"We’ve got a bingo over here!”
I wasn’t sure who was more excited—-Mrs. Harey that she finally won a game or me for being able to collect her prize for her. I picked up a blemish-free banana from the tray of goodies, eagerly eyeing the fun-sized candies that my charge couldn’t have with her diabetes. The activities director, Donna, mouthed “later” in my direction before pulling a new stamped ball out of the gold cage.
“B 7!”
I handed the fruit prize to Mrs. Harey, clearing her card with one hand while hurriedly scanning the card belonging to the ever-silent Mr. Trent. No luck for him.
“What’s your name again, dearie?”
“Ann.”
“I have a grandson about your age. Haven’t seen him in forever.”
“O 62!” I placed another marker on Mr. Trent’s card, smiling happily at him before remembering that his opaque eyes couldn’t see me.
“Are you going to be coming back on Thursday?”
“Yup. I’m here for every bingo game. Dad told the bus to drop me off here after school those days so I can help.”
“How nice—you’re such a sweet girl. I like talking to you.”
“You, too, Mrs. Harey.”
“B 11!”
“Bingo! Bingo for Mr. Trent! You won!”
Two days later I practically skipped into the nursing home, anxious to start knocking on doors and inviting people to bingo. Maybe I’d get to push a wheelchair or two this time—-that was always fun. My first stop was Mrs. Harey’s room, but when I got there, Dad was just leaving, carrying two large trash sacks of gaudy polyester clothing.
“Mrs. Harey’s not here anymore, Ann. Go on and find Mr. Trent, ok?”
“Where’d she go?”
My dad sighed. “She had to--go home.”
“Ok. Can I put my schoolbag in the workshop downstairs first? He always jerks on it as we walk down the hall.”
The tall man squatted a little and pulled the backpack off my shoulders. His name tag was heavily smudged with water stains and grease, his name and position of “Maintenance Supervisor” barely legible anymore.
“I’ll take it down for you. Have a good time, sweetie.”
~
It seemed appropriate that my first job at fifteen would be at the nursing home. As a dietary aide (kitchen help), I was given the pleasure of serving dinner to thirty to forty elderly men and women in each dining area. With all these residents placed under my care, it is a wonder that I was ever able to remember names, let alone establish relationships with them. There was a handful that I always knew well, a few for the irrational demands they made, others just because of who they are--bored older people with a need for attention and love. They have bad days sometimes, leaving staff frustrated, exhausted, and occasionally in sympathetic tears. Residents have likes and dislikes, fond memories and nightmares, cherished pictures, and days or months without visits from loved and not-so-loved ones. That never matters, though. Residents have “lived their lives.” Facing the inevitable downhill slide into death while virtually locked inside the brick and mortar building, they have to watch their caretakers grumble about sore feet, PTA meetings and dinner plans. There’s a special kind of jealousy in nursing homes, residents eyeing me from the windows of a public institution as I collect car keys to go to my private home. I drive by now, having left over five years ago, and still see faces watching me as they’ve watched the previous hundred cars, wondering who, where, why…and remembering.
~
“Don’t step there!”
I jerked my foot back behind the heavy steel cart laden with half-empty metal tins of ground gravy-smothered beef, canned carrots, and liquefying Jell-o. I raised my eyebrows at the charge nurse scurrying away after a woman with mountains of long white hair gathered in a messy bun put-putting down the hall. Sarah, the LPN, came up behind me.
“Ever hear of granny farts?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Alma’s got granny splurts.”
My eyes glanced at the puddle of gravy inches from my foot, a dozen more trailing to where the tall woman stood with her walker jammed against her room’s doorknob. It didn’t dawn on me until I noticed wadded white cloth that was definitely not a bib under the woman’s abandoned dining chair and flecks of green that were a day too early to appear in the meaty sauce.
“Who cleans that up?”
The nurse gave an eerie cackle worthy of an elderly witch as she pulled me by the hand to the service closet, my cart gaining momentum and crashing resoundingly into the water fountain.
~
You don’t just learn about biohazard spills as a nursing home employee. You learn about routine, about people who might be considered humans with rights—-some other day, some other place. What is “right” or “appropriate” fades under the weight of state regulations and the emotional strain. It would then often seem cruel that the community television is left tuned to the Lifetime channel, although compared to the CMT marathons the nurses like to watch, anything would be an improvement. There the female residents will sit, twirling wedding rings that connect them to long-dead husbands, blankly staring at a screen that shows the best, and worst, of a woman’s life. While the movies about abusive and homicidal exes seem just ludicrous enough not to be taken seriously, there is a serious mood change when the comedies begin to play. For these women, there is nothing left to laugh at. Every lighthearted moment reminds them of what they no longer have to offer, no longer can experience.
Unlike the utopia of The Golden Girls, most haven’t sought out and maintained close female friendships. Having made no alternate plans, blindly assuming they would stay married or live with their unwilling children forever, these women are trapped in an institution. It doesn’t matter how many times they stop us and say with the most innocent of Rose’s expressions, “Back home I didn’t have to wait this long for dinner. Back home I didn’t have to eat things I didn’t want. Back home I didn’t have to be ignored like this…” Our inner Dorothy gets frustrated quickly, wants to yell that this isn’t St. Olaf—-get in touch with reality already! They chose to be here, isolated and alone in a sea of the forgotten, by not looking ahead to these unavoidable days, preparing something-—anything. We can’t understand how they didn’t see this obvious turn of events coming. They can’t either.
~
Esther won a place in my heart, proving daily that I was a valuable employee. Cranky to the core, this lonely and depressed woman insisted, loudly, that no one cared for or loved her. She would sit, staring blankly with blind eyes at the stained ceiling tiles while lamenting her situation, resisting any attempt by the nurses to get her to take medication, move to the dining room, or wait patiently for her dinner. Before much of any shift had gone by, a page over the intercom would inevitably summon me to Esther’s side to “talk some sense into that crazy old bat.” I would sit next to her. Rub her hunched shoulders and rounded back. Assure her that I cared. As she was diabetic I would slip her sugar-free cookies I hoarded in the store room during snack time and find some textured pillow or quilt for her to trace her fingers over. This would quiet her until dinner. I made sure to deliver her tray personally to set up her favorite mashed potatoes without gravy and coffee with five sweeteners stirred gently in, knowing she would listen closely to the liquid sloshing in the cup. I was the only employee who had the “magic touch” with her. She was the only resident who would ever call me by name.
When Esther died, I came home from college for her funeral. She was hardly recognizable in the make-up and beautiful strands of pearls, surrounded by tearful family who had never visited her until now. I wondered if she knew all along that the next time she got “gussied up” and saw her loved ones would be while in a casket. I wondered if she truly enjoyed the last eight years of her life eating hydrated mashed potato flakes and sugarless cookies. Drinking coffee that was never “quite right.” I wondered why it was that she died unexpectedly just a week after I had quit—-and stopped. I couldn’t think that. I still can’t.
~
Not everyone is alone here. There are the odd married couples who were able to convince Medicare that staying together was worth the cost, but concerns about staff members accidentally interrupting a possible sex life sometimes keep these couples from living in the same room. After all, old people don’t need sex, no matter what Blanche might claim in her high Southern voice. They apparently don’t need that daily intimacy that carried them through their thirty, forty, fifty years of marriage, to feel their shared history carrying them together through the hard transition to institutional living. According to the administration, what they need are children to visit, bringing cards, flowers, candy, and the occasional new sweater or box of quilting supplies. A novel or two. Birdseed for the feeders hung outside windows. Intimacy exists only as a word in the manual regarding resident abuse—-something to be avoided at all costs. If a resident is lucky, perhaps her daughter or son will come regularly and take an active role in making sure more “wants” are met, desires granted—-to a point.
~
Purdy’s daughter. This woman was the chigger bite that put the itch in witch. She showed up precisely on time for every meal, her Chanel suit glinting in the minimum wage air. Nurses ignored her, grateful for one less mouth to feed, but the kitchen staff had to deal with her barrage of nonstop complaints. I would pull out the labeled containers from under the thick layer of circular ice chips: chocolate pudding, pureed pears, pureed beets, and a milk-soaked sugar cookie. Everything had to be labeled, scooped, and selected just right. Purdy’s daughter was not above a lavish temper tantrum full of insults and curses if even one container wasn’t the right color or had a sloppily-labeled cover. I had heard my share of tirades. So had Mrs. Purdy.
Smart black heels clacked on the waxed floor as she trotted back to her ever-silent mother, the nearly comatose woman rarely even blinking in acknowledgement of the temperature-specific meal or her daughter’s gossipy banter attacking every person they knew. I had been told that Mrs. Purdy had been a great philanthropist and community volunteer in her day. A woman who served in preschools with a firm yet loving hand. I wondered if somehow after months of having every meal served with a dose of verbal arsenic that Mrs. Purdy didn’t wish she could raise her atrophied hand and smack the Maybelline right off that Botox-perfect face. But she didn’t. Mrs. Purdy understood something about feeling helpless—-being a vegetable would do that to you. Her daughter was just as powerless, reluctantly aware that demanding chocolate pudding instead of lemon or vanilla meant nothing. Every spoonful of barley cereal dribbling from silent lips proclaimed that “health and wellbeing” was a subjective term, that money couldn’t soothe the ache in her heart. The aged hand laid ever still, comforting the daughter silently crying under the cover of hatred.
~
I first met Ruthie when I was six years old, walking hand-in-hand with my father to see his new workplace at the local nursing home. Upon spotting my father, Ruthie cried out, “There’s my husband! Did you bring my little boy with you?” Dad told me not to mind her and kept walking. That night when I returned home, my mother got an earful. “Mommy, Mommy! Daddy has another wife at work and she thinks I’m her son!” I was too young to understand dementia, so my mother said that she was crazy--her standard term for any behavior from making meringue from scratch to doing the Macarena. When I started to work at the nursing home, however, I realized that Ruthie’s behavior couldn’t be summed up as “crazy.”
Many nurses told me that Ruthie had gone insane after teaching kindergarten for forty years. I figured it was just a fantastical sort of Alzheimer’s. She called everyone taller than five feet her husband and any children were immediately claimed as her son. She played the piano sometimes, usually jazzy scales and peppy versions of “Yankee Doodle” that she had taught in her younger years, but as time went on she seemed oblivious that the piano had never moved from the corner and instead mimed her masterpieces on the tabletop. Addicted to mashed potatoes, gravy, and bananas, Ruthie would mush them together, eat most of the mess and fling the rest at whoever was currently annoying her (usually Esther). Ruthie’s biggest quirk, however, was her husband. While no one truly knew what happened to the man, she insisted repeatedly every day that she had killed him. New families would come to visit their recently admitted grandparent, walk by Ruthie, and be told by a woman with this Silence of the Lambs grin, “I killed my husband.”
Although she was certain that she was a murderess, Ruthie was quite confused on how she did it. Her methods changed nearly hourly, drawing from the same fifteen scenarios: she put him through the meat grinder, knocked him down the well, beheaded him with a nail file, stabbed him in the stomach, threw him off a mountain, strangled him with his tie, hung him from the ceiling fan, ground him in the meat grinder then threw the pieces down the well, poisoned his mashed potatoes, ran him over with a truck, shot him in the head, shot him in the back, clubbed him with the shotgun after shooting him, had her lover dispose of him, or fed him to the dog/bear/bobcat/goldfish. She pulled out the goldfish story most often when she was playing unknown games with an incomplete deck of cards while a staff member nervously fed the tank of giant goldfish in the corner. It was hardly professional, but I couldn’t help but laugh at her antics and the disquieted visitors scurrying frantically in the opposite direction.
~
Not everyone can handle family even under the best of circumstances. While I feel angry for those who were left behind, forgotten amid a plethora of job responsibilities, little league games, and homework assignments, I can’t really blame families for wanting to avoid this place. I can’t blame the residents who try to escape one way or another. There were many days when if I hadn’t had to come, I wouldn’t have.
After quitting the job at the nursing home, I would avoid that brick building like the plague. It is mortality at its worst. It is the last resort. It is just as bad as Sophia feared, her Shady Pines. The eventual breaking down of personalities under the stresses of being locked up 24/7 for having committed no other crime than just living beyond usefulness never stays entertaining for long. Under the sheen of craziness lurks the sort of depression that is avoidable yet ignored—-that couldn’t possibly happen to me. But it will. The aging process will take its toll on my parents and on myself. We will, someday, be Esther. Mrs. Purdy. Alma. Ruthie. The difference will be only that we have all agreed that none of us will ever be placed in a nursing home. We will find friends, family, somebody to share our last years, care for us as we care for them. We will be prepared. That choice alone will save us.
***Essay is the property of the author. Please respect my rights to my work.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The Casualties of Happy Marriages
My fingernails had been methodically breaking the thin pizza crust into dusty particles for over half an hour, the pile of massacred overbaked dough reaching three inches high before my dining companion realized that she had to leave for work. After scowling at me for paying for her meal while she was in the bathroom, she gave me a quick hug before turning to run down the cracked sidewalk.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you!”
The endearment took me completely off guard.
“Um, ‘love you’?”
“Yeah! Didn’t anyone explain this to you? (Shake head.) You’re my sister in Christ and therefore family, right? (Nod.) Well, family members say they love each other, right? (Nod.) Well, I love you like a sister, and therefore I can say I love you and vice versa, okay?”
She flounced off down the sidewalk, leaving me surrounded by our shattered boundary. I had been a Christian for nearly two decades and while the term “sibling-in-Christ” had been thrown around more than the incessant pleas for tithes, the magnitude of what exactly this entailed had never crossed my mind. There was nothing quite like going from being the younger of two sisters to one of thousands, possibly millions. I eventually adjusted to that change in the definition of “family.” Now I was expected, or at least allowed, to declare my deep affection for all of them at every good-bye.
