight. More than that, we have to take ownership of whatever God has called us to do. Just because Jami was raking in the aluminum didn’t mean she was being faithful for me. She was doing what she had committed to do. I was trying to jump on her bandwagon. But that’s not how faith works. I have to commit personally. Just because my parents went to church and have a love for Jesus doesn’t mean that belief is passed by association. Just because my dad is ridiculously smart doesn’t mean I can ride on his coattails and achieve success without effort. Just because my great uncle threw the javelin in college didn't mean I could skip practice.

Being faithful takes a step, takes risk and deviation from our plans, and takes trust that God will provide the skills and tools we need. But in the end, faith has to be personal. Claim it and go with it and watch how God uses that faith.

Sleeping Diagonally

Until about 67 days ago, I slept with sheets and blankets, utilizing a 3 ft. diameter of mattress space despite its great width and refusing to move at all during the night so making my bed in the morning wasn’t a mammoth effort of un-wrestling various layers into a neat order. Some say I should just leave the bed unmade and to you I ask, how do you sleep at night? But that’s another topic. Now I sleep with a down comforter. The unspoken comfort of my friend’s bed convinced me that one perfect layer is better than several marginal ones all hoping in their own wrinkled way to provide that perfect sleep. It wasn’t happening. And now that I sleep in a bed bigger than a matchbox, I even sleep diagonally. I’m free. Oh the liberty.

Ok- WARNING-the next thought is a leap but go with me.

Jesus started out in the world in swaddling clothes. Can you imagine how restrictive that would be? Poor kid has been born the Son of God, but his mother still wraps him like a burrito. Give the kid a break. (Editorial note- I get the burrito thing…it’s still a funny image.) Jesus obviously figured out how to move his arms, walk and talk. But think then about God becoming human. Talk about constraint. Jesus had to learn to roller skate by falling down, to avoid eating hot things by burning his tongue, and to build up the courage to ask a girl to dance. That’s a lot of humanness to require of someone who can move mountains. But Jesus grew into his skin. He found ways to live, work, pray, play, and be free of most bindings or limitations we humans often put on ourselves.

How? God had set him free of petty struggle and instead gave him power to live a life of loving God his Father and loving people. It was if God has said, “You can sleep diagonally in your bed."

For the last week I’ve been reading Ephesians 1 over and over in different translations. Apostle Paul so encouragingly reminds us that God loves us no less than he did Jesus. We’re on his fridge, too. We’re in the will. And with that love comes power. The same power God gave Jesus, he gave us. Think about that. That’s INCREDIBLE! What would happen if we took full advantage of that power as Jesus did? Perhaps our relationships would be deeper, our prayers longer and more honest, our complaints fewer and shorter. Through belief in Jesus and God’s love, we’re no longer constrained to sleep rigidly or live in swaddling clothes. We’re free to stretch out. We are free to grow up and into all that God has planned us for as his powerful and energized children.

semi day off

Today was my semi day off. Semi because I still had school, a meeting and homework, day off because I went to the mountains to read, write, pray and think. Somehow the “semi” parts seem to take over my schedule but this afternoon I kept them at bay.

I started listening to a book on tape of one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott. I haven’t read her work lately, but hearing her voice again as I drove took me back to my afternoons spent in Border’s when I had one precious day to rest when I toured with the choir. Anne has a humor and honesty that helps me see my own life in a similar light and realize, I can love myself despite my flyaway hair, manic desire to accomplish and inconsistent forgetfulness. She talks about her big thighs as her aunties, always there, giving her a little flare and reassurance that she beautiful because of them.

So today in the off part, I sat by the river on the mountain, reflecting on the past 10 days. They have truly been some of the craziest, most intense, jam-packed I’ve felt in a long time. Holy Week was a breeze in comparison. And yet, each item brought me joy (minus the lack of sleep) and I got to spend most of those moments with people I truly cherish. Yet, as I reflected, I teared up out of joy and loss and wishing. Wishing to be better, live even more fully; give of myself out of authentic love. On top of that, when I stood up I brushed off my shorts only o get stuck near that really boney part my dad always complained about when I sat on his lap as a kid. At first, I pegged gum as the culprit, resolving to find some ice and mend the situation. But after feeling it with my hand, I realized not only was my hand eternally sticky but the stick had reached skin on the other side of pants, etc. It was time for a run.

