To Be Held...

I’ll admit it. 

I confess. 

I sleep with a teddy bear every night.

Or most nights. 

Occasionally she just gets in the way and I choose to leave her out of my arms.  And other mornings I awake to find I’ve chucked her four feet to the floor in my sleep.  It’s nothing personal.  Really. I would honestly rather have her with me and I miss her when she’s gone. 

“Sophie” is a great companion...  Given to me my junior year in college just after the beginning of cancer round 2 by my aunt and uncle, (“when you hug it, take it as a hug from us and know we love you”), Sophie became just the thing I needed...a perfect, huggable sized bear, to curl up and cuddle and cry with when the days got to be too much or too long. 

The fact I now sleep with a stuffed animal sounds innocent when you realize I, at the age of 20 and 21, never went anywhere without her.  If I had to be in the car for more than a half an hour by myself, she came too.  Which means she accompanied me to all of my cancer appointments in Ann Arbor and every one of the many trips I made home. I buckled her into the front seat and we would talk as I drove.  I would debrief with her as I got out of an appointment – getting out in the open what was good, bad, frightening or frustrating about my latest check in with my doctors.  And I would tell her about classes and homework and professors.  I would complain about my ill-matched roommate and how much I missed having my sister at school with me and how lonely my days had become.  I once realized that spilling my day to Sophie was the first time I had spoken aloud in close to three days... 

Granted she never said much back (probably a good thing to admit if I would like to maintain claims that I haven’t lost quite all of my marbles...) but she listened.  Or I imagined she would.  It made me feel as if I weren’t quite so alone and not quite so crazy for talking to myself.  And sometimes I got the impression she would answer me.  Okay, more likely what I anticipated you she would say in response if she had more that stuffing for a brain.  And I would argue with her perceived response.  “Oh!  So you just think I’m whining!  Am I not allowed to whine sometimes? Even my stuffed bear doesn’t want to listen!”  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m sick of being nice to her!  Why can’t she just act like a normal human?!”  “You’re not saying much.  I’m sorry I do all of the talking...You’re right, sometimes I do just need to feel heard.” (I always said she said pretty profound things for being a stuffed bear... “Sophie” after all does come from the Greek “Sophia” meaning “wisdom”...)

Three years later and I’m growing up.  I talk to real people occasionally and even invite real people on long car rides I’d rather not have to make by myself.  I rely on their wisdom and insight far more than my teddy bear’s.  (*Gasp!*) Sophie still will get buckled into the backseat on trips where she is a worthwhile accomplice...but she doesn’t have to come everywhere and I can leave her to guard my bed for a night or two without me. 

But after a long day or a hard day...I still will curl up in bed in a fetal position and hold Sophie tight in my arms...wishing sleep to come and the world to go away.  And somehow having my bear as a tear threatens to make its way down my face makes everything okay or at least better... 

There is something about holding and being held. 

Because if I’m being honest, the nights where I am most prone to grab my bear and curl tightly, are the nights I most want to be held.  The nights where I imagine what it must feel like to be picked up while curled in that fetal position and be cradled.  Held tightly and close and against the chest of someone who loves me most.  Realizing the only arms in the universe big enough to cradle me belong to Christ...

There are other things to say.  Connections I wanted to parallel at one point.  But they stop prematurely tonight.  Because tonight is a “curl up tight and hold onto Sophie for all she’s worth” sort of night.  And it makes one wonder if someone is holding me like that too...  

Cheese and Crackers...and Surrender

When I was 13, I ate almost only cheese and crackers for the entirety of a summer.  Just cheese and crackers.

Now significantly lactose intolerant, I find this bit of personal trivia a little ironic and somewhat hilarious though completely true. 

I ate cheese and crackers.  For breakfast and lunch.  And dinner if I had a choice.  I don’t remember complaining about sitting down to normal food with the family at dinner time so I must not have been a brat about it. I just remember eating a lot of cheese and lot of crackers. 

I was constantly making requests and my mother will attest to the sheer volume of block cheese and boxes of crackers – both bought in nearly every imaginable variety – she purchased on my behalf summer of 2001.  (This also makes me believe I wasn’t a brat about it – my mom never would have simply bought things because I demanded it.  Ever.)