“I love you.” Prior to this luncheon that had been a phrase reserved for just a few people: Mom and Dad, my biological sister, Grandma on our annual visit, and a few scattered aunts and uncles. Now I’d been pulled into an apparently more affectionate family, with female Christian friends added onto my list of loved ones. At first glance it isn’t that bad of a deal – all the sentiment with none of the germ transmission or genetics. After all, they are family, right?
Just like any family with children, though, sibling rivalry takes a toll on our relationship. The big problem with spiritual sisters comes when these sisters of mine start attaching themselves to my brothers-in-Christ and I end up with brothers-in-Christ-in-law. It’s a peculiar form of incest that doesn’t truly seem to bother anyone. “Marry your brother-in-Christ, you say? Well, how wonderful! Do you need a blender? Cake pan? Laundry basket filled with cleaning supplies?” (No gender role assignment there.)
When the little metal loop slides onto that fateful finger, this sister who loved me morphs into a distracted semi-friend with no time for affection anymore. The second I jumped into the “I love you” pool, everyone else bailed out. Married Christian women in their early twenties is quickly becoming a clique that will bring you back to junior high faster than those horrible fashions find their way back onto the shelves. It was bad enough being told that at the ripe old age of eighteen, I was the only remaining member of my graduating high school class who was a virgin and did not have a husband, lover, or illegitimate child. Now the God-fearing ladies from my liberal-arts college, who encouraged me to develop my personality and interests, are “finally” waving farewell to the tempestuous land of singledom. Their abandonment of me is apparently justified by pointing out that I, single, “don’t understand anymore.” Exactly my point, ladies, exactly my point.
I fully admit that there are many things I don’t understand about married women. I don’t understand why having a belching, farting man grinning with morning breath strong enough to peel the paint off your precious four-poster bed means you no longer want to have sleepovers. I don’t understand that pesky little “down-there” infection you got over your honeymoon that still makes you nervous on the fourth night in a row. I don’t understand the joys and annoyances of having to fold his underwear only to find you’ve cleaned the same pair twice without him wearing them once. Of course you can’t come over for dinner. Leave that man alone long enough and he’ll look at Bertie the Beta fish thinking “sushi.” There are no more calls at two a.m. when you can’t sleep and want someone to help you talk out the thing that’s bugging you. It’s so much easier just to kick him in the side and make him listen. I used to curl up with you on the couch, braid your hair, and remark on your great choices in shampoo and perfume. There was skipping around the square and nearly killing ourselves tripping in the flip-flops that were such a bargain. You’re right, I don’t understand. I’m an old maid in my mid-twenties and you have “moved on.”
I look around at the scattered remains of our loving sisterhood and wonder out loud, “What happened to you?” The answer is actually quite simple. I see it when I consider the first girl to tell me she loved me, now my filing-jointly-on-her-tax-forms semi-friend. Her soul is meshed, bonded, a part of his, no longer just her own. They are one, and for her it’s not the loneliest number. With togetherness does come conflict—-little disagreements and differences in opinion between husband and wife hurt more than most people realize…well, us “single people.” Married folk have to sacrifice everything: privacy, secrets, those little habits that she never noticed before but which annoy her partner to no end. She can’t hold things to herself for long in a marriage without causing big problems. She can't just ignore the guy for a few days, hoping he’ll never contact her again or “get the hint.” She probably has “house-training” to add on to her already huge to-do list unless he had sisters and a fairly non-neurotic mother to lay down the groundwork. It’s like having a puppy around, only bigger, hungrier, and hopefully much sexier. I’m the Persian rug that was oh-so-valuable, now stashed in the closet until the little dog is no longer around. We just don’t mix.
When the husband is away, however, the yin to the yang gets lonely. Her memory bombards her with fuzzy pictures of laughing faces, late-night talks, and bonding that had nothing to do with romantic love. For the past few months (or years) she has been concerned with retirement funds, birth control, cooking for two, and budgeting—-not exactly compatible with my extensive student loans, DVD collection, celibacy, and adventurous spirit. Still, I agree when a voice echoes nostalgically over the line. “You want to do something tonight? My hubby's gone and...I just want to hang out.”
I head over with a few movie rentals and a bag of homemade goodies. Standing back to look at the woman I haven’t seen in a few seasons, it hits me with a jolt that while she is still my spiritual sister, the chasm of the flower-bedecked aisle is just too great and permanent to be crossed. I barely even recognize her. I put on a happy face to save her feelings as she tries to entertain me with stories of housework that bore me and hints at sexual escapades that teeter between embarrassing and nauseating. Next are the stresses of struggling to budget money for both food and insurance, arguments over past loves coming over to visit, tales of the in-laws, and having to ask before spending money on new shoes she wanted “just because.” It’s here on an uncomfortable second-hand couch in a cluttered living room that I realize a bigger force separating us. Pity. I look at her loss of freedom, financial difficulties, and adjustments to constant teamwork much the way she looks at my uncertain future plans, longing for love, and loneliness. One’s cure is the other’s curse.
My brother-in-Christ-in-law returns home the next day. I call after a week of silence only to find the housewife reluctant to leave her love. She’s busy. It’s their date night. He needs her. She’s tired. Months stretch on and I give up on another casualty of the Lord of the diamond-chip rings. With her mate and nuclear family back in place, she is reminded of her responsibilities to her own-—that it is immature for a married woman to be laughing a little too loud with unmarried friends, watching cheesy 90s television on DVD, and eating handfuls of gooey treats that will surely expand her waistline. I know she has other married friends who are probably better company for her as they do understand the status-specific issues, but I still feel left out as if this was the line-up for kickball and once again nobody wants me on their team.
Flashbacks don’t help this emotional confusion. Being the only person stag at my junior prom. Faking migraines to get out of “third wheel” moments. Knowing the only man waiting for me in my bed tonight is five years old, covered with fur and has Meow Mix breath. As much as I would hate losing much of my independence and my individual identity, I still want what she has. Someone to dance with me. Someone to massage my feet after a very long day at work. Someone to hold me and stroke my hair when I’m needing comfort. Someone to curl up with during a movie fest. Someone to tell me that I’m beautiful. Someone to blame the latest blast of flatulence on besides the cat. Someone to go on double dates with me and my married sisters-in-Christ.
I toed the cracks in the sidewalk, taking my time walking to my car as the lackluster pizza slowly dissolved in a churning stomach. This hesitation to say such a tiny phrase didn’t make sense. Was it a spiritual thing? No, because Christ did tell everyone that He loved them, especially the church—He even died for everyone. Why was I having such difficulties uttering three simple words like every stereotypical non-committal man? Perhaps my heart knew that when I allowed the creation of the emotional bond that comes with those honestly-spoken words, it would hurt even worse when her engagement turned into marriage later that year. Perhaps it knew that my sister/lover-in-Christ would be just like all the others who forget what it was like to be “single and waiting” much like parents forget what it was like to be “teenaged and hormonal.” Perhaps it knew that a year later I would be sitting in that booth, alone, writing in my journal and crumbling dry, floury crust into a funeral mound built for two.
***This essay is the property of the author. Please respect my rights to my work.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you!”
The endearment took me completely off guard.
“Um, ‘love you’?”
“Yeah! Didn’t anyone explain this to you? (Shake head.) You’re my sister in Christ and therefore family, right? (Nod.) Well, family members say they love each other, right? (Nod.) Well, I love you like a sister, and therefore I can say I love you and vice versa, okay?”
She flounced off down the sidewalk, leaving me surrounded by our shattered boundary. I had been a Christian for nearly two decades and while the term “sibling-in-Christ” had been thrown around more than the incessant pleas for tithes, the magnitude of what exactly this entailed had never crossed my mind. There was nothing quite like going from being the younger of two sisters to one of thousands, possibly millions. I eventually adjusted to that change in the definition of “family.” Now I was expected, or at least allowed, to declare my deep affection for all of them at every good-bye.
“I love you.” Prior to this luncheon that had been a phrase reserved for just a few people: Mom and Dad, my biological sister, Grandma on our annual visit, and a few scattered aunts and uncles. Now I’d been pulled into an apparently more affectionate family, with female Christian friends added onto my list of loved ones. At first glance it isn’t that bad of a deal – all the sentiment with none of the germ transmission or genetics. After all, they are family, right?
Just like any family with children, though, sibling rivalry takes a toll on our relationship. The big problem with spiritual sisters comes when these sisters of mine start attaching themselves to my brothers-in-Christ and I end up with brothers-in-Christ-in-law. It’s a peculiar form of incest that doesn’t truly seem to bother anyone. “Marry your brother-in-Christ, you say? Well, how wonderful! Do you need a blender? Cake pan? Laundry basket filled with cleaning supplies?” (No gender role assignment there.)
When the little metal loop slides onto that fateful finger, this sister who loved me morphs into a distracted semi-friend with no time for affection anymore. The second I jumped into the “I love you” pool, everyone else bailed out. Married Christian women in their early twenties is quickly becoming a clique that will bring you back to junior high faster than those horrible fashions find their way back onto the shelves. It was bad enough being told that at the ripe old age of eighteen, I was the only remaining member of my graduating high school class who was a virgin and did not have a husband, lover, or illegitimate child. Now the God-fearing ladies from my liberal-arts college, who encouraged me to develop my personality and interests, are “finally” waving farewell to the tempestuous land of singledom. Their abandonment of me is apparently justified by pointing out that I, single, “don’t understand anymore.” Exactly my point, ladies, exactly my point.
I fully admit that there are many things I don’t understand about married women. I don’t understand why having a belching, farting man grinning with morning breath strong enough to peel the paint off your precious four-poster bed means you no longer want to have sleepovers. I don’t understand that pesky little “down-there” infection you got over your honeymoon that still makes you nervous on the fourth night in a row. I don’t understand the joys and annoyances of having to fold his underwear only to find you’ve cleaned the same pair twice without him wearing them once. Of course you can’t come over for dinner. Leave that man alone long enough and he’ll look at Bertie the Beta fish thinking “sushi.” There are no more calls at two a.m. when you can’t sleep and want someone to help you talk out the thing that’s bugging you. It’s so much easier just to kick him in the side and make him listen. I used to curl up with you on the couch, braid your hair, and remark on your great choices in shampoo and perfume. There was skipping around the square and nearly killing ourselves tripping in the flip-flops that were such a bargain. You’re right, I don’t understand. I’m an old maid in my mid-twenties and you have “moved on.”
I look around at the scattered remains of our loving sisterhood and wonder out loud, “What happened to you?” The answer is actually quite simple. I see it when I consider the first girl to tell me she loved me, now my filing-jointly-on-her-tax-forms semi-friend. Her soul is meshed, bonded, a part of his, no longer just her own. They are one, and for her it’s not the loneliest number. With togetherness does come conflict—-little disagreements and differences in opinion between husband and wife hurt more than most people realize…well, us “single people.” Married folk have to sacrifice everything: privacy, secrets, those little habits that she never noticed before but which annoy her partner to no end. She can’t hold things to herself for long in a marriage without causing big problems. She can't just ignore the guy for a few days, hoping he’ll never contact her again or “get the hint.” She probably has “house-training” to add on to her already huge to-do list unless he had sisters and a fairly non-neurotic mother to lay down the groundwork. It’s like having a puppy around, only bigger, hungrier, and hopefully much sexier. I’m the Persian rug that was oh-so-valuable, now stashed in the closet until the little dog is no longer around. We just don’t mix.
When the husband is away, however, the yin to the yang gets lonely. Her memory bombards her with fuzzy pictures of laughing faces, late-night talks, and bonding that had nothing to do with romantic love. For the past few months (or years) she has been concerned with retirement funds, birth control, cooking for two, and budgeting—-not exactly compatible with my extensive student loans, DVD collection, celibacy, and adventurous spirit. Still, I agree when a voice echoes nostalgically over the line. “You want to do something tonight? My hubby's gone and...I just want to hang out.”
I head over with a few movie rentals and a bag of homemade goodies. Standing back to look at the woman I haven’t seen in a few seasons, it hits me with a jolt that while she is still my spiritual sister, the chasm of the flower-bedecked aisle is just too great and permanent to be crossed. I barely even recognize her. I put on a happy face to save her feelings as she tries to entertain me with stories of housework that bore me and hints at sexual escapades that teeter between embarrassing and nauseating. Next are the stresses of struggling to budget money for both food and insurance, arguments over past loves coming over to visit, tales of the in-laws, and having to ask before spending money on new shoes she wanted “just because.” It’s here on an uncomfortable second-hand couch in a cluttered living room that I realize a bigger force separating us. Pity. I look at her loss of freedom, financial difficulties, and adjustments to constant teamwork much the way she looks at my uncertain future plans, longing for love, and loneliness. One’s cure is the other’s curse.
My brother-in-Christ-in-law returns home the next day. I call after a week of silence only to find the housewife reluctant to leave her love. She’s busy. It’s their date night. He needs her. She’s tired. Months stretch on and I give up on another casualty of the Lord of the diamond-chip rings. With her mate and nuclear family back in place, she is reminded of her responsibilities to her own-—that it is immature for a married woman to be laughing a little too loud with unmarried friends, watching cheesy 90s television on DVD, and eating handfuls of gooey treats that will surely expand her waistline. I know she has other married friends who are probably better company for her as they do understand the status-specific issues, but I still feel left out as if this was the line-up for kickball and once again nobody wants me on their team.
Flashbacks don’t help this emotional confusion. Being the only person stag at my junior prom. Faking migraines to get out of “third wheel” moments. Knowing the only man waiting for me in my bed tonight is five years old, covered with fur and has Meow Mix breath. As much as I would hate losing much of my independence and my individual identity, I still want what she has. Someone to dance with me. Someone to massage my feet after a very long day at work. Someone to hold me and stroke my hair when I’m needing comfort. Someone to curl up with during a movie fest. Someone to tell me that I’m beautiful. Someone to blame the latest blast of flatulence on besides the cat. Someone to go on double dates with me and my married sisters-in-Christ.