Runs are therapeutic for me and today was no different. The highlight of the day: touching my nose to my knee as I stretched. My flexibility has gone to pot lately, but as I bent over, I pleasantly surprised myself, pain free. As I began to leave I remembered my plans for the evening- I was meant to meet people right after I ran. I had planned to wear the now sapped shorts and I was still laden with perspiration. So here I was, go sweaty or sticky. Or both. I decided to listen to the Anne inside my head and say, go as you are. So I put on a clean black shirt that is another shade from my black shorts, shake out my sweaty hair and go. I knew my friend wouldn’t care. She wears hunter green and Kelly green together and says they match. “They’re green.” And so they are; how perfect.

cage-less rage

Books have a way of working me over. Pulling me in, then taking a firm grip and flinging me into the world beyond my own. Beyond my own in place, time, environment, and emotion. And yet when I leave the book on the nightstand or in my CD player with which I was listening to it, the emotion remains. Sometimes the emotions are fleeting dreams of a feeling I can’t have. Mr. Darcy is not yet insulting me while all the while loving me intensely. Usually, I run a line over and over in my head in order to fully grasp its meaning to the character and to me. But the emotions that capture me, bind me, and hold me hostage are those that well up from beyond the page. Something deep inside me bubbles with the intensity that a simple paragraph ignited. In my current state, I’m not sure of the other feelings I have experienced with such intensity, but I know for certain rage fills me now.

The rage is at a world that was, is and seems to be for a good long while. The rage is at me, who can’t stop it, hide from it, or care deeply enough for it. And the rage is at those who have never felt this same rage due to indifference. The story about a wife living on nothing but a bit of starch seasoned with dirt in Africa while her children’s bellies bloat and her husband rots in jail for being considered a traitor despite all loyalty to the true country leave me in deep anguish, despair and unbelief. This novel speaks more truth than I can bear.

I have moments when I see myself in Africa, living among the mango trees and tireless mothers and kids running around. Such a life seems perfectly normal to me, as much as living back in Wyoming would be. Somehow I dream that in being there, the realities that make it unique yet destitute would melt away under the tropical sun. Or at least they would blur and grow shady. Yet, in hearing this character’s anguish, I can’t help but think that too could be me. Just as the young woman of the pages, I am a white American that knows too much to be able to turn a blind eye and are therefore left to rage, long for what seems impossible, and in the end, try simply to survive. “And I do what I can. What I have to do, I can’t-wait.”

It’s been hours since I last opened the book but the sensation of rage still flutters in my brain, nerves and heart. Maybe that’s what I really need to watch out for- the ideas that stir up these emotions inside. But just like the harsh realities of the world, I can’t and shouldn’t hide from these feelings or the literature that arouses them. Instead, I need to be just as intentional about remembering that rage might not be caged, but it can be used purposely in conjunction of hope. In the end, I am an eternal optimist, though world circumstances sometimes jade me. So why I fume and bear teeth right now, I long to focus and calm the rage with hope. Hope of reconciliation. Hope of shalom. Hope of sharing the burden until we all bear it equally or not at all.

- These thoughts come after a long time reading Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. I’m near the end of the book, which saddens me. It was a captivating read and one that has allowed me to mingle and think and feel with several unique yet oddly familiar characters.

I learned it in Mom's kitchen

Freshly canned peaches accompanied breakfast of cheerios and yogurt. A box of Jiffy Raspberry Muffins stared down at me while grocery shopping. I peeled and cut carrots as I remembered them prepared. And a small cup of vanilla pudding topped of my dinner.

I don’t know if the pending Mother’s Day is channeling my thoughts and actions, but as I reflect about my day I can’t help noticing how my default patterns came from my mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. Granny June had a particular way of preparing her canned peaches that let me taste a bit of heaven with every bite. Perhaps it was just the right amount of sugar, but I think it was the surprise that even in February she still had another jar ready for us. “I just happen to have a jar of peaches,” she would chime to my delight and nothing goes better with Granny’s waffles than her peaches. Mom had a great tradition of making muffins to go with dinner. Our staple meal seemed to be steak and potatoes and muffins. The muffin part was ok, but the real goods came in preparing them. Licking the bowl and spatula was always my duty/treat and I was both willing and wanting. Somehow carrots had a perfect symmetrical shape in the tub of water at Granny’s house. Baby carrots did not interest her in the least and why would they when she could make crispy squares out of the long roots. I never quite understood why she placed them in a tub of water in the fridge but without fail, they were the best carrots and perfect munchies…when she was out of ice oatmeal raising cookies. The simple desserts came from my mother who new just when to whip up a box of strawberry Jell-O or vanilla pudding. We would prepare it in a Tupperware container, so once lidded, I could shake the pudding for ten minutes while she finished dinner. Whisks were a weird tool in my mind and didn’t provide half the fun or licking surface as the Tupperware.

These fond memories also conjure the lessons so subtly and maybe without any intention stuck in my brain over these twenty some years. I can’t say either mother was a gourmet; they got the job done and kept our tame pallets satisfied. But each had their special way of doing things and creating celebration out of the mundane of moments. If the meat ended up more well-done than my brother’s baseball mitt, my grandma wouldn’t think a thing of it. Pass the A1 or 57 Sauce, butter your potato and oh wait, SAVE ROOM FOR APPLE PIE. My mother would often bring out her Betty Crocker trophy she had earned back in home-ec or somewhere before becoming a cooking wife. If things were great, she would only have to point as if to say, “Betty doesn’t lie.” And if the food lacked a little or lotta something, the trophy would reassure us all that the mistake was a fluke. Pass the muffins.