It was the summer of a difficult move (and let’s be honest, any move at 13 is a difficult one – although this one was particularly unbolting for this particular teenager).  As near as I have been able to deduce and conclude in my time working though pieces of my past, this was very much some subconscious way for me to gain control over the world I felt was slipping.  It was a coping mechanism. 

When the summer ended and school started, I still brought and ate cheese and crackers for lunch most days.  But soon “cheese and crackers” faded.  Probably as I became super obsessed with homework and grades and the other things I know I held onto and fought for fiercely in the absence of other pursuits; pieces of my life I felt like I had control over.  Whatever I felt I had the most control over, I gripped onto the hardest.  Whatever pieces I felt the safest in or the pieces I felt defined me most I would kick and scream to keep in the midst of life spinning out of control...with other pieces slipping through my fingers.   

The funniest part now is looking back at my “cheese and crackers” and realizing the oddity of the choices I made.  Whether it be this appetizer turned meal or my educational endeavors or the fact I currently need my socks/underwear/t-shirts to be in some sort of matching agreement at any given time...or any of the other ‘control’ choices I’ve made...none of them have been of substantial value.  None of them were/are life giving choices.  You can’t hear me laugh but I am, in fact, releasing, a moment of maniacal laughter to consider how some of these pieces of life I held onto so vigorously just about did me in.  Some life!

My cheese and cracker memories came full circle for me this weekend...  You see, I was asked a few months ago to prepare a message to give during summer camp.  And, specifically, I was asked to speak on the topic of surrender.  To elementary students.  No easy task.  For high schoolers or college kids?  Sure! But 8-12 year olds?  How does one communicate the depth of surrender to student who just doesn’t cognitively process there yet?   

I’ve been working diligently but with little fruit and so I did what I’ve always done – I talked it over with my dad (a pastor).  I mentioned a couple ideas and then noted how one friend thought maybe I should take it from the angle that “surrender is actually about trust”.  My dad shook his head and made his scrunched “thoughtful but confused” eyebrows and lip curl.  “No...” he said slowly.  “That’s what I was thinking,” I said, unintentionally cutting my him off. “I mean, it is but it’s not.  Surrender, in my mind...”  Our voices found the same moment of air and our words came out in surprising unison: “...is about letting go.”  Surrender, in the essence of what it is, is about letting go...

With it came several thoughts for the message I intend to give over the course of the summer and the pieces and parts for what it might mean to communicate and challenge little folk towards “surrender”.  But it also came with some pieces and parts for me.  Surrender is a good topic for me.  Perhaps because my life has demanded so much of it...again and again and again.  I’m just not actually all that good at it.

Because, well, the thing about surrender – is letting go.  And it seems beneficial to note that the things being held on to aren’t really that sustaining or life giving. It is often just what we feel is “all we’ve got left” or, at the very least, the thing we feel we have control over.  “You may be able to destroy everything else, but at the end of the day I still had cheese and crackers for lunch!”  Well...good.for.me. 

But surrender isn’t about being forced into a situation where everything you have decided important is taken away.  And it’s not a “letting loose”.  Surrender is always voluntary and it is a full release.  True surrender...it’s a life thing.  A whole life thing. 

I think part of me has always felt I could have Jesus and my control issues too.  “I will go ahead and love Jesus and I will also have high anxiety when my socks don’t match my shirt. That is fine.”  I do in fact realize how ridiculous this sounds but it truly does cause me anxiety and I am well aware that I use it as a way to grasp hold of control.  It’s not that Jesus isn’t going to see me through my...deals.  I am just also realizing that for as long as I hold onto socks or cheese and crackers or any number of other things, I’ve made them my idols, more important than God.  And I am never actually trusting who Christ wishes to be in my life.  My number one.  My first thing.  And so I never let go. 

I have to surrender.  I have to let go.  See, I can surrender with trusting but I can’t trust without surrender.  Surrender so often comes with so much fear because there is no ability to trust that letting go won’t also cause one to fall.  Yet trust, within itself, is surrender.  Because trust says I can let go because it’s not about what I’m holding it’s about who has always been holding on to me...    