I toed the cracks in the sidewalk, taking my time walking to my car as the lackluster pizza slowly dissolved in a churning stomach. This hesitation to say such a tiny phrase didn’t make sense. Was it a spiritual thing? No, because Christ did tell everyone that He loved them, especially the church—He even died for everyone. Why was I having such difficulties uttering three simple words like every stereotypical non-committal man? Perhaps my heart knew that when I allowed the creation of the emotional bond that comes with those honestly-spoken words, it would hurt even worse when her engagement turned into marriage later that year. Perhaps it knew that my sister/lover-in-Christ would be just like all the others who forget what it was like to be “single and waiting” much like parents forget what it was like to be “teenaged and hormonal.” Perhaps it knew that a year later I would be sitting in that booth, alone, writing in my journal and crumbling dry, floury crust into a funeral mound built for two.
***This essay is the property of the author. Please respect my rights to my work.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Paying Attention
Today I made a big mistake while teaching. I work in a computer lab, and the teacher's computer can be projected onto a large screen at the front of the class--ideal for watching films, discussing papers together, etc. I had powered it up to walk students through how to format their portfolios that are due in two days and everything was going fine. The instructions over, I gave them class time to work on their projects while I pulled up old essays to finish grading.
What I didn't realize was that while I was commenting on drafts, saving new copies, and entering their grades into my Excel workbook, I had left the projector on. Anyone who cared could have looked up from their screen and saw not only their grades but the grades of all their classmates.
Oops.
Luckily, only one student noticed and he was so upset about his own grade that he didn't really pay attention to anyone else's. He brought my snafu to my attention and I quickly switched off the feed before, hopefully, anyone else had noticed.
While I'm thoroughly embarrassed and not too thrilled with myself for doing this, it did teach me a valuable lesson. I really need to pay more attention to what I'm doing, and not just in the classroom.
What am I spending my time on, really? What am I saying during those "unimportant" moments? How am I reacting to small details as well as big ones? What "unconscious" mannerisms do I have that don't necessarily reflect Christ? This time of reflection reveals a lot about myself--and a lot of areas that I need to work on.
Today I learned more than just double-checking the projector. What will you learn about yourself by looking a little closer at the things we do without realizing?
What I didn't realize was that while I was commenting on drafts, saving new copies, and entering their grades into my Excel workbook, I had left the projector on. Anyone who cared could have looked up from their screen and saw not only their grades but the grades of all their classmates.
Oops.
Luckily, only one student noticed and he was so upset about his own grade that he didn't really pay attention to anyone else's. He brought my snafu to my attention and I quickly switched off the feed before, hopefully, anyone else had noticed.
While I'm thoroughly embarrassed and not too thrilled with myself for doing this, it did teach me a valuable lesson. I really need to pay more attention to what I'm doing, and not just in the classroom.
What am I spending my time on, really? What am I saying during those "unimportant" moments? How am I reacting to small details as well as big ones? What "unconscious" mannerisms do I have that don't necessarily reflect Christ? This time of reflection reveals a lot about myself--and a lot of areas that I need to work on.
Today I learned more than just double-checking the projector. What will you learn about yourself by looking a little closer at the things we do without realizing?
Friday, April 17, 2009
Untitled Poem II
It has been cast away
So it says
He will never remember
So it says
The sea has swallowed the shame, the pain, never to resurface
So it says
So why can't I forgive myself?
So it says
He will never remember
So it says
The sea has swallowed the shame, the pain, never to resurface
So it says
So why can't I forgive myself?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
True Relaxation: God Can Use You Anywhere!
Too many times in my life I feel like a toddler following my mother around the house, asking a single question in response to her every word. “Why?” Lately I’ve been doing that to God. Why haven’t you given me a sign as to my future? Why have you given me the struggles that I have? Why have you healed others but not me? As of this morning, I have an answer.
Living with a disease like fibromyalgia is a study in patience and perseverance. Everything could cause pain, but not everything will all of the time. It’s so full of variables and unexplained phenomena that I’m constantly on my toes. Will I be able to climb the stairs today? Will sitting in my office chair suddenly cause stabs of pain in my hips? Will I get a migraine or not? There are no definite answers, no good “preventative” treatments, at least not for me. There is just my willpower that will breathe through the pain and the prescription narcotics for when it’s too much for me to bear. One thing does help: massage therapy. Going once a week to have these talented women work out my knotted muscles and address the misfiring nerves actually makes each week more livable.
Still, I wondered why God hadn’t healed me. I accepted long ago that there was a reason for this, but we all know how that goes. Without knowing what that “reason” might be, it doesn’t mean as much. Yes, I have developed a great friendship with the two therapists I work with, but is that all?
No.
Today my session ran a little late (my shoulders were tighter than expected). I dressed in a hurry, worrying about the delay causing a problem for the next client waiting for her treatment. The waiting room was a little more crowded than usual, two women waiting on the couch. I usually would have not taken as much time getting out of there, and even offered to call back later to reschedule for next week. God wanted me to stay, though, and the therapist held me off for a few moments, comparing schedules and getting me my requisite post-massage glass of water. I was about to leave when one of the women burst into tears. Turns out that her quiet phone call in the waiting room was to a sibling concerning their sister—who had been told that depending on the surgery today, she would either survive her cancer for three weeks or three months. Ordinarily, sympathetic looks would be all that I could offer—the sobbing redhead was a stranger to me. A fellow client, but no real connection. God didn’t agree.
Before I knew it I was ministering to the woman, telling her my aunt’s story of a miraculous healing from cancer just about ten years ago. “God healed her. She had faith that she would survive, and in six months there was no trace of the cancers whatsoever—and the doctors still can’t figure it out.” Just this past March we had another scare with my aunt. There was a possibility that her brain tumor, surgically removed back in the 1970s, had grown back as her eyesight was once again diminishing. A specialist in Chicago stood dumbfounded as for no “medical” reason, the disruption in sight had disappeared and there was no trace of that looming tumor.
The crying woman gave me a big hug as she left, and later asked me in the parking lot for my name and phone number so I could try to get her family in contact with my aunt. “Thank you so much for sharing that,” she said while wiping her eyes. “It’s exactly what we’ve been needing.”
If I hadn’t been diagnosed with fibromyalgia two years ago, I never would have started getting massages. If I hadn’t build up such a great relationship with the therapists, I never would have seen them this often. If I hadn’t been slammed this week with responsibilities, I never would have made my appointment for this morning. That I met this woman in such great need, my story the exact balm necessary, can only be explained by the hand of God.
When it comes to accepting “there must be a reason” philosophies, leaving our faith in God for Him to show us in His time, be prepared for a wonderful and amazing experience. It may take months, years, or even decades, but everything will come together for His glory. Praise God, our Heavenly Father, in His infinite wisdom and grace.
Living with a disease like fibromyalgia is a study in patience and perseverance. Everything could cause pain, but not everything will all of the time. It’s so full of variables and unexplained phenomena that I’m constantly on my toes. Will I be able to climb the stairs today? Will sitting in my office chair suddenly cause stabs of pain in my hips? Will I get a migraine or not? There are no definite answers, no good “preventative” treatments, at least not for me. There is just my willpower that will breathe through the pain and the prescription narcotics for when it’s too much for me to bear. One thing does help: massage therapy. Going once a week to have these talented women work out my knotted muscles and address the misfiring nerves actually makes each week more livable.
Still, I wondered why God hadn’t healed me. I accepted long ago that there was a reason for this, but we all know how that goes. Without knowing what that “reason” might be, it doesn’t mean as much. Yes, I have developed a great friendship with the two therapists I work with, but is that all?
No.
Today my session ran a little late (my shoulders were tighter than expected). I dressed in a hurry, worrying about the delay causing a problem for the next client waiting for her treatment. The waiting room was a little more crowded than usual, two women waiting on the couch. I usually would have not taken as much time getting out of there, and even offered to call back later to reschedule for next week. God wanted me to stay, though, and the therapist held me off for a few moments, comparing schedules and getting me my requisite post-massage glass of water. I was about to leave when one of the women burst into tears. Turns out that her quiet phone call in the waiting room was to a sibling concerning their sister—who had been told that depending on the surgery today, she would either survive her cancer for three weeks or three months. Ordinarily, sympathetic looks would be all that I could offer—the sobbing redhead was a stranger to me. A fellow client, but no real connection. God didn’t agree.
Before I knew it I was ministering to the woman, telling her my aunt’s story of a miraculous healing from cancer just about ten years ago. “God healed her. She had faith that she would survive, and in six months there was no trace of the cancers whatsoever—and the doctors still can’t figure it out.” Just this past March we had another scare with my aunt. There was a possibility that her brain tumor, surgically removed back in the 1970s, had grown back as her eyesight was once again diminishing. A specialist in Chicago stood dumbfounded as for no “medical” reason, the disruption in sight had disappeared and there was no trace of that looming tumor.
The crying woman gave me a big hug as she left, and later asked me in the parking lot for my name and phone number so I could try to get her family in contact with my aunt. “Thank you so much for sharing that,” she said while wiping her eyes. “It’s exactly what we’ve been needing.”
If I hadn’t been diagnosed with fibromyalgia two years ago, I never would have started getting massages. If I hadn’t build up such a great relationship with the therapists, I never would have seen them this often. If I hadn’t been slammed this week with responsibilities, I never would have made my appointment for this morning. That I met this woman in such great need, my story the exact balm necessary, can only be explained by the hand of God.
When it comes to accepting “there must be a reason” philosophies, leaving our faith in God for Him to show us in His time, be prepared for a wonderful and amazing experience. It may take months, years, or even decades, but everything will come together for His glory. Praise God, our Heavenly Father, in His infinite wisdom and grace.
Collapsed Children
You commanded us to forgive
Seventy times Seven
You commanded us to love them
As we love ourselves
And yet our neighbors stand out in the cold
Waiting
For an open door
We've heard the sermons preached from
Pulpits
Desks
Doors
Remember we are sinful creatures!
Repent ye unworthy!
Remember Who must save you!
And we wonder why He would want to.
We have closed our hearts full of pains
We have closed our eyes full of tears
We have closed our minds full of fears
We have closed our hands full of chains
We fall.
Seventy times Seven
You commanded us to love them
As we love ourselves
And yet our neighbors stand out in the cold
Waiting
For an open door
We've heard the sermons preached from
Pulpits
Desks
Doors
Remember we are sinful creatures!
Repent ye unworthy!
Remember Who must save you!
And we wonder why He would want to.
We have closed our hearts full of pains
We have closed our eyes full of tears
We have closed our minds full of fears
We have closed our hands full of chains
We fall.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Blank Directional Signs
I have been praying for signs. This is different than when I'm usually praying for signs--when I'm lost in a new (or old) town and can't seem to figure out if my directions meant Main Street or Main Drive (don't even get me started on GPS--driving in Chicago was not fun). I've been praying for God to give me a sign of my future employment, what will determine the next few months of my life. I didn't ask for wet wool on dry ground, or even a baby deer sighting (leftover from a sign I asked for in 5th grade--and got). I simply let the sign be of God's design.
I haven't had a clear directional shout, but I have had confirmation that God has a sense of humor when it comes to teaching me patience.
Hardly any of the schools I have applied to work at have contacted me to let me know of either my rejection or approval, and phone calls have yielded only lukewarm results: we're starting the process now, and should be picking people shortly. My other option was to work part-time (but full-time work) at a local community college which pays insultingly low salaries to adjunct professors. This is my back-up plan, my safety net in case God's choice is to keep me here in my hometown. I'd also work my full-time job on the weekends to keep benefits (meager as they are). If God intends for me to stay in this small town, then I am "prepared." I am also jumpy as a skittish housecat during an electrical storm as I work my way through these last remaining weeks of the school semester.
My boss at my full-time job announces that I might have a brand new client to care for soon, one who will require a lot of lifting and a lot of routine changes. I'm not that fond of change--God, is this a sign that my time at this job is over and I'm going to be moving on? My mother gives away some of the furniture that she was saving for me when I move out. God, is this a sign that I'm going to continue living here for at least another year? A good friend of mine is probably moving back to the Midwest and could use a roommate when she gets here. God, am I heading off to live with her, working in some college while she does her travel agency work? A friendly undergraduate remarks on how much he is going to miss me if I leave and really wants me to stay. God, am I still needed here to help some of these undergrads and former students? Every circumstance, every happening, from finding out I could get used to living at home without going to school (staying here) to packing up kitchen supplies for my own home someday (leaving) is being obsessively examined for clues. I look over my life with a magnifying glass, breathing a prayer for wisdom to spot the nefarious anomaly that will solve my future-seeking dilemma once and for all.
God has got to be chuckling over this. At least shaking His head and wondering what He's going to do with me.
I'm finding that fear is creeping in as the semester eeks away. I will soon be graduated. A non-student adult. My identity, for better or for worse, will be changed. Uncertainty is leading to a discomfort that I push down, deep inside, pretending that it isn't there and that I have faith enough to move mountains of doubt. Truth is, I'm getting nervous. Perhaps my back-up plan is God's sign, and I've just dismissed it. Perhaps all these mixed signals are just designed to test my faith. So far, I'm not sure I'm passing.
My prayer for today is this: God, teach me how to listen to You. Let me know what it is that You want for me, and help me to be patient and wait for that answer.
If nothing else, just keep me sane for finals. :)
I haven't had a clear directional shout, but I have had confirmation that God has a sense of humor when it comes to teaching me patience.