I like celebrating with my mom, and though my grandma knows the real recipe of Angel’s Food cake now that she’s joined the crowd, I believe her enthusiasm for life lives on in me. I cut carrots the same and smile with each bite of peach. Every time I get the itch to travel, I know she would back me, stating that traveling is the best sort of education. While my mom continues to master La Cocina con Señora Betty in Ecuador, I’ll continue to use our common Girl Scout ideas to use what we have in creative and functional ways. And I’ll be sure to celebrate life’s small accomplishments with a cup of pudding or York peppermint patty, hoisting up a Betty Crocker trophy only to reaffirm what she and I already know.
Thanks Mom. Thanks Granny June.

Phone Books

In order to raise money for a recent project, my sister and I signed up to deliver phone books. Our delivery area would be similar to that of the postman and thus we saw the simple details of several neighborhoods. The three routes we committed to took quite some time, but it was good exercise, good money and good thinking time. For the last seven days I’ve learned a volume’s worth of lessons from phone books. While the volume might weigh 2.5 lbs like the books I delivered from house to house, business to business, these thoughts have been thoroughly marinated.

1. Teams and Tricky Stix are the key to success. The first day out, we collected a bunch of helpers to make the work lighter. Not only did we get the job done faster, but also it was so much more fun. We came up with team names like “What the Phone Book!” and Team 2- I apparently wasn’t very creative that day. We sang along to the Glee soundtrack and other hits. We fought the wind and rain with such perfect timing that when it rained, we ate lunch and when the sun shone, we ran down the streets with our bagged books in hand.

The Tricky Stix (cinnamon and sugar dessert breadsticks with frosting) were the perfect way to celebrate. And celebrate we must because our team did a good job, and a goal was met. We made money for those who need it. Sometimes I forget the importance of celebrating. I just want to finish a project and move to the next, but milestones, even small ones, deserve enough positive reflection and cheering so the next project can go all the better.

2. There’s no use avoiding the gate. I typically walked the block with 11 books in hand, getting have a block before returning to my car. It was a good system and fairly efficient. It did not come without its difficulties though. The worst part was leaving the car, weighed down, hands aching only to come upon a house with a gate. So many times I wanted to skip the house and come back. But each time I came to such an obstacle I realized I would have to face it at some point. I could either do it with lots of weight in my hands or less weight but more fatigue and less efficiency. It may seem like a simplistic decision and one that would have been fine either way, but I realized that my mind was not distracted by the deliveries I had made. If I were to leave a house, all I could think about was not forgetting it, figuring out the best way to get back to it without doubling my steps and over-analyzing the choice.

Such is the case in life. I come to obstacles, hard things and choices. If I commit to dealing with them right then and there, the struggle or pain is usually short lived and easily forgotten. However, if I wait, put off that which I’m dreading, it dominates my thoughts and emotion in a way that gives the obstacles power over me. The latter is not worth it. Just toughen up, go through the latched gate and move on.

3. Small chunks make big projects bearable. Had I delivered 1500 phone books in a day, I might never have gotten out of bed the next day. Instead, we broke up the route and set simpler expectations. Big jobs don’t have to be undertaken all at once even if timing and determination seems to dictate that. Small chunks encouraged me to finish strong and with quality so I win big in the end.

4. Working hard is not an option for everyone. At times during the process I thought: I need to make more friends who like to donate money to charity. Fundraisers are good fun but hard work. Yet, as I thought of the kids and parents to which our efforts support, I realized I was blessed in my choice. Most people in the world work to survive whether it’s by cultivating and selling products from the land, rebuilding infrastructure in the hot sun or simply carrying water from a well several miles away and cooking over a charcoal stone. My survival doesn’t rely on this type of work; instead I have a chance to be creative, to interact with people, to teach various skills and ideas. My labor consists of moving hurdles on the track. So while my brain sometimes feels “worked to the bone,” I can humbly say I’m thankful that that’s a choice I got to make.

laugh a lot

This morning I read an article by the BBC about laughter.

The point: laugh.

The reason: why not?

The benefits: improved physical, mental and emotional well being.

The place: Anywhere and everywhere. These people did it in Zimbabwe, a place where merriment and mirth have no right to abound.

The way: look at yourself in the mirror and laugh. (Or just imagine doing that for 10 minutes and you'll get a good chuckle...I did.)

Another way: Watch a funny movie, play with kids, make a fish face, say poop, tell a joke, pretend that your joke was funny.

The best way: Remember how much God has done for you and then keep your eys open to the silly things all around you that he's created.

Good health and happiness to all.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8659574.stm

to hope, to wait

I’m so excited tonight. It’s been an incredible week of productivity, great conversations, and lots to hope for. I think hope is the biggest thing because only with hope can I see plans for various projects come to fruition. I’m working with my favorite partner to team up with friends in Africa to change lives. Yeah, it’s awesome to be a part of such a grand goal. All the while, the efforts ahead of use are extreme and way beyond what I know or think I can do. So all I can do is hope. Hope that I get out of my own way so great things can happen. Hope that I listen carefully to how God is and will instruct us in the coming minutes, days and months. Hope for more people to be filled with the joy and peace that comes from such hope.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Romans 15:13

The song Everlasting God says:
Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord.