“My help and glory are in God – granite-strength and safe-harbor-God – So trust him absolutelyk people; lay your lives on the line for him.  God is a safe place to be.” (Psalm 62:7-8 – MSG)

 “That’s right, Because I, your God, have a firm grip on you and I’m not letting go...” (Isaiah 41:13a – MSG).

Over-Sexed and Under-Mature

As of last week, I am 24 years old.

And I? I have never had a boyfriend (not even the cheap 6^th grade version I will soon profile).

In fact, I have never been on a “date”.

And, if we’re being honest (which apparently I am again today), I have never even been asked out. 

I’m not actually that concerned.  I am at a place in my life where I believe if it is supposed to happen, it will. 

The only reason then to tell you this (because if I am not concerned, the story ends there) then is because apparently other people are.  And when I say other people mostly I’m referring to small people – young’ns.  I mean, I’m sure I have a couple aunts and aunt-ish people in my life who are troubled about my “hopeless” single status but they don’t raise too much of a ruckus.  If you want to see a ruckus, and even an absolute conniption, the piece of personal trivia needs to come up amongst individuals between the ages of 10 and 17 (either gender before 14, female 14-17).

Their ruckus, conniptions and protests scream that of the unacceptability of this fact.  I don’t bring it up alone but when it becomes mentioned? My, oh my...

Take today’s conversation I had with four 6^th grade boys.  Aged 11.  They were discussing, in detail, their “girlfriends”.  At 11, to listen to them describe the number and the “quality” was like listening to frat boys.  Each girl was a conquest.  As a fan of instilling truth whenever the opportunities arises, I decided to speak up as the cabin leader kept saying things like “guys, for real, you’re 11?  What do you need a girlfriend for?”  It was at the indignant answer “I don’t need one.  I want one.  A guys gotta have a girl on his arm, ya know?” followed by something along the lines of “a girl doesn’t HAVE a boyfriend, a boy HAS a girlfriend.  It’s all about the guy!” I had been mentioning respect.  Not treating women like objects.  Protecting themselves and these girls from feeling used and trashed.  Setting themselves to a higher standard.  Being men of character and integrity. 

Somewhere in the middle I was interrupted.

“Man!  She be talking like she didn’t have like twelve boyfriends when she was our age!”

“I didn’t...”

“You be serious?  She just be playing with us!  What then?  How many boyfriends you had since you was our age?”

“None...”

“What!  Now she just be lying.  No girl be your age and not never had no boyfriend!  So what you just be dating all the time and never actually call the brother your boyfriend?”

“Nope...I’ve never been on a date.”

“Never??”

“Nope.”

“Shut up!” 

“We don’t say shut up...”

“Maaann!  You’re not even serious!  You’re just making stuff up so you can be telling us stuff!  And if you be serious, you gonna die old and alone!”

After my fate was sealed by this ever so alarmed 6^th grader, I was reminded of the conversation I had with some high school girls last summer (although similar conversations have come up in-between) where in their “girl talk” drama of this boy and that I tried to communicate truth (much more directly – I was in a Christian setting) about purity (emotional and spiritual as well as physical) and mentioned the fact I had never had a boyfriend in hopes of being encouraging.  As a “life isn’t going to come to end without one” statement.  They caught my reference but were indignant and sorrowful.  They pitied me.  “Really, Anika?  That’s awful!  Why not?  Why wouldn’t a boy want to date you?  You’re great!”  I tried to explain that I didn’t need to be encouraged and their response was just the point.  To not have a boyfriend or a boy want me?  I must be drying inside!  What an awful life!  They couldn’t picture a world where a boyfriend, or the pursuit of one, wasn’t their center. 

Let’s face it; I may not be incredibly in touch with the media... (Even if I had the time, the last thing I really want and need in my life is the trash it brings.) but I’m not that out of touch.  I know the messages it sends to our under age but over-sexed up and coming generations.  And I know as a culture the pressure to date, to be attached and to find significance, status, power, and acceptance in the eyes, arms, and label of a “significant other” is massive. 

Justin Bieber’s hit “Baby” after all recounts the profound recollection that