Hardly any of the schools I have applied to work at have contacted me to let me know of either my rejection or approval, and phone calls have yielded only lukewarm results: we're starting the process now, and should be picking people shortly. My other option was to work part-time (but full-time work) at a local community college which pays insultingly low salaries to adjunct professors. This is my back-up plan, my safety net in case God's choice is to keep me here in my hometown. I'd also work my full-time job on the weekends to keep benefits (meager as they are). If God intends for me to stay in this small town, then I am "prepared." I am also jumpy as a skittish housecat during an electrical storm as I work my way through these last remaining weeks of the school semester.
My boss at my full-time job announces that I might have a brand new client to care for soon, one who will require a lot of lifting and a lot of routine changes. I'm not that fond of change--God, is this a sign that my time at this job is over and I'm going to be moving on? My mother gives away some of the furniture that she was saving for me when I move out. God, is this a sign that I'm going to continue living here for at least another year? A good friend of mine is probably moving back to the Midwest and could use a roommate when she gets here. God, am I heading off to live with her, working in some college while she does her travel agency work? A friendly undergraduate remarks on how much he is going to miss me if I leave and really wants me to stay. God, am I still needed here to help some of these undergrads and former students? Every circumstance, every happening, from finding out I could get used to living at home without going to school (staying here) to packing up kitchen supplies for my own home someday (leaving) is being obsessively examined for clues. I look over my life with a magnifying glass, breathing a prayer for wisdom to spot the nefarious anomaly that will solve my future-seeking dilemma once and for all.
God has got to be chuckling over this. At least shaking His head and wondering what He's going to do with me.
I'm finding that fear is creeping in as the semester eeks away. I will soon be graduated. A non-student adult. My identity, for better or for worse, will be changed. Uncertainty is leading to a discomfort that I push down, deep inside, pretending that it isn't there and that I have faith enough to move mountains of doubt. Truth is, I'm getting nervous. Perhaps my back-up plan is God's sign, and I've just dismissed it. Perhaps all these mixed signals are just designed to test my faith. So far, I'm not sure I'm passing.
My prayer for today is this: God, teach me how to listen to You. Let me know what it is that You want for me, and help me to be patient and wait for that answer.
If nothing else, just keep me sane for finals. :)
Thursday, April 9, 2009
490 and counting...
We all know this woman. The one who keeps us up at night. The one who keeps us ripping out our hair in frustration (and Rogaine ain't cheap, babe). The one who makes, quite honestly, the dumbest mistakes and can't seem to see the obvious warning signs ahead of her that this is NOT A GOOD IDEA. She's the one who even drags us into her problems without our knowledge until one day the phone rings... She's a good friend, or at least used to be.
She was my best friend.
I don't quite understand what happened to this girl I knew. She was my rock when I hit sub-bottom in life. She listened and cared and prayed and got me back on track. Once I was healthy, I noticed her sliding and desperately tried to pull her up. I bailed her out. I kept her secrets. I gave her gentle scoldings while still nodding, yeah, I know. I watched as she completely blew up her life, time and time again, for no real reason while denying that she was ever in trouble. At that point, all I could do was watch. She wouldn't let me guide her and I can't save her, just like she couldn't save me. She had to make that decision to save herself.
Time went on, she moved out of town to just over an hour away, and it seemed that after a few rocky starts that things were finally on the rise for her. Yeah, it wasn't her ideal picture of the world, but she was making progress (at least as much as she would admit to on the phone). She made new friends, got involved with a community, and left me behind. In a way, I understood. Long-distance relationships were never my strong point, either. We still chatted occasionally on the phone and kept in touch via Facebook (thank you to that mysterious college student creator--you have no idea what you have done for my social life). I kept up with her as best I could, which isn't easy when I'm working two jobs and returning phone calls was never her strong suit (especially with creditors bugging her for money--but that's a story for another day).
My current struggle with her is one that I'm not sue how to negotiate. The short version goes like this: one of my favorite living authors was visiting her town for a special speaking engagement, the kind of thing that happens once in a blue moon. She promised to get us tickets as part of her "repay me" fund. It would be a bonding event for the both of us, the first time we would have spent significant time together in person in months. It meant the world to me--what could be greater than a public reading and my best friend?
I knew money was an issue so I offered to buy the tickets. No, it's my treat for you, she said. You can pay me back--I just want to make sure we get them before they sell out. Nope, I got it under control. Four months before the reading, it seemed that way--and before I knew it she told me she bought two tickets, balcony seating. Wahoo!
I found out a few weeks ago that the reading was sold-out, and upon touching base with my friend she seemed confused. Apparently she had lied (deliberately or not, I'm not entirely sure) and hadn't bought the tickets. No worries, though--she'd take care of everything.
You know where this is going, right? I spent the night of the reading alone, at home, grading papers while many of my other friends and classmates got to hear my favorite author in person. Everyone was chattering excitedly about it today, thanking me for bringing the event to their attention. I felt betrayed.
If my friend had just been honest, or responsible, I would have had a great time with her last night. She knew what going to that reading meant to me. It wasn't so much missing the event that bugged me. It was that she hadn't taken the time to make room for me in her life. If it was money, she could have asked and I would have had absolutely no qualms or judgments about paying. Instead, I have no clue what she did that night, but I know it wasn't with me. I wasn't important enough for her to take the time or energy to spend less than two minutes on a website and buy tickets. Our friendship wasn't worth the $70 I would have happily spent on seats. Our years of supporting each other as best we could added up to no communication and half-truths. In the end, all I get is a confused reply to my text this morning, wondering how I didn't know that we weren't going.
Making friends, especially close Christian female friends, in this world is pretty tough. We should hold on to the ones we have, forgiving 70 x 7 as Jesus said (although the implication was more unconditional than numerical). Forgiveness means working past the hurt feelings. Forgiveness means being honest that there were hurt feelings. Forgiveness means challenging yourself and the friend to work on the hiccups in the road.
I have a German-Austrian heritage and temper, which means we have a long fuse, blow hard, but blow over quickly. Within a day or two I'll have calmed down and forgiven her. What won't happen overnight is trust. Her behavior as of last year had decimated a lot of the trust between us, and this latest issue crushed most of the remaining bits. I keep asking myself why this happened, what went wrong, what I should have done, just how far I feel like I can trust her now--and I'm telling you that it's not very far. I wanted to believe in her again. I wanted to use this great event to springboard reclaiming lost ground between us. I feel as though I got her answer--silence, and then the usual plea for infinite forgiveness. And she wonders why I don't trust her. Sometimes "sorry" just isn't enough.
Trust is vital to healthy relationships. We trust God to care for us, and therfore don't worry as much (theoretically). We need to trust each other, and care well for that trust, in order to thrive as sisters-in-Christ. After forgiveness comes prayer again--this time to build up trust and start over...seventy times seven. This week, let's pray for the wisdom to rebuild broken walls and set solid foundations. In an increasingly secular world, can we really afford to lose much more ground?
She was my best friend.
I don't quite understand what happened to this girl I knew. She was my rock when I hit sub-bottom in life. She listened and cared and prayed and got me back on track. Once I was healthy, I noticed her sliding and desperately tried to pull her up. I bailed her out. I kept her secrets. I gave her gentle scoldings while still nodding, yeah, I know. I watched as she completely blew up her life, time and time again, for no real reason while denying that she was ever in trouble. At that point, all I could do was watch. She wouldn't let me guide her and I can't save her, just like she couldn't save me. She had to make that decision to save herself.
Time went on, she moved out of town to just over an hour away, and it seemed that after a few rocky starts that things were finally on the rise for her. Yeah, it wasn't her ideal picture of the world, but she was making progress (at least as much as she would admit to on the phone). She made new friends, got involved with a community, and left me behind. In a way, I understood. Long-distance relationships were never my strong point, either. We still chatted occasionally on the phone and kept in touch via Facebook (thank you to that mysterious college student creator--you have no idea what you have done for my social life). I kept up with her as best I could, which isn't easy when I'm working two jobs and returning phone calls was never her strong suit (especially with creditors bugging her for money--but that's a story for another day).
My current struggle with her is one that I'm not sue how to negotiate. The short version goes like this: one of my favorite living authors was visiting her town for a special speaking engagement, the kind of thing that happens once in a blue moon. She promised to get us tickets as part of her "repay me" fund. It would be a bonding event for the both of us, the first time we would have spent significant time together in person in months. It meant the world to me--what could be greater than a public reading and my best friend?
I knew money was an issue so I offered to buy the tickets. No, it's my treat for you, she said. You can pay me back--I just want to make sure we get them before they sell out. Nope, I got it under control. Four months before the reading, it seemed that way--and before I knew it she told me she bought two tickets, balcony seating. Wahoo!
I found out a few weeks ago that the reading was sold-out, and upon touching base with my friend she seemed confused. Apparently she had lied (deliberately or not, I'm not entirely sure) and hadn't bought the tickets. No worries, though--she'd take care of everything.
You know where this is going, right? I spent the night of the reading alone, at home, grading papers while many of my other friends and classmates got to hear my favorite author in person. Everyone was chattering excitedly about it today, thanking me for bringing the event to their attention. I felt betrayed.
If my friend had just been honest, or responsible, I would have had a great time with her last night. She knew what going to that reading meant to me. It wasn't so much missing the event that bugged me. It was that she hadn't taken the time to make room for me in her life. If it was money, she could have asked and I would have had absolutely no qualms or judgments about paying. Instead, I have no clue what she did that night, but I know it wasn't with me. I wasn't important enough for her to take the time or energy to spend less than two minutes on a website and buy tickets. Our friendship wasn't worth the $70 I would have happily spent on seats. Our years of supporting each other as best we could added up to no communication and half-truths. In the end, all I get is a confused reply to my text this morning, wondering how I didn't know that we weren't going.
Making friends, especially close Christian female friends, in this world is pretty tough. We should hold on to the ones we have, forgiving 70 x 7 as Jesus said (although the implication was more unconditional than numerical). Forgiveness means working past the hurt feelings. Forgiveness means being honest that there were hurt feelings. Forgiveness means challenging yourself and the friend to work on the hiccups in the road.
I have a German-Austrian heritage and temper, which means we have a long fuse, blow hard, but blow over quickly. Within a day or two I'll have calmed down and forgiven her. What won't happen overnight is trust. Her behavior as of last year had decimated a lot of the trust between us, and this latest issue crushed most of the remaining bits. I keep asking myself why this happened, what went wrong, what I should have done, just how far I feel like I can trust her now--and I'm telling you that it's not very far. I wanted to believe in her again. I wanted to use this great event to springboard reclaiming lost ground between us. I feel as though I got her answer--silence, and then the usual plea for infinite forgiveness. And she wonders why I don't trust her. Sometimes "sorry" just isn't enough.
Trust is vital to healthy relationships. We trust God to care for us, and therfore don't worry as much (theoretically). We need to trust each other, and care well for that trust, in order to thrive as sisters-in-Christ. After forgiveness comes prayer again--this time to build up trust and start over...seventy times seven. This week, let's pray for the wisdom to rebuild broken walls and set solid foundations. In an increasingly secular world, can we really afford to lose much more ground?
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Being Useful
After several days of silence, it's fitting that this entry should be about doing something--especially as I haven't done much of anything lately. Oh, I have excuses. After hosting a conference all weekend, working extra shifts at work Monday and Tuesday, and my thesis defense last week, it's perfectly "acceptable" that I haven't been that productive lately.
Um, sorry, but it's not.
I have a bit of a lazy streak which interacts with my perfectionist tendencies in an odd way--I'll go through a flurry of activity, then spend days (or even weeks) being downright vegetative. Maybe I'll spend a few hours playing a computer game or watching classic TV shows on my computer. Maybe I'll read or stare at my pile of laundry, wishing it to magically do itself. The past few days, not much has been accomplished. I could have, should have done a lot of things. But, again, I have excuses. I'm tired. I'm needing "a break." I'm stressed out. I'm recuperating.
God's not happy with this, however. He gave me so many abilities, so many gifts, and even one day without doing something is a waste of time. Granted, He doesn't expect me to be a 24/7 whirling dervish; He doesn't expect me to be a couch potato, either.
This entry is a reminder to all of us: stop making excuses. We're lazy, we know it, and we need help to change. Today is not over yet. Make it worth something. Check something off the list besides "take a break." Challenge yourself to make today a day that you won't regret.
Um, sorry, but it's not.
I have a bit of a lazy streak which interacts with my perfectionist tendencies in an odd way--I'll go through a flurry of activity, then spend days (or even weeks) being downright vegetative. Maybe I'll spend a few hours playing a computer game or watching classic TV shows on my computer. Maybe I'll read or stare at my pile of laundry, wishing it to magically do itself. The past few days, not much has been accomplished. I could have, should have done a lot of things. But, again, I have excuses. I'm tired. I'm needing "a break." I'm stressed out. I'm recuperating.
God's not happy with this, however. He gave me so many abilities, so many gifts, and even one day without doing something is a waste of time. Granted, He doesn't expect me to be a 24/7 whirling dervish; He doesn't expect me to be a couch potato, either.
This entry is a reminder to all of us: stop making excuses. We're lazy, we know it, and we need help to change. Today is not over yet. Make it worth something. Check something off the list besides "take a break." Challenge yourself to make today a day that you won't regret.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Waiting for a Sign
Something you don't often hear me say is that I envy Old Testament Biblical characters. Do I care to be Bathsheba, lusted after by a king so much that he kills my husband? Nope. Perhaps Rachel, then, mother of one of the greatest Biblical heroes but competes for attention from her hubsband with her sister. Don't think so. Esther, savior of the Jewish people? Not really in the mood for a beauty contest, thank you. All that aside, I do envy some of the men, particularly now. I could use a burning bush a-la-Moses, or just a soggy piece of animal skin a-la-Gideon. I'm waiting for a sign from God...and I'm finding out just how impatient I can be.