Waiting can have two meanings:
1) Stand by, remain, anticipate, and expect what God wants to do and how he will use us.
2) Serve like a waiter at a restaurant. Go and do what has been instructed.

Both are super important because without hanging around for and with God, we can’t possibly get the right or full instructions. Meanwhile, there are times when we know what needs to be done, how to do it or where to find the resources to make it happen. That forward movement might take us to the threshold when what we’ve anticipated is finally revealed.

Yet those who wait for the LORD Will gain new strength; they will mount up with wings like eagles. They will run and not get tired; they will walk and not become weary. ~Isaiah 40:31

Hope and waiting are quite similar. They both have a bit of anticipation and expectation wrapped up in them. They also require a trust in something yet unknown. Even in serving, we are trusting that the efforts are worthwhile and help attain the goal.

Being this excited right now is a good place to be. And I’m grateful that the excitement is built on the foundation of hope and waiting. That foundation will come in handy in those less productive and frustrating weeks. Though the days ebb and flow, the hope remains.

the list

The other day I made a list. It noted all the projects with which I’m currently working. Between school, work, track and an attempt to have a life beyond those confines, the number of items continued to grow. The first goal of the list was to help me wrap my head around what things I really was doing. Then I wanted to make sure I didn’t forget anything and then realize where I could put more energy and focus at this moment. It seemed that once I started going on a project I would have to stop and start another one. My ideas and enthusiasm for one had to be tabled while the same for a different item had to be conjured from what I could remember of that project’s progress.

At the point of creation, I didn’t give my list much power. It was just a tool to organize my otherwise scattered thoughts. But as I continued on with it, I realized the list was too long and doubt, frustration, pity and wonder set in. Pity is too strong of a word but I did feel a bit of sadness at what those many list items meant especially in relationship to all the things I had to sacrifice. For the most part, the things on the list were all good. They all had merit and a worthwhile purpose. So while I might have had a bit of self-pity, I was also kind of impressed that so many cool things were given to me to do. Self-pity, self-righteousness. Weird combo.

I left my office with this list in hand and walked across campus where numerous trees are budding with magnificent colors, tall pines trees continue to reach to the heavens, grass is turning green and students walk with determination, pursuing knowledge and growth. And that was a small 100 yard view. At that moment I realized my list was nothing. It didn’t even fill half a page. In comparison to God’s “to do” list, mine was simple. The story of Job came to my head, and I recalled the end of the story when God questioned Job. Are you in charge of the movement of the stars and planets? Do you make the waves crash on the shore? Does the tree, grass, or human grow by your power? Have you carved the mountains and cut out the valleys? And like Job, all I could say is…um, well, no.

The list was necessary. It cleared my mind of clutter and helped me organize my responsibilities. Just because I’m not in charge of maintaining gravity or creating systems like photosynthesis, God still has me here to do his work, faithfully and humbly. The list was clarifying. It reminded me of who really is in charge and who makes all things possible, including giving me wisdom and strength to complete and cross off items on the list.

faith in...

Rob Bell is an insightful guy. A pastor, author, and believer in Jesus, he grapples with the simple things of being a Christian. Or not so simple. Like following Christ. Today I reread the part in Velvet Elvis where he explains what it means to be a disciple. A disciple was a person who not just followed the path, but tried to walk in the exact footsteps of the rabbi. What Jesus did the disciples wanted to mimic, exactly. Bell points out that when Peter left the boat to walk on water, he did so because Jesus was walking on water. But unlike Jesus, Peter started sinking. Why? It wasn’t what Jesus was doing. It wasn’t because Peter lost faith in the fact that Jesus was walking on water. Bell asserts that Peter sank due to lack of faith in himself.

Is it too impossible to imagine that God has confidence in us? Yeah, he gives us cool talents and gifts of speech, wisdom, and interpersonal skills. We often show them off. And then we also show off our stupid, less refined and less thoughtful side, which often causes trouble. But God knows that about us. And he still loves us and gives each of us a legitimate purpose. He believes in each of us.

When Jesus came to earth he did not try to “Avatar” the planet, making everyone into him. He instead dwelt, moseyed, slept, wept, did life with us. As a rabbi he saw our potential and gave us tools, methods, encouragement to live out that potential. Jewish rabbis looked for the best of the best because to know the Jewish scriptures inside and out, that’s what it took. For Jesus, however, he enlisted the good and the bad in order that they might become the best, just as Jesus was.

In many ways today, God reminded me that he has hope in each of his children. If he has hope, then we had better not give up. Struggles, obstacles, disappointments and inaccurate messages bombard us with doubt. Jesus wants us to have faith, both in his plan AND in ourselves.

For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline. 2 Tim. 1: 7

take a whiff

I picked a shirt out of my drawer and smelled the armpits. This is not a normal routine, but this shirt seems to hold my unique fragrance longer than most shirts. Perhaps it’s because I only wear it to work out and that I’ve had it for seven years. All, the same, I smelled it and thought, it’s not that bad.

Really Sarah? There shouldn’t be anything TO SMELL! (Yes, you’re right, voice in my head.)

Later on I visited a friend whose sole purpose for the day was to veg out. A big accomplishment would be showering. “My hair reeks,” she warned. I took her word for it, but the honesty made me laugh. I offered my shirt to smell to make her feel better.

Maybe stinky feathers flock together.

Ironically enough, I had just read in my Bible from 2 Corinthians that God wants us to be the aroma of Jesus. “A sweet fragrance to spread the knowledge of Christ everywhere.” Paul writes that some will perceive the fragrance as beautiful and life-giving for they are people who are saved and know the goodness “Christ Cologne.” Others will perceive the fragrance as smelly armpits and rotten eggs, all death and decay.

So, Hmm… What do I smell like? I mean figuratively, I’ve already confessed to a “unique” clinging body odor. I mean does my life give off the odor of Christ? Are others drawn to him, his sweetness, his life-giving grace and truth? Or are people turned off, more willing to decay because of how I make Jesus smell? Worse yet, do people smell anything? For if I don’t give off a fragrance, indifference and stagnation may have taken over my life and others’ lives in my world. Of course, God can work even with stinky ones like me. I’m grateful Christ can live in me and be fruitful even despite me, but I certainly shouldn’t make his job harder. And as a believer and one who desires to be a sweet smell, I need to help others smell the goodness and know God better and better.

I pray that regardless of how laundered my clothes are and clean my hair, I can live in such a way to boast the “Christ Cologne.”

P.S. This entry and a bit of garlic might confirm a perpetual singleness. May God be glorified either way: smelly and single or smelly and situated.

Holy Eve

The thought occurred to me last night as I sang “Going Home” by Sara Groves, that I love Holy Eve. I give the days before Easter this name because Easter Eve would almost limit me to Saturday night and create a tongue twister all in the same phrase. But Holy Eve(s) of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday remind so much of Christmas Eve. They are days of great anticipation, tremendous mystery and intentional days of reflection.

I’m grateful to have been raised and still attend a church that remembers these specific moments in Jesus’ last days of life. Both Maundy Thursday and Good Friday hold great significance to making the resurrection on Easter as powerful, meaningful and life giving today as it is. Maundy Thursday commemorates the last supper Jesus had with his 12 disciples. As the Gospels tell us, this is the evening when Jesus demonstrated who we should be by taking on the role of the servant and washing feet. He reassured them that they could and should remember him by eating bread and drinking wine. He told them why it was important to give his life for his “friends,” the ultimate gift. And he prayed for them. And he prayed for us. I know Jesus is God, which gives him the powers of all knowing and all-powerful, but to think he spoke words to God on MY behalf is beyond insightful to impactful. Jesus wanted me to be alive with him just as much as he wanted the men whose feet he just washed to be alive. To be a life and light for the world to know Jesus.

But I can just imagine the guys, listening to every word, wondering how many future generations he needed to pray for since they believed him to be the Messiah who would take them out of the chaotic world in which they lived. Likewise, those guys didn’t have hindsight to look back and understand all that Jesus said. So the meal ended and the puzzled look and anxious feeling remained. Anticipation always looms for me because I know what’s coming- EASTER! And I know what that means but I have to live through Thursday and then the Friday of suffering and death.

Christmas Eve at my churches often tells the Christmas story but not quite being the big day, an ambiance of waiting fills the room. We still have to grapple with the mystery of a virgin birth, a king born in a manger, a shepherd guest list, a host of heavenly angles singing all over the country side, and a silent night when a baby sleeps. Good Friday has a similar feel because we see Jesus carrying a cross, enduring the whips and crown of thorns, being mocked, gasping from the nails pounded in his wrists, bearing the weight of his body on the cross while bearing the sins, burdens, prayers and hopes of the world on his body. As human he experienced it all. As God he experienced it all.

Christmas and Easter are glorious and right days of celebration. Christ is Born! Christ is Risen! And yet the Eves give me a chance to realize the true immensity of the following celebration days. Without them, I’m easily led into boundless, energized joy, forgetting the way and reason the party even exists.

The song we sang tonight at the Good Friday service said, “Stay with me. Remain here with me. Watch and pray.” Jesus speaks these words, especially on these Holy Eves. One day they might be my prayer, but for now I will wait, watch and pray for Jesus and all he died for.

Time x19

Last night I drove home to the north side from the valley. A typical route of about 30 minutes. Last night was a little different. I caught every red light. No joke. Even if it was a moment’s pause, I stopped at 19 out of 19 lights. That must be a record.