Don't get me wrong--I know that God has plans for me (Jeremiah tells me so) and that He is in total control. I know that my worries about finding the right career path at this time are just that--worries. Unfounded concerns that might show my human failings more than I wish. I would love to be so completely in tune with God that I wouldn't give any of the daily reminders that my future is quite uncertain a second thought. At the end of the day, I'm still human. Still failing. Still worrying.
Take one part economic recession, one part academic competition, and one part indiscriminate "change" and you have a cocktail for peace broken into chaos. I have a back-up plan in place, and even a back-up to the back-up. If I have to, I'll stay working at the company caring for mentally/physcially handicapped people. If I have to, I can always go back and teach preschool again (I still love those little rugrats despite the temper tantrums). If I have to. What I want is to use the education I've acquired, get a full-time job teaching in a community college. I've applied and applied. The only answers I've gotten so far are rejections--the rest are terribly, nerve-wrackingly silent. At this point I would almost prefer a rejection. Anticipation is overrated, at least where jobs are concerned.
I was doing pretty well for quite a while, even fooling myself that I would be perfectly happy with my back-up plans. I told everyone that I had faith. I did, and do. It's just not as strong lately as I'd like it to me. What I need, in typical whiny human fashion, is an indelible sign. Something unmistakeable. Something that will give me the answers I need: should I stay or should I go? Will I be moving this summer or staying here? Will I be teaching full-time, part-time, or not at all? Will my job duties change at my current position, making my routine life as a "house parent" suddenly a lot more difficult and stressful?
I'm finding myself in limbo, and not the happy party game (although I never really enjoyed the concept of a game that would only benefit chiropractors). It's scary graduating school, especially with no options for staying in school, in relative safety. I'm going to have loans to pay back soon. Extra bills. I'd rather have homework...again.
I've prayed for signs. I've prayed for dreams--and trust me, those have NOT been helpful unless my sister is really going to help care for my mother's mysterious birth of quintuplets (thanks, Dad). I've prayed for peace, for patience, for whatever other virtue is going to get me through this time. I feel some of it. I'd be going crazy 24/7 if I didn't. I just don't like this uncertainty, this worry that I'm not going to make the right choice. That I'm not going to have a choice.
Praying for faith and patience is a good thing. If God answers the prayer, though, be prepared to learn them in spades. :)
Don't get me wrong--I know that God has plans for me (Jeremiah tells me so) and that He is in total control. I know that my worries about finding the right career path at this time are just that--worries. Unfounded concerns that might show my human failings more than I wish. I would love to be so completely in tune with God that I wouldn't give any of the daily reminders that my future is quite uncertain a second thought. At the end of the day, I'm still human. Still failing. Still worrying.
Take one part economic recession, one part academic competition, and one part indiscriminate "change" and you have a cocktail for peace broken into chaos. I have a back-up plan in place, and even a back-up to the back-up. If I have to, I'll stay working at the company caring for mentally/physcially handicapped people. If I have to, I can always go back and teach preschool again (I still love those little rugrats despite the temper tantrums). If I have to. What I want is to use the education I've acquired, get a full-time job teaching in a community college. I've applied and applied. The only answers I've gotten so far are rejections--the rest are terribly, nerve-wrackingly silent. At this point I would almost prefer a rejection. Anticipation is overrated, at least where jobs are concerned.
I was doing pretty well for quite a while, even fooling myself that I would be perfectly happy with my back-up plans. I told everyone that I had faith. I did, and do. It's just not as strong lately as I'd like it to me. What I need, in typical whiny human fashion, is an indelible sign. Something unmistakeable. Something that will give me the answers I need: should I stay or should I go? Will I be moving this summer or staying here? Will I be teaching full-time, part-time, or not at all? Will my job duties change at my current position, making my routine life as a "house parent" suddenly a lot more difficult and stressful?
I'm finding myself in limbo, and not the happy party game (although I never really enjoyed the concept of a game that would only benefit chiropractors). It's scary graduating school, especially with no options for staying in school, in relative safety. I'm going to have loans to pay back soon. Extra bills. I'd rather have homework...again.
I've prayed for signs. I've prayed for dreams--and trust me, those have NOT been helpful unless my sister is really going to help care for my mother's mysterious birth of quintuplets (thanks, Dad). I've prayed for peace, for patience, for whatever other virtue is going to get me through this time. I feel some of it. I'd be going crazy 24/7 if I didn't. I just don't like this uncertainty, this worry that I'm not going to make the right choice. That I'm not going to have a choice.
Praying for faith and patience is a good thing. If God answers the prayer, though, be prepared to learn them in spades. :)
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Price of Prayer
It's late at night and I'm surfing around Facebook checking my friends' statuses and playing a couple of simple games (and, yes, procrastinating on finishing some homework). Any of us who are regular Facebookers know all about those ads on the right side of the page. Some are weird, some are offensive, and some just happen to catch your eye. This one did all three, though not at first. It said simply "Pray in the Vatican" with a secondary caption claiming that you could have your prayer read in the Vatican. I'll leave the grammatical criticism out of this for the most part. :)
I click on the link and am taken to a website that looks fairly innocuous. http://www.delivermyprayer.com/ has some beautiful photographs of the Vatican that are nearly seductive in their charm and detail. It's when you get to the real heart of the website and figure out what is really going on that "seduction" becomes a very appropriate word.
According to their "About Us" page, this organization has based themselves in a very powerful location. "As the Pope's ceremonial center and burial place of Saint Peter, the principal of the twelve apostles, Saint Peter's Basilica lies on some of the most uniquely divine ground for prayer." Wait, did I read that right? Divine ground for prayer? That doesn't quite match with what the Bible says:
Matthew 6:6 "But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly." (KJV) or for those of us NIV-ers, "But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you."
My closet, eh? My room, even? According to Jesus, who is speaking these words, the shoe-cluttered hardwood of my closet is preferable to this "divine ground." And what makes this Basilica so divine? Oh, yeah, that's right--it's a glorified graveyard. Gotcha.
But why is praying here, on this "divine ground," so much better? Let's turn back to the website. "We want to help you get your prayers heard by those who have the power to help. After you submit your prayer to us from anywhere in the world we hand deliver it to where the world has one of the closest bonds to the heavens." I'm sorry, but where did it say that I needed help getting my prayers heard? And why is praying near the graves of a few select "holy" men so much better? Praying isn't like talking on a cell phone--we don't get better reception if we're closer to a cell tower/dead saint. Nowhere that I can find in the Bible does it say that decaying matter increases the potency of prayer after Christ died for us. As far as St. Peter's Basilica being one of the closest bonds to the heavens (note their use of the plural "heavens" here...sound fishy to you, too?), that is a direct attack on the power of God. God is omnipresent. If He's everywhere, then stating that someplace has a better connection means that God is more powerful/accessible in some areas than others, that He's limited in your closet, your car, or anyplace outside of the Vatican. If my God is limited, then He's not (a) God, then is He?
The whole process of this prayer-reading is a little fuzzy, too. Say I buy into this (and I literally mean "buy"--for members it only costs 1.5 Euro per prayer; non-members pay 3 Euro per prayer. That's about $4 for Americans). Deliver My Prayer claims that "Your prayer is highly confidential and it means very much to us to keep your private thoughts strictly between you and the church." Well, it won't be confidential once you read it out loud, now will it? Oh, but they have that covered. "You may choose to have your prayer read aloud in the church or simply kept silent as our messengers emanate your communiqué to the sacred space." Ok, maybe this is a European thing, but how do you "emanate a communique?" Is this a reference to praying silently/in your head?
If you haven't picked up on this, I'm not impressed by this website, and not just because on one of their pages they commit the grievous grammatical error of claiming, once again, that the Basilica is "one of the holiest place on earth." If I believed the message of this website, that would mean that I, being saved, being the daughter of a King, a child of God, a member of the church, have a limited ability to talk to my God. If I pay these people their "minimum suggested donation," would my prayer be answered positively? What kind of guarantee would I get with a higher donation? When it comes right down to it, I'm buying my relationship with God. God becomes a prostitute, someone I invest in for what my current desire might be. I shudder at that thought.
I know a great deal of this conflict is probably arising from my Protestant roots (thank you, Pilgrims). I haven't grown up with the pressures of believing that only righteous dead people can talk to God for me, to have a relationship with no base in grace, forgiveness, or mercy. To my understanding, Catholicism is a commercialistic religion--you get what you pay for, and if you don't pay the bills, we take your eternal life away. Who would want that? Who could live like that? Apparently millions. And I don't understand them.
I hate to pass judgment on a people without having really researched, really understood what all is going on. I do want to find out more about this aspect of Christianity, not to follow it, but to understand those who do. All of my educational background, though, that teaches me critical thinking and to go back to the source for verification, tells me that there are some serious discrepancies between the Catholic faith and the Bible. That this Deliver My Prayer is what is being advertised, could color a non-believer's view of God, troubles me. It troubles me like a lot of these popular book series being sold in Wal-Mart and other superstores claiming a lot of things in their bestselling pages that aren't fully supported by scriptures. Going into those details is an entry for another day.
My challenge is this--let's think about how we are portraying what we believe and if, in our fallible human ways, have stumbled onto something not quite in line with the Bible. We're fighting a huge battle these days with Satan rearing up as he realizes his time is nearing the end. We can't afford pitfalls that will trap our unsaved neighbors, family members, friends, co-workers, and acquaintences. As the people with the light, it's our duty to illuminate the correct path.
I click on the link and am taken to a website that looks fairly innocuous. http://www.delivermyprayer.com/ has some beautiful photographs of the Vatican that are nearly seductive in their charm and detail. It's when you get to the real heart of the website and figure out what is really going on that "seduction" becomes a very appropriate word.
According to their "About Us" page, this organization has based themselves in a very powerful location. "As the Pope's ceremonial center and burial place of Saint Peter, the principal of the twelve apostles, Saint Peter's Basilica lies on some of the most uniquely divine ground for prayer." Wait, did I read that right? Divine ground for prayer? That doesn't quite match with what the Bible says:
Matthew 6:6 "But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly." (KJV) or for those of us NIV-ers, "But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you."
My closet, eh? My room, even? According to Jesus, who is speaking these words, the shoe-cluttered hardwood of my closet is preferable to this "divine ground." And what makes this Basilica so divine? Oh, yeah, that's right--it's a glorified graveyard. Gotcha.
But why is praying here, on this "divine ground," so much better? Let's turn back to the website. "We want to help you get your prayers heard by those who have the power to help. After you submit your prayer to us from anywhere in the world we hand deliver it to where the world has one of the closest bonds to the heavens." I'm sorry, but where did it say that I needed help getting my prayers heard? And why is praying near the graves of a few select "holy" men so much better? Praying isn't like talking on a cell phone--we don't get better reception if we're closer to a cell tower/dead saint. Nowhere that I can find in the Bible does it say that decaying matter increases the potency of prayer after Christ died for us. As far as St. Peter's Basilica being one of the closest bonds to the heavens (note their use of the plural "heavens" here...sound fishy to you, too?), that is a direct attack on the power of God. God is omnipresent. If He's everywhere, then stating that someplace has a better connection means that God is more powerful/accessible in some areas than others, that He's limited in your closet, your car, or anyplace outside of the Vatican. If my God is limited, then He's not (a) God, then is He?
The whole process of this prayer-reading is a little fuzzy, too. Say I buy into this (and I literally mean "buy"--for members it only costs 1.5 Euro per prayer; non-members pay 3 Euro per prayer. That's about $4 for Americans). Deliver My Prayer claims that "Your prayer is highly confidential and it means very much to us to keep your private thoughts strictly between you and the church." Well, it won't be confidential once you read it out loud, now will it? Oh, but they have that covered. "You may choose to have your prayer read aloud in the church or simply kept silent as our messengers emanate your communiqué to the sacred space." Ok, maybe this is a European thing, but how do you "emanate a communique?" Is this a reference to praying silently/in your head?
If you haven't picked up on this, I'm not impressed by this website, and not just because on one of their pages they commit the grievous grammatical error of claiming, once again, that the Basilica is "one of the holiest place on earth." If I believed the message of this website, that would mean that I, being saved, being the daughter of a King, a child of God, a member of the church, have a limited ability to talk to my God. If I pay these people their "minimum suggested donation," would my prayer be answered positively? What kind of guarantee would I get with a higher donation? When it comes right down to it, I'm buying my relationship with God. God becomes a prostitute, someone I invest in for what my current desire might be. I shudder at that thought.
I know a great deal of this conflict is probably arising from my Protestant roots (thank you, Pilgrims). I haven't grown up with the pressures of believing that only righteous dead people can talk to God for me, to have a relationship with no base in grace, forgiveness, or mercy. To my understanding, Catholicism is a commercialistic religion--you get what you pay for, and if you don't pay the bills, we take your eternal life away. Who would want that? Who could live like that? Apparently millions. And I don't understand them.
I hate to pass judgment on a people without having really researched, really understood what all is going on. I do want to find out more about this aspect of Christianity, not to follow it, but to understand those who do. All of my educational background, though, that teaches me critical thinking and to go back to the source for verification, tells me that there are some serious discrepancies between the Catholic faith and the Bible. That this Deliver My Prayer is what is being advertised, could color a non-believer's view of God, troubles me. It troubles me like a lot of these popular book series being sold in Wal-Mart and other superstores claiming a lot of things in their bestselling pages that aren't fully supported by scriptures. Going into those details is an entry for another day.
My challenge is this--let's think about how we are portraying what we believe and if, in our fallible human ways, have stumbled onto something not quite in line with the Bible. We're fighting a huge battle these days with Satan rearing up as he realizes his time is nearing the end. We can't afford pitfalls that will trap our unsaved neighbors, family members, friends, co-workers, and acquaintences. As the people with the light, it's our duty to illuminate the correct path.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The "Unbalanced" Christian
We all know one of "those." The woman who never grew up and still acts like a spoiled brat well into her twenties...or thirties...or fifties... The woman who has no people skills but ends up working in nursing or as a secretary or as a counselor. The woman who drives you nuts. The woman who gives "Christian" a bad name.