The other unusual bit of my drive was the fact that I had no background noise. Typically I listen to a book on tape, but they were all in the boot and out of reach. The radio at 10:13pm is less than exciting. But more than that I wasn’t in the mood to have external noise. There was enough going on in my head.

As I drove, all I could do was say hi to God. I wanted to pray and I think he wanted me to too. I mean, 19 out of 19 red lights. I can take a hint. So we chatted a bit but then the other worries, thoughts, plans, dreams, ponderings came to my head, and I’d be distracted out of conversation. Three stop lights later I realized the distraction and went back to God except I felt like I needed to say hi to him again. Strangely, I didn’t think I could just pick up the conversation where I had left off, partly because I had forgotten but partly because I didn’t exactly know what to say. Our time together over the past weeks has been sporadic at best and usually distracted.

Here I was though. Stopped at red lights. No other cars around. And me with time on my hands. And God wanted to know how I would use it. “How will you use the time, Sarah? My time,” said God. Yep, his time. Obviously: 19 out of 19 red stoplights. God gives me a lot: my health, my home, my means, my abilities, but I rarely think about how my time is also a gift. Time is not something for me just to manage and use wisely, but it’s a gift that I need to give thanks for and offer back to God. I try to be intentional about using my abilities for God’s work, but I have a long way to go to use time selflessly especially when it means spending time with him. Not just time serving him, but communicating with and reading about him. Time is the most precious thing I have right now. Where I spend time shows my priorities.

Like any struggle we have in life, we need to be broken to be built up again which takes time. Funny that, God wants to give me some time. So I guess a little reconstruction is about to take place. Right now, I’ll just take one stop light at a time and take in what God has to say at that intersection.

love=patient, kind and HARD!

One of the most widely read scriptures at weddings is 1 Corinthians 13. It’s all about love. Fitting right? It talks about love being patient, not envious, not boastful. It doesn’t demand it’s own way. It doesn’t give up or lose hope. Love endures all circumstances. Paul, the author of these words, also talks about how we can deceive ourselves by thinking some actions are worthwhile and amazing such as prophecy or great knowledge. He says however, that all these are pointless if they’re not accompanied with love.

Why is scripture read so much? I use to think it was because it has the most concentrated and obvious message of love of any place in the Bible. It’s an obvious choice for those committing to LOVE each other forever. Today, I think I realized a better reason and probably the truth behind this popular choice. Love is hard. Love is difficult to show, act out, live in, and offer. Love is hard even if you’ve pledged to LOVE someone forever. People give rings to remember this commitment but that’s a pledge between two people who have thought long and hard about how they want and hope to love forever. What about those other people? I don’t have a ring with anyone; I’m not “pledged” to anyone.

1 Cor. 13 is not just a wedding scripture. Paul didn’t designate these words simply for special moments of dedication, which will be followed by the cutting of the cake. Paul wrote these for the pledged and unpledged for this day and everyday. He says love is hard always and here’s why. We think it’s these things: being really good at something or telling people about God or simple having really deep faith. Those are good but they’re not love. Love is suppose to permeate those things as if it’s part of the essence of those actions and thoughts.

Lately, I’ve been fairly busy, running (literally at times) from one activity to another. I do my best to be prepared and then be present in the moment. But I’m not sure I can say love is infused in all these moments. I work on homework but love is necessarily flowing out of my pen- should I dot my i's with hearts? I constantly work with people who are trying to improve their abilities and meet goals and their potential. I try to help them in their efforts with the right words and demonstration but offering my superior skill and knowledge will only help them superficially. How do I love them, especially when I’m frustrated by a perceived lack of desire or effort? In the end, my preparations have to be soaked in love as much as my participation. I say I want people to grow but complaints behind their back or frustrations in my heart will block any waves from an ocean of love.

I also realize that love has to be offered personally. I can boast in my efforts but I do not really love myself when I do that. To love unconditionally means without need for merit. Am I willing to love myself despite imperfections? I better because as a human, imperfection is a part of my nature. But love is part of my nature, too.

Perhaps Paul wrote this chapter to give us hope that even our imperfections can be infused with love. Perhaps the goal is to move beyond our great abilities or limitations and let love guide our thoughts, words and actions in a way that these other things dim in comparison. I’m still trying to figure out how that works exactly, but knowing goal will point me in the right direction and guide my footsteps.

chicken legs and cantaloupe

Small children have an incredible way of helping me see a common object in a totally different way. If they had a more extensive vocabulary, children would be great rocket scientists because they would grab wires and instinctively put them together or in their mouth or around another object that could be the answer to the puzzled yet unsolved. “Oh, if only I had thought about how water could be used as a conductor!” says the old rocket scientist and the little one would move on, curious to see what else is available to sort out.

Today I visited some friends with a little girl just about 2 years old. She is very inquisitive about the world around her but doesn’t quite have the words yet to put her thoughts into understandable communication. This is mainly due to the fact that she only recently moved to the USA from Africa and her parents speak over 5 languages. When I come over, I jumble the learning process and throw her complete curve balls. I taught her zipper, fish and shoe today. Random I know. But she does have a few words down. Sit. Go. Come. Thank you. Bye. That’s a good set.

So dinnertime came when her dad made some chicken legs. Cool. She grabbed it by the small end and attempted to eat it like an ice cream cone. Licking didn’t get her far but the skin was too tough to pierce so she just kept gnawing at it. She finally got bits of meat off the bone and we proudly applauded her efforts. This would be a great way to diet- lick everything to death and/or start from a weird end until you get to the good stuff.

I ate lunch with another friend and her 22 month old. Cantaloupe appeared on my plate and eyes of intense curiosity pierced mine. She received a bit of the melon, rind and all. Well, as makes sense and comes from past experience, she started at one end, wanting to chomp down rind and all. “That’ll give you the runs,” says mom. So we tried to show her the way to eat the melon off the rind but she wouldn’t have it. Too messy, big people don’t get things all over their face, waste of fruit, apples aren’t eaten that way must have flown through her mind. Mom finally cut the fruit free. The little one tasted the sweet satisfaction of cantaloupe and looked for more.

I appreciate the way my struggles with life can be put into perspective after spending time with little ones. Everything is new to them and yet most time they embrace it with gusto and courage. If I told either of these girls what it would be like to go to Kindergarten or have braces, endure puberty or kiss a boy, they wouldn’t grasp it. And even if they had the vocabulary and certain understanding of the concepts, they wouldn’t be able to handle the complexity of the journey. God does that with us too. He gives us chicken legs to gnaw on, find the meat, enjoy and learn how to eat for next time. He excites us about new things a little at a time, encouraging us along the way so we want more. If God told me where I will be in 6 or 26 years from now, I probably would overwhelm myself with trying to get to the finish line if I could comprehend such possibilities at all. Crystal balls seem enticing but are more like huge electricity balls found in science class. They shock you for no good reason and without ways to cope with the shock.

I’ll take my chicken leg and cantaloupe one meal at a time. I just hope God helps me maintain a child-like attitude to difficult and new things.

a little dusty

Woke up on time but straggled a little bit too much so people were waiting on me.

Ate healthy and moderately until my stomach brain took over when my self-control decided to take the day off.

Prepared all my homework and even did some individual investigation (probably shouldn’t be a new thing) but found myself flustered and still a novice at the subject matter.

Moved forward with a job on the to do list without doing complete research which caused awkwardness and misrepresentation.

Worked from a comfortable, frozen position while others struggled to hear instruction from a distance.

Communicated all the logistics with workers but forgot one key element and therefore created some unneeded stress in what should have been a moment of relaxing, deep breathes.

No other words could better personify the realities that I am human, fallible, and need dusting off. I felt ready for this Wednesday since yesterday had been so productive and thorough to the point of boredom. But still, I showed up this Wednesday just a little unprepared. No major calamities came from it. No deaths, injuries or heartaches were caused. I simply had a B average day despite great intentions.

How I long to be perfect! I’m certainly not a perfectionist as one can see by my hairdos. But I long to give 100% in every aspect of life without fail. Yes, I get an occasional A- or B on a test. But it’s not until other people see those Bs or lay victim to my not-quite-perfect actions that I’m utterly disappointed. If I can’t give the best, what’s the point of trying?

Today marks the day in the church calendar, the beginning of Lent, when we can remember we’re merely humans. We were formed from the dust. Jesus died on the cross because we are just humans needing help connecting with God, but as God said back in Eden, we’re “very good” and worth having around. It’s also the time when we can really reflect and prepare ourselves to be Resurrection people. Such people live a new, whole, abundant life. In both ways, being human and becoming Resurrection people requires God. He put the breath of life in us from the beginning and no newness or abundant life would come without Jesus dying for us.

Today provides a tangible reminder that I am from dust, merely human, and only the cross can set me free. So I humbly offer this day and myself to a little dusting, hoping in the end to shine like perfect gold, but knowing it won’t come of my individual effort.

beyond human freedom

A new reality about freedom has entered my mind and heart. I should say realization because the freedom or lack there of has existed always, but I finally connected the truth to the full (or close to full) appreciation of the word Freedom.

Often times this word brings forth images of slavery or Nelson Mandela or women covered from head to foot in a long black burqa. Sometimes I think about how the founding fathers fought with brains and brawns to provide a land of freedoms never before enjoyed by a people. Very rarely do I think of the freedoms of my body, mind or spirit being in question. It’s mine and no one has control over it, save for God.