Then there's the other end of the spectrum. The woman who might as well tattoo "Welcome" on her forehead because her place in life is a doormat. Need to call someone at 2am every night? You've got her number. Need an extra $50 every now and then? She'll whip out that checkbook. Got a bunch of things on your to-do list that you don't really feel like doing? She'll give up sleep, family, and her own work in order to make your life easier. Her purpose in life is to please others at the cost of herself. Service is all she knows.
Christ commanded us to love one another as we love ourselves. Not less than. Not more than. We can't go around saying "To Hell with you" (even in the most inspiring of evangelical sermons). We also can't go around saying "yes" to every request. God wants us to put Him first. That means we should spend more time and effort drawing ourselves closer to Him than on the whims of humans.
On the balance scale of service, I definitely fall more under the doormat philosophy. So many times I look at my failures, my bad habits, my struggles with sin and forget just how precious I am in God's sight. To put it mildly, I'm no stranger to depression. It took me a nervous breakdown, a brief hospitalization, numerous medications that only masked the problem, and months of semi-effective therapy before I got to the root of the problem: I wasn't paying attention to what God had to say about me in His word. He loved me. He thought I was beautiful and precious. He had great plans for me. He forgave me. I just couldn't do that for myself. Finding my meaning, my purpose in life fell completely on What Can I Do For Others. Every time I did something for someone that they couldn't do, I swelled with self-importance. As soon as they didn't need me or my psyche disentigrated under the pressure, I fell apart.
Being in academia is a trigger for this part of me, this struggle to find acceptance in a world that is never really accepting. Write a great paper? Good--write another one. Advance a bit more in your writing skills? Nice one--now why aren't you still progressing even farther? Going to help host a conference? Great--now make sure everything goes off without a hitch even though not everyone else will pull their own load (and don't forget that if THEY drop the ball, YOU get blamed). Academia has no time for those who aren't constantly striving to do something bigger, something better. After all, colleges get a lot of fame by what their professors do that no one else is doing. Now in a recessive economy, you have to be pulling overtime on overtime hours in order to get one of those coveted full-time positions. Unless you're famous, you are probably out of luck.
It's times like these when I feel my world wanting me to take care of everyone else's problems, accomodate everyone else's beliefs, without once considering what I need or what I believe (personal issues are dropped at your office door, remember?) that I wonder if God has answered the many requests to "get out of our schools." Without God's love, without true understanding and service, universities and colleges become homes for the unbalanced. The judgmental. The angry.
If there is one thing I wish for America's institutions of learning, from preschool to PhDs, it is the Christian balance. Where others are just as important as ourselves. Where God comes first. Where there is true kindness and responsibility and an effort to work together as a team. A family united by God.
So, to all of you out there in the world of academia, let's start a movement to put God back in our schools. Pray at your desk and before you teach each class. Think about what is best for your students' overall health (spiritual, emotional, mental, educational) when designing assignments and giving extensions. Promote an atmosphere where kindness and understanding are the core curriculum--we all know how ideas such as "manners" and "professionalism" have gone out the window these days. Most of all, make sure that you are spending just as much time on yourself as you do on others. It's not easy--I'm still working on it and fail most days. I promise you, though, on the days that you do achieve the balance, you'll feel the difference.
Then there's the other end of the spectrum. The woman who might as well tattoo "Welcome" on her forehead because her place in life is a doormat. Need to call someone at 2am every night? You've got her number. Need an extra $50 every now and then? She'll whip out that checkbook. Got a bunch of things on your to-do list that you don't really feel like doing? She'll give up sleep, family, and her own work in order to make your life easier. Her purpose in life is to please others at the cost of herself. Service is all she knows.
Christ commanded us to love one another as we love ourselves. Not less than. Not more than. We can't go around saying "To Hell with you" (even in the most inspiring of evangelical sermons). We also can't go around saying "yes" to every request. God wants us to put Him first. That means we should spend more time and effort drawing ourselves closer to Him than on the whims of humans.
On the balance scale of service, I definitely fall more under the doormat philosophy. So many times I look at my failures, my bad habits, my struggles with sin and forget just how precious I am in God's sight. To put it mildly, I'm no stranger to depression. It took me a nervous breakdown, a brief hospitalization, numerous medications that only masked the problem, and months of semi-effective therapy before I got to the root of the problem: I wasn't paying attention to what God had to say about me in His word. He loved me. He thought I was beautiful and precious. He had great plans for me. He forgave me. I just couldn't do that for myself. Finding my meaning, my purpose in life fell completely on What Can I Do For Others. Every time I did something for someone that they couldn't do, I swelled with self-importance. As soon as they didn't need me or my psyche disentigrated under the pressure, I fell apart.
Being in academia is a trigger for this part of me, this struggle to find acceptance in a world that is never really accepting. Write a great paper? Good--write another one. Advance a bit more in your writing skills? Nice one--now why aren't you still progressing even farther? Going to help host a conference? Great--now make sure everything goes off without a hitch even though not everyone else will pull their own load (and don't forget that if THEY drop the ball, YOU get blamed). Academia has no time for those who aren't constantly striving to do something bigger, something better. After all, colleges get a lot of fame by what their professors do that no one else is doing. Now in a recessive economy, you have to be pulling overtime on overtime hours in order to get one of those coveted full-time positions. Unless you're famous, you are probably out of luck.
It's times like these when I feel my world wanting me to take care of everyone else's problems, accomodate everyone else's beliefs, without once considering what I need or what I believe (personal issues are dropped at your office door, remember?) that I wonder if God has answered the many requests to "get out of our schools." Without God's love, without true understanding and service, universities and colleges become homes for the unbalanced. The judgmental. The angry.
If there is one thing I wish for America's institutions of learning, from preschool to PhDs, it is the Christian balance. Where others are just as important as ourselves. Where God comes first. Where there is true kindness and responsibility and an effort to work together as a team. A family united by God.
So, to all of you out there in the world of academia, let's start a movement to put God back in our schools. Pray at your desk and before you teach each class. Think about what is best for your students' overall health (spiritual, emotional, mental, educational) when designing assignments and giving extensions. Promote an atmosphere where kindness and understanding are the core curriculum--we all know how ideas such as "manners" and "professionalism" have gone out the window these days. Most of all, make sure that you are spending just as much time on yourself as you do on others. It's not easy--I'm still working on it and fail most days. I promise you, though, on the days that you do achieve the balance, you'll feel the difference.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
God can work through dreams
My father came into my bedroom yesterday morning, making sure I was up before he started some remodeling work on the house. Our conversation was a little...odd.
Dad: Hey, don't forget I need you to clean out your room so we can make room for the cribs.
Me: What cribs?
Dad: For the quintuplets.
Me Thinking: What quintuplets? Do I know anyone with quintuplets? Why are they staying here?
Me: (long pause) Who's the mother of these children?
Dad: Well, your mother, of course.
Me Thinking: Am I still asleep? Mom can't have kids anymore--there were just two of us. This makes no sense!
Me: (long pause--can't think of a thing to actually say)
Dad: (bursting into laughter) Oh, what a dream that was that I had!
Me: I was wondering if one of us was dreaming because communication with you is not usually this hard.
My dad went on with his story about how my mother had come back from her current trip in Illinois (visiting family) nine months pregnant with quintuplets--a mean feat as she's in her mid-fifties and had a hysterectomy almost ten years ago. I could go into what Freud would say about my father's dream and what it psychologically represents, but that's not the purpose of this blog (thank God for that, because that analysis would be terrifying to contemplate).
I regaled this story to a friend of mine over lunch, emphasizing the impossibility of this dream and how, due to my father's straight face, I had momentarily suspended belief in medical science.
"Well, did I ever tell you about how my baby brother was born? Mom and Dad decided they didn't want any more children, so she did everything she could to guarantee she wouldn't get pregnant. Her tubes were cut, stitched shut, and burned. The doctors thought she was going a little overkill, but she insisted on getting that 100% guarantee of being sterile for the rest of her mothering years. Well, a year later she got sick. Every morning. Lo and behold, she was pregnant. No one, including a team of doctors, could come up with a reason explaining how this was possible.
"That night they pulled me aside (I was about six) and told me I was going to have a baby brother or sister. 'I know,' I responded. My parents were confused and asked me to explain. 'I've been praying to God every night all year that He would give me a baby brother. He told me that I would get one and the next time Mommy and Daddy sat me down to talk to me, that's what you'd say--that my brother was coming.' Seven months later my mother gave birth to a beautiful little boy."
Combining the power of a child's faith and an Almighty God does make for a pretty solid opposition. God meant for there to be another child in that family no matter what measures her parents took to make sure it wouldn't happen. Prayer is such a powerful tool. It gave my friend the baby brother she wanted (at least at the time--they do grow up into teenagers eventually). It has helped me find the right words to say, confront people on problems that I didn't even know they had. It connects us to the One who always listens--there's no bad reception on the prayer lines.
When I think about just how often I pray, the results are disappointing. It's usually when I want something. A good grade. Wisdom to handle a difficult situation. Safe driving mercies during a storm. I don't pray nearly enough just to share my life with the One who gave me life. I don't pray enough to ask Him what He wants me to do. I don't pray enough just to praise Him for everything. It's such a simple act, and yet it falls to the bottom of my priority list far too often, saved mostly for when "I think about it." If I can talk to my mother without having to "think about it," then I should have no problems talking to my Heavenly Father who is up 24/7. That's something that definitely needs to change.
I remember a prayer I prayed not that long ago, one where I asked God to work His wonders in my family. I was, I believe, referring to helping family members struggling with finances and those of my relatives who are not saved. After my earthly father's dream last night, though, I hope that God didn't generously interpret my request and isn't planning to turn my bedroom into a nursery anytime soon. I think I'll start praying right now--specifically, this time.
Dad: Hey, don't forget I need you to clean out your room so we can make room for the cribs.
Me: What cribs?
Dad: For the quintuplets.
Me Thinking: What quintuplets? Do I know anyone with quintuplets? Why are they staying here?
Me: (long pause) Who's the mother of these children?
Dad: Well, your mother, of course.
Me Thinking: Am I still asleep? Mom can't have kids anymore--there were just two of us. This makes no sense!
Me: (long pause--can't think of a thing to actually say)
Dad: (bursting into laughter) Oh, what a dream that was that I had!
Me: I was wondering if one of us was dreaming because communication with you is not usually this hard.
My dad went on with his story about how my mother had come back from her current trip in Illinois (visiting family) nine months pregnant with quintuplets--a mean feat as she's in her mid-fifties and had a hysterectomy almost ten years ago. I could go into what Freud would say about my father's dream and what it psychologically represents, but that's not the purpose of this blog (thank God for that, because that analysis would be terrifying to contemplate).
I regaled this story to a friend of mine over lunch, emphasizing the impossibility of this dream and how, due to my father's straight face, I had momentarily suspended belief in medical science.
"Well, did I ever tell you about how my baby brother was born? Mom and Dad decided they didn't want any more children, so she did everything she could to guarantee she wouldn't get pregnant. Her tubes were cut, stitched shut, and burned. The doctors thought she was going a little overkill, but she insisted on getting that 100% guarantee of being sterile for the rest of her mothering years. Well, a year later she got sick. Every morning. Lo and behold, she was pregnant. No one, including a team of doctors, could come up with a reason explaining how this was possible.
"That night they pulled me aside (I was about six) and told me I was going to have a baby brother or sister. 'I know,' I responded. My parents were confused and asked me to explain. 'I've been praying to God every night all year that He would give me a baby brother. He told me that I would get one and the next time Mommy and Daddy sat me down to talk to me, that's what you'd say--that my brother was coming.' Seven months later my mother gave birth to a beautiful little boy."
Combining the power of a child's faith and an Almighty God does make for a pretty solid opposition. God meant for there to be another child in that family no matter what measures her parents took to make sure it wouldn't happen. Prayer is such a powerful tool. It gave my friend the baby brother she wanted (at least at the time--they do grow up into teenagers eventually). It has helped me find the right words to say, confront people on problems that I didn't even know they had. It connects us to the One who always listens--there's no bad reception on the prayer lines.
When I think about just how often I pray, the results are disappointing. It's usually when I want something. A good grade. Wisdom to handle a difficult situation. Safe driving mercies during a storm. I don't pray nearly enough just to share my life with the One who gave me life. I don't pray enough to ask Him what He wants me to do. I don't pray enough just to praise Him for everything. It's such a simple act, and yet it falls to the bottom of my priority list far too often, saved mostly for when "I think about it." If I can talk to my mother without having to "think about it," then I should have no problems talking to my Heavenly Father who is up 24/7. That's something that definitely needs to change.
I remember a prayer I prayed not that long ago, one where I asked God to work His wonders in my family. I was, I believe, referring to helping family members struggling with finances and those of my relatives who are not saved. After my earthly father's dream last night, though, I hope that God didn't generously interpret my request and isn't planning to turn my bedroom into a nursery anytime soon. I think I'll start praying right now--specifically, this time.
A Little Poetry
In an effort to improve my prose, I'm dabbling in poetry (why and how this works I'll tell you if you really want to know). Since I'm listening to some new instrumental Christian music, and the night is still(ish), it seems like a good time to share this with you:
Prayer
The ticks and tocks separate air into
Rhythm, pulses, pauses, rips
In the stillness that is never completely still.
How long has it been?
Fingers intertwine, interlace, intersect
Symbol of coming together
In the closet, behind closed doors
How long has it been?
Distraction
Redirection
Exhaustion
How long has it been?
Curled in the corner,
There's no place to go
Silence shatters around us
And we talk
Prayer
The ticks and tocks separate air into
Rhythm, pulses, pauses, rips
In the stillness that is never completely still.