So when I think of such personal, unique and intimate aspects of me being under lock and key, I scratch my head and ponder. What does that really mean? What does it mean to be trapped in a body that can’t move, grow or even exist as it once did? A body that is chained by disease, paralysis, or injury probably longs for wholeness, the freedom beyond the traps of physical obstacles of pain, lack of energy or simple movements. As I think back to my injuries incurred as an athlete, the loss of a complete, working structure affected all the rest of me: mind, spirit, and attitude. Part of the reason I remained active in theater was due to the fact that I thought a person with broken legs or a missing arm could still read lines, be funny and convey a story.
Those who can’t find freedom from haunting psychological ailments have my greatest respect. To lose the ability to communicate truthfully to yourself much less the rest of the world would leave me even more helpless if not hopeless.
And I do not envy those racked with the constant pressure of not knowing a deeper purpose and connection for one’s spirit. Sometimes I feel that disconnect, trapped in my own unworthiness, self-doubt, or even ostentatious pride. I cut off all ability to live freely as I was created to be.

Tonight, however, my ponderings went beyond my mere mortality to the reality that God in Jesus gave up his freedom for us. And not only in all that he sacrificed becoming human ie) being everywhere, knowing everything, being timeless, not having to deal with the senses to feel pain, joy, sorrow, hunger, and exhaustion. That was part of the freedom he lost coming from heaven, but he also lost the freedom to live burden-free. I believe God bears our burdens in a way, that is to say he can manifest in us and the creation the ability to bear those burdens and have strength through faith and trust in him. But when Jesus came, he took the burden literally. He lost his freedom to live in order to die so we could be free without anymore sacrifice. Of course, this freedom has eternal value, but Jesus had to live with that bound commitment everyday. Jesus didn’t have a choice once on earth. We do have that choice. To live everyday with the freedom he gave us because he’s taken away the obstacles. Body, mind and spirit are free regardless of our frail and fractured humanity.

Loss of freedom in our humanness is not to be discounted or neglected. These daily realities must be dealt with constantly and might never go away. I guess I’m encouraged and convicted tonight that such losses of freedom were fully experienced by God who loves us, cares for us, and does life with us. He’s not ignorant or simply a sympathizer. He knows completely and still calls us to live out of the freedom he gave no matter our physical, mental or spiritual status.

Philippians 2:1-11

a deep workout

Today was a good reminder that life is a journey and not an end result. While I usually like the process, I need to rediscover my love for hills. Several lessons about God have been doing laps in my head and I can't help but look behind me to make sure I'll finish the race without getting run over. (Track is on my mind.)

1) God is enough. Unless it's a jelly donut, usually holes are best filled with Him.
2) God doesn't ask of us more than he can do through us. We're not puppets, manipulated with choice but we are clay to be molded, fired and set through circumstances all for his purposes.
3) God asks us to be present here and now, living and offering what we have. Right now I'm a coach so I can workout with athletes and be available. I am a student so I can work with integrity. Even if I struggle with French lessons, I have teeth, a tongue and vocal chords so I can practice. Maybe God will help me speak in "tongues."

Sometimes ideas that run in circles keep us from moving forward in a productive and faithful way. But when God runs laps, He usually wants to make a message very clear. I get it- muscle memory. And my soul is definitely a muscle. I feel it's soreness, the stretching and the growth.

Heaven to earth

I have links to Haiti. My college roommate is a nurse plus more at an orphanage. Friends from a North Carolina church flew in the morning before the first earthquake and are pitching in wherever they can, delivering babies, food, love. A classmate here worked in Haiti for the last two summers and reminded me of their culture which is infested with witch doctors.
In his blog post with Sojourners, Tony Compolo reported, "Haiti’s former dictator, Jean-Claude Duvalier, was a voodoo witchdoctor, and when he was driven from power it was widely rumored that he offered an infant boy as a blood sacrifice to Satan, and cursed the country with an evil spell to bring disasters and suffering upon the Haitian people." As Tony later says, it strange to believe in such sorcery but the Haitians do. So how does their mindset change in the midst of the current chaos and destruction?

Love.

And though simply put, we humans have a lot to learn about loving thoroughly, fully, unconditionally. I'm grateful for my fiends being God's hands and feet in Haiti right now. I pray we will respond in a helpful and meaningful way. But more than anything, I hope we're in the way just the right way for God to use us to love.
May it be true in Haiti, Helena, or on Hawthorne Rd.

Words have not come easily for me concerning Haiti and all it represents or is. But somehow, this song/poem came to me as I sang the final line of the praise song "Shout to the North."

He's the Lord of Heaven and Earth

What does this mean when people are suffering? What does this mean in chaos and pain? How is there heaven right here on earth when everything seems so insane?

Heaven can’t be that far away.
Heaven is meant to be here.
Heaven can’t be a distant place
Since heavenly love draws us near.

What does it mean for him to be Lord? What does it mean to be all knowing? What does it mean to have all of the power if all of the might is not showing?

Heaven can’t be a stranger.
Heaven knows me and you.
Heaven can’t be just an idea.
Heaven must live in me, too.

What does this mean for our lives today? What does it matter to me? If He’s the Lord as He says that He is, can’t heaven to earth come easily?

Heaven can’t be for just a few.
Heaven needs my own skill.
Heaven won’t be stopped by sin.
Heaven on earth is His will.