How long has it been?
Fingers intertwine, interlace, intersect
Symbol of coming together
In the closet, behind closed doors
How long has it been?
Distraction
Redirection
Exhaustion
How long has it been?
Curled in the corner,
There's no place to go
Silence shatters around us
And we talk
Friday, March 27, 2009
Little Things Make a Big Difference
When I studied abroad in Mexico and got to go to the silver jewelry market, I had two goals: find simple silver bands for my thumbs, and get a very simple, small cross to wear around my neck. It took a few hours to sort through the elaborate crucifixes to find just the right small cross to wear, but I got it. I didn't plan for it to really do much for other people--lots of people today wear crosses but not for the same reason. I wanted to mark myself, for myself. I wanted a constant reminder of Who is my Father. I wanted to have a constant symbol to remind myself of just what Christ gave up for me--and what that should mean in my daily life. Needless to say, it works better some days than others.
While encouraging small groups in my computer-based classroom to discuss the topic for the day (religious freedom and gay marriage), I heard some trigger words in the corner. Namely "WRONG, YOU HEATHEN!" Granted, this was from the loud-mouth in class, the guy who didn't know how to not be sarcastic, so it wasn't too surprising. Still, I wandered over.
"So...what's going on here?"
My student looked eagerly at me. "She said that the Bible never explicitly says that homosexuality is wrong. I reminded her that her inexperience with proper texts is clearly showing." (Did I mention that he's a conservative Christian with all his smart-butt bravado?)
"Actually it does. Leviticus has the most specific mention of it, although there are a few others in both the Old and New Testaments."
After guiding the students to a website where they could search for the exact passage, I began walking away to another group. I wasn't fast enough to miss the next part of their conversation, though.
Girl: How'd she know that?
Boy: Well, duh, did you ever look at that cross she always wears?
I was surprised to say the least. My necklace is not typically that eye-catching and I've never had anyone ever mention it before. The symbol was a personal one although I didn't really mind if anyone noticed. The fact that my students, or at least some of them, had spotted the little cross and interpreted the meaning meant a lot to me. I try, per regulations, not to indoctrinate my personal beliefs in the classroom, letting the discussions go where they will even if I don't necessarily believe the same (such as when the liberal majority voted that anyone opposing gay marriage was a bigot). I try to keep an open mind, knowing that my job is to encourage critical thinking. I pray for my students and I hope I show Christ's life, but being a person of faith in a liberal institution is not easy. The lines are clearly drawn--any other faith, you have rights. Be Christian and you're mainstream. Old-fashioned. Out-dated. Prejudiced.
What had been primarily and exclusively a personal reminder of my faith and my dedication to working on my relationship with God had become an issue in my classroom. Perhaps my students do monitor some of the things they say because of that little silver charm. Then again, we talked about pornography and its effects on society without me blushing once, so who knows. :)
For me, it's more than a necklace. Now it's a witnessing tool, a little clue in a Scooby-Doo world as to why I act the way I do. Amazing what $7 worth of pure silver can do for eternity. :)
While encouraging small groups in my computer-based classroom to discuss the topic for the day (religious freedom and gay marriage), I heard some trigger words in the corner. Namely "WRONG, YOU HEATHEN!" Granted, this was from the loud-mouth in class, the guy who didn't know how to not be sarcastic, so it wasn't too surprising. Still, I wandered over.
"So...what's going on here?"
My student looked eagerly at me. "She said that the Bible never explicitly says that homosexuality is wrong. I reminded her that her inexperience with proper texts is clearly showing." (Did I mention that he's a conservative Christian with all his smart-butt bravado?)
"Actually it does. Leviticus has the most specific mention of it, although there are a few others in both the Old and New Testaments."
After guiding the students to a website where they could search for the exact passage, I began walking away to another group. I wasn't fast enough to miss the next part of their conversation, though.
Girl: How'd she know that?
Boy: Well, duh, did you ever look at that cross she always wears?
I was surprised to say the least. My necklace is not typically that eye-catching and I've never had anyone ever mention it before. The symbol was a personal one although I didn't really mind if anyone noticed. The fact that my students, or at least some of them, had spotted the little cross and interpreted the meaning meant a lot to me. I try, per regulations, not to indoctrinate my personal beliefs in the classroom, letting the discussions go where they will even if I don't necessarily believe the same (such as when the liberal majority voted that anyone opposing gay marriage was a bigot). I try to keep an open mind, knowing that my job is to encourage critical thinking. I pray for my students and I hope I show Christ's life, but being a person of faith in a liberal institution is not easy. The lines are clearly drawn--any other faith, you have rights. Be Christian and you're mainstream. Old-fashioned. Out-dated. Prejudiced.
What had been primarily and exclusively a personal reminder of my faith and my dedication to working on my relationship with God had become an issue in my classroom. Perhaps my students do monitor some of the things they say because of that little silver charm. Then again, we talked about pornography and its effects on society without me blushing once, so who knows. :)
For me, it's more than a necklace. Now it's a witnessing tool, a little clue in a Scooby-Doo world as to why I act the way I do. Amazing what $7 worth of pure silver can do for eternity. :)
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Taking a Literary Risk
I’m embarking on something that many would call extremely foolish. I’m bringing God into my creative thesis.
My thesis advisor is a nice enough woman. She’s very smart and a good editor of writing (although she drives me nuts more often than not). She’s also a lesbian, staunch liberal, and while I’ve never asked her specifically, appears to be atheist or agnostic. Except for her sexual preference, she’s about the same as the vast majority of professors on this campus.
I was warned that including an essay very near to my heart, dealing with Christian female relationships torn apart when one marries, in my thesis was a bad idea to begin with, let alone in a thesis directed by my advisor. “She’ll tear you to pieces over all that Christian stuff. Religious beliefs signify no critical thinking skills to her, and that’s the last thing you want written on your project evaluation.” If future employers want to see my thesis as part of the selection process, having a religion-themed essay that doesn’t criticize religion can keep me out of a lot of schools. I used to say that I wouldn’t want to work at those schools, anyway. Now with the economy and my chances of finding full-time employment as a college professor diminishing, I can’t afford to be too choosy.
My advisor handled the essay fairly well, probably because the fact that the characters being Christian is a secondary focus—the real attention is on what effect marriage has on a friendship. I was surprised that my advisor let it go as much as she did and credited God with the mercy of not having to deal with that discussion during such a stressful time. My next choice to bring God in may undo that merciful no-comment decision.
While they’re not mandatory, it is traditional that thesis writers include an acknowledgements page. Your first people to thank are always your committee members and your advisor. That’s just common sense—they did the most work, so they get first dibs on the hierarchy. In my draft, however, my committee members are upstaged by a more important influence in my life.
Here’s the text:
First and foremost, to my God, without whom I would be nothing—thank You for your blessings, guidance, and Your constant presence. May You work through me every day for the rest of my life.
To my thesis committee, who had to deal with the wild rantings of an overstressed woman,
To my father, who had to sacrifice watching TV in the living room for months so I could work in peace,
To my mother, who listened to me although she had no clue what I was talking about,
To my sister, who reminded me that this is why she never went to college,
To my grandmother and aunt, who prayed for the completion of this more than I’ll ever know,
To my many beloved friends, who gave me space and distracted me in turn,
To my Radar, who let me wake him constantly for reaffirmation without demanding tuna in return,
I thank you all.
A classmate read this while proofreading my thesis. “Ok, the cat thing is cute at the end, but the God thing is going to get you in big trouble. You’re at a public liberal arts university, not a private Bible college.” Amazing that thanking a cat who doesn’t even appear in any of the essays is allowed but I can’t thank my own Creator, the One who is behind everything I am capable of doing.
It would be simple enough to just delete the two sentences. It’d make people happy. The thing is, this is my thesis. I’m supposed to be happy with this huge piece of work. I can’t do that without being honest—that although my faith may not be as strong as I want it to be, I do believe what that note says.
If we are to “give God the glory,” we can’t pick and choose what accomplishments are politically correct to credit to Him.
My thesis advisor is a nice enough woman. She’s very smart and a good editor of writing (although she drives me nuts more often than not). She’s also a lesbian, staunch liberal, and while I’ve never asked her specifically, appears to be atheist or agnostic. Except for her sexual preference, she’s about the same as the vast majority of professors on this campus.
I was warned that including an essay very near to my heart, dealing with Christian female relationships torn apart when one marries, in my thesis was a bad idea to begin with, let alone in a thesis directed by my advisor. “She’ll tear you to pieces over all that Christian stuff. Religious beliefs signify no critical thinking skills to her, and that’s the last thing you want written on your project evaluation.” If future employers want to see my thesis as part of the selection process, having a religion-themed essay that doesn’t criticize religion can keep me out of a lot of schools. I used to say that I wouldn’t want to work at those schools, anyway. Now with the economy and my chances of finding full-time employment as a college professor diminishing, I can’t afford to be too choosy.
My advisor handled the essay fairly well, probably because the fact that the characters being Christian is a secondary focus—the real attention is on what effect marriage has on a friendship. I was surprised that my advisor let it go as much as she did and credited God with the mercy of not having to deal with that discussion during such a stressful time. My next choice to bring God in may undo that merciful no-comment decision.
While they’re not mandatory, it is traditional that thesis writers include an acknowledgements page. Your first people to thank are always your committee members and your advisor. That’s just common sense—they did the most work, so they get first dibs on the hierarchy. In my draft, however, my committee members are upstaged by a more important influence in my life.
Here’s the text:
First and foremost, to my God, without whom I would be nothing—thank You for your blessings, guidance, and Your constant presence. May You work through me every day for the rest of my life.
To my thesis committee, who had to deal with the wild rantings of an overstressed woman,
To my father, who had to sacrifice watching TV in the living room for months so I could work in peace,
To my mother, who listened to me although she had no clue what I was talking about,
To my sister, who reminded me that this is why she never went to college,
To my grandmother and aunt, who prayed for the completion of this more than I’ll ever know,
To my many beloved friends, who gave me space and distracted me in turn,
To my Radar, who let me wake him constantly for reaffirmation without demanding tuna in return,
I thank you all.
A classmate read this while proofreading my thesis. “Ok, the cat thing is cute at the end, but the God thing is going to get you in big trouble. You’re at a public liberal arts university, not a private Bible college.” Amazing that thanking a cat who doesn’t even appear in any of the essays is allowed but I can’t thank my own Creator, the One who is behind everything I am capable of doing.
It would be simple enough to just delete the two sentences. It’d make people happy. The thing is, this is my thesis. I’m supposed to be happy with this huge piece of work. I can’t do that without being honest—that although my faith may not be as strong as I want it to be, I do believe what that note says.
If we are to “give God the glory,” we can’t pick and choose what accomplishments are politically correct to credit to Him.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Will they remember you as being Known?
Attending a liberal arts college is a great way to get a well-rounded education where critical thinking is at the top of the list as far as “skills learned.” It’s also a good way to get talked out of your faith.
While taking a writing workshop class, a student brought in a fiction piece based on the question, “What if God was fallible?” The result was something like Gomer Pyle with superpowers—the first few times God put planets into motion, the alignment wasn’t quite right and there were a few collisions. It was a fairly humorous piece, especially when I knew the guy writing it was being sarcastic the whole time (granted, he’s an atheist, but he wasn’t trying to diss Christians per se). I walked into the class thinking that this was just going to be another discussion on character development, plot structuring, and transitions. I was wrong. I was surrounded by people who were all too happy to criticize the incredible stupidity of Christians for believing something that cannot be proven, seconded by our tendency to “purposefully ignore holes in the Bible.” I protested. This wasn’t a religion and philosophy class. The purpose of this course was to talk about writing, not bash belief systems. My classmates were only too eager to remind me that the Bible was “writing,” and informed me on just a few of the nuances where the Bible contradicted itself or caused us to be hypocrites. While this discussion included many examples, the one everyone liked the best was a quote out of the Old Testament. Although they didn’t know the verse citation, it wasn’t hard to find.
Genesis 8:1 “And God remembered Noah…”
Just these four words had clinched the argument that our God was fallible despite our and the Bible’s claims to the contrary. After all, if you are remembering something, you must have forgotten it at one point. They claimed that other versions of the Bible translated this as “And God forgot Noah,” literally proving their point.
What these graduate students, after years of studying literary theory, linguistics, and foreign languages, had conveniently forgotten was that language was never and can never be taken 100% literally. Think about the last time you told someone “go jump in a lake” or “that tickles me.” You don’t actually want the person to go swimming or mean that some idea reached out with invisible fingers and wiggled them against your ribs. So much of language (it varies by the individual language) is figurative, composed of idioms, metaphors, and slang expressions. We have been schooled in this for years. When you study foreign languages, you have to remember that not everything translates perfectly. I am sure that there were constructions of the original Greek and Hebrew that meant something very different during Biblical times than they do now. Think of the word “gay”—sixty years ago it meant “happy; joyful.” Not the immediate connotation we have now, is it?
The Bible isn’t saying that God forgot Noah—God is just giving His full attention to Noah. He’s focusing in on a particular person (and since there were only seven other people alive on Earth at that time, admittedly it’s not that hard of a task even for humans). When you think about it, it’s not just a symptom of language changing. It’s also in how we use the word “remember” in the English language. I can remember what a strawberry tastes like—that doesn’t mean that I ever forgot; it’s just that I haven’t thought about it lately for a multitude of reasons. God remembering us is just putting us in direct focus—and since He’s omnipresent and omnipotent, we’re always on His mind. Was this verse, then, just stating the obvious? Perhaps. I’m no Biblical language expert. The phrase is also a great transition, and let’s face it—the craft of writing is pretty darn fabulous in that old text.
In that moment in that classroom, I could have prayed for the right words to say (I’m assuming they would have been around these lines) and corrected the misconception. It was clear, though, that my audience wasn’t receptive to any contrary ideas. I chickened out. To keep the peace, and keep myself from being ostracized any more than I already was, I bit my lip and let my inner self cry and cringe throughout the blasphemous discussion. It was an understandable and even logical decision. I missed a valuable opportunity in order to save my Earthly reputation. In hindsight, it was a very human response and not something I’m proud of.
I know there are a lot of people out there like me. We are afraid of losing the few “friends” that we have. We want to be accepted and liked in our workplace. We want to keep our jobs. We want to be included. The question for us is damning: at what cost? I probably wouldn’t have won any souls that night, but I might have planted a seed. In the long run, what matters is our Heavenly business, not if we got invited to this party or had an extra friend request on Facebook.
It’s part of my challenge to start being Known. I want to be Known as the Christian who is strong in her faith. I want to be Known as a woman who puts God first. I want to be Known as someone who isn’t afraid to stand up and say, “Yeah, I’m a well-educated person who fully relies on and believes in God. Want to talk about it?” It’s not going to be easy—Satan knows that needing social validation is a huge struggle for me. My prayer for today is that God would help me to remember that the only validation I need is from Him, and I have that already from the day I first was saved.
So…are you Known?
While taking a writing workshop class, a student brought in a fiction piece based on the question, “What if God was fallible?” The result was something like Gomer Pyle with superpowers—the first few times God put planets into motion, the alignment wasn’t quite right and there were a few collisions. It was a fairly humorous piece, especially when I knew the guy writing it was being sarcastic the whole time (granted, he’s an atheist, but he wasn’t trying to diss Christians per se). I walked into the class thinking that this was just going to be another discussion on character development, plot structuring, and transitions. I was wrong. I was surrounded by people who were all too happy to criticize the incredible stupidity of Christians for believing something that cannot be proven, seconded by our tendency to “purposefully ignore holes in the Bible.” I protested. This wasn’t a religion and philosophy class. The purpose of this course was to talk about writing, not bash belief systems. My classmates were only too eager to remind me that the Bible was “writing,” and informed me on just a few of the nuances where the Bible contradicted itself or caused us to be hypocrites. While this discussion included many examples, the one everyone liked the best was a quote out of the Old Testament. Although they didn’t know the verse citation, it wasn’t hard to find.
Genesis 8:1 “And God remembered Noah…”
Just these four words had clinched the argument that our God was fallible despite our and the Bible’s claims to the contrary. After all, if you are remembering something, you must have forgotten it at one point. They claimed that other versions of the Bible translated this as “And God forgot Noah,” literally proving their point.
What these graduate students, after years of studying literary theory, linguistics, and foreign languages, had conveniently forgotten was that language was never and can never be taken 100% literally. Think about the last time you told someone “go jump in a lake” or “that tickles me.” You don’t actually want the person to go swimming or mean that some idea reached out with invisible fingers and wiggled them against your ribs. So much of language (it varies by the individual language) is figurative, composed of idioms, metaphors, and slang expressions. We have been schooled in this for years. When you study foreign languages, you have to remember that not everything translates perfectly. I am sure that there were constructions of the original Greek and Hebrew that meant something very different during Biblical times than they do now. Think of the word “gay”—sixty years ago it meant “happy; joyful.” Not the immediate connotation we have now, is it?
The Bible isn’t saying that God forgot Noah—God is just giving His full attention to Noah. He’s focusing in on a particular person (and since there were only seven other people alive on Earth at that time, admittedly it’s not that hard of a task even for humans). When you think about it, it’s not just a symptom of language changing. It’s also in how we use the word “remember” in the English language. I can remember what a strawberry tastes like—that doesn’t mean that I ever forgot; it’s just that I haven’t thought about it lately for a multitude of reasons. God remembering us is just putting us in direct focus—and since He’s omnipresent and omnipotent, we’re always on His mind. Was this verse, then, just stating the obvious? Perhaps. I’m no Biblical language expert. The phrase is also a great transition, and let’s face it—the craft of writing is pretty darn fabulous in that old text.
In that moment in that classroom, I could have prayed for the right words to say (I’m assuming they would have been around these lines) and corrected the misconception. It was clear, though, that my audience wasn’t receptive to any contrary ideas. I chickened out. To keep the peace, and keep myself from being ostracized any more than I already was, I bit my lip and let my inner self cry and cringe throughout the blasphemous discussion. It was an understandable and even logical decision. I missed a valuable opportunity in order to save my Earthly reputation. In hindsight, it was a very human response and not something I’m proud of.
I know there are a lot of people out there like me. We are afraid of losing the few “friends” that we have. We want to be accepted and liked in our workplace. We want to keep our jobs. We want to be included. The question for us is damning: at what cost? I probably wouldn’t have won any souls that night, but I might have planted a seed. In the long run, what matters is our Heavenly business, not if we got invited to this party or had an extra friend request on Facebook.
It’s part of my challenge to start being Known. I want to be Known as the Christian who is strong in her faith. I want to be Known as a woman who puts God first. I want to be Known as someone who isn’t afraid to stand up and say, “Yeah, I’m a well-educated person who fully relies on and believes in God. Want to talk about it?” It’s not going to be easy—Satan knows that needing social validation is a huge struggle for me. My prayer for today is that God would help me to remember that the only validation I need is from Him, and I have that already from the day I first was saved.
So…are you Known?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Reality Bytes
It's nearing midnight on a weeknight. You are:
a) Fast asleep in your cozy bed.
b) Watching old TV-on-DVD from your recliner
c) Frantically trying to finish the last stack of papers to be graded
d) Playing computer games that were meant for people at least twenty years younger than you are.
On the average night, I could be doing any of those, choice a) being the least likely. I'm a night owl--some of my best work is done between 7pm and 2am. Maybe that's why I like the overnight shifts at my second job so much...but that's another story for another time.
If you've ever channel surfed through what's available on cable or the satellite, without having certain channels blocked, you're likely to come across some sort of reality program at this time. MTV has a lot of them, none of them worth watching. I was forced to endure the first season of Rock of Love with Brett Michaels at work last year--that was fairly torturous. Granted, it's not the type of show I should be watching. Garbage in, garbage out, so they say. This isn't to say that all reality programming is trash. I enjoy a good episode of Deadliest Catch or Mythbusters--at least they're somewhat educational.
With so much attention focused on putting what is interpreted as "real" on the screen which is used primarily as an escape from what is real, reality television makes a lot of sense. We don't like reality. Life is hard. Reality television can't be real if it is to be popular. We absorb the lives of scripted characters, edited achievements, and sensationalized news stories to keep us from really looking at who we are, why we are the way we are, and what that means. It's about critical thinking. America doesn't do that well.
I fully admit that I am one of those who doesn't always like my reality. I don't like how America is evolving under the leadership of our new president (although I haven't given up hope). I don't like getting turned down for jobs. I don't like the struggle to find a place in a world that just will not accept that I look to a higher power for answers. And so I escape into the constructed worlds of novels, my own fiction stories, and multitudes of movies/television shows that I enjoy. Things have happy endings. I can control my destiny. There are no surprises unless the DVD skips or my cat decides that the pages smell a little too much like catnip to be avoided any longer.
This isn't the kind of life that God wants for me. He didn't put me on this earth to hide in a corner, living in my imagination until my life is over or the Rapture occurs. He wants me to make a difference, get dirty, and do some good work for Him. I tend to be slightly lazy and get frustrated fairly easily (depending on what's going on, of course). Until I harness my human faults, I can't be the child who truly honors her Father.
This is my first step. It's writing on the computer, which satisfies a lot of my humanness, but it's honest. No hiding. It's about living for God in a world which I am not of. We are reminded of this multiple times in the scriptures--we may be on Earth, living in a place of sin, but now that we are saved, we are not of this Earth anymore. We are of God. It's about time that we start reflecting that in our reality.
I challenge you and myself to start making our reality, with all the terrible influences of Satan that there are, more like God. Maybe it's about being kind when we don't want to be. Maybe it's giving more than we usually do. Maybe it's about not being afraid to tell those who have "Earthly power" over our Earthly existence (remember God is in control even though our human boss's name isn't Jehovah) the truth about who is our Father. To paraphrase an old children's church song, stop hiding our light under the bushel and let our light shine.
a) Fast asleep in your cozy bed.
b) Watching old TV-on-DVD from your recliner
c) Frantically trying to finish the last stack of papers to be graded
d) Playing computer games that were meant for people at least twenty years younger than you are.
On the average night, I could be doing any of those, choice a) being the least likely. I'm a night owl--some of my best work is done between 7pm and 2am. Maybe that's why I like the overnight shifts at my second job so much...but that's another story for another time.
If you've ever channel surfed through what's available on cable or the satellite, without having certain channels blocked, you're likely to come across some sort of reality program at this time. MTV has a lot of them, none of them worth watching. I was forced to endure the first season of Rock of Love with Brett Michaels at work last year--that was fairly torturous. Granted, it's not the type of show I should be watching. Garbage in, garbage out, so they say. This isn't to say that all reality programming is trash. I enjoy a good episode of Deadliest Catch or Mythbusters--at least they're somewhat educational.
With so much attention focused on putting what is interpreted as "real" on the screen which is used primarily as an escape from what is real, reality television makes a lot of sense. We don't like reality. Life is hard. Reality television can't be real if it is to be popular. We absorb the lives of scripted characters, edited achievements, and sensationalized news stories to keep us from really looking at who we are, why we are the way we are, and what that means. It's about critical thinking. America doesn't do that well.
I fully admit that I am one of those who doesn't always like my reality. I don't like how America is evolving under the leadership of our new president (although I haven't given up hope). I don't like getting turned down for jobs. I don't like the struggle to find a place in a world that just will not accept that I look to a higher power for answers. And so I escape into the constructed worlds of novels, my own fiction stories, and multitudes of movies/television shows that I enjoy. Things have happy endings. I can control my destiny. There are no surprises unless the DVD skips or my cat decides that the pages smell a little too much like catnip to be avoided any longer.
This isn't the kind of life that God wants for me. He didn't put me on this earth to hide in a corner, living in my imagination until my life is over or the Rapture occurs. He wants me to make a difference, get dirty, and do some good work for Him. I tend to be slightly lazy and get frustrated fairly easily (depending on what's going on, of course). Until I harness my human faults, I can't be the child who truly honors her Father.
This is my first step. It's writing on the computer, which satisfies a lot of my humanness, but it's honest. No hiding. It's about living for God in a world which I am not of. We are reminded of this multiple times in the scriptures--we may be on Earth, living in a place of sin, but now that we are saved, we are not of this Earth anymore. We are of God. It's about time that we start reflecting that in our reality.
I challenge you and myself to start making our reality, with all the terrible influences of Satan that there are, more like God. Maybe it's about being kind when we don't want to be. Maybe it's giving more than we usually do. Maybe it's about not being afraid to tell those who have "Earthly power" over our Earthly existence (remember God is in control even though our human boss's name isn't Jehovah) the truth about who is our Father. To paraphrase an old children's church song, stop hiding our light under the bushel and let our light shine.
Where I have not gone before...
I've never written a blog like this. Sure, I had my myspace page once upon a time, and that was full of...interesting thoughts. That obviously had to be shut down when I started teaching as a graduate student in a small university--there are some things that teachers just shouldn't advertise.
I shouldn't be writing this blog at this time. I'm finishing my master's degree in English in a matter of weeks, my thesis is due this weekend, and with everything else going on in my world, another distraction (besides watching old episodes of "Emergency!" on Netflix) is the very last thing I need. Somehow I feel led to this, like God has been waiting for me to take this step. That or I'm trying to justify procrastination. Both are good.
**
My name on here is Criada. For those of you not fluent in Spanish (like I used to be...now I just have fun with the waiters at the local Mexican restaurants), it means "servant." While I'm no expert on spiritual gifts, I know that God created me to serve others. I love to teach. I love to be needed. I am often the person who, although she takes on too much, will almost always say "yes" to any request. I volunteer. I guide. To other Christians, I'm being loving. To the world, I'm a doormat.
I want to use this blog to focus myself on God, using the ability to write (well) that He blessed me with. I want to explore this world and my faith with others. I want to encourage other men and women out there (although I will admit that many future blogs will undoubtedly be female-focused--guys, you can consider it a window into the mysteries of our gender). I want to make sense of the battle inside and outside of me as my educational goals complement and conflict with my faith. I want to make a difference. Maybe, just maybe, this is my chance to do something that will truly last.
Feel free to comment, question, and/or anything else. May we all be blessed by this.
Criada
I shouldn't be writing this blog at this time. I'm finishing my master's degree in English in a matter of weeks, my thesis is due this weekend, and with everything else going on in my world, another distraction (besides watching old episodes of "Emergency!" on Netflix) is the very last thing I need. Somehow I feel led to this, like God has been waiting for me to take this step. That or I'm trying to justify procrastination. Both are good.
**
My name on here is Criada. For those of you not fluent in Spanish (like I used to be...now I just have fun with the waiters at the local Mexican restaurants), it means "servant." While I'm no expert on spiritual gifts, I know that God created me to serve others. I love to teach. I love to be needed. I am often the person who, although she takes on too much, will almost always say "yes" to any request. I volunteer. I guide. To other Christians, I'm being loving. To the world, I'm a doormat.
I want to use this blog to focus myself on God, using the ability to write (well) that He blessed me with. I want to explore this world and my faith with others. I want to encourage other men and women out there (although I will admit that many future blogs will undoubtedly be female-focused--guys, you can consider it a window into the mysteries of our gender). I want to make sense of the battle inside and outside of me as my educational goals complement and conflict with my faith. I want to make a difference. Maybe, just maybe, this is my chance to do something that will truly last.
Feel free to comment, question, and/or anything else. May we all be blessed by this.
Criada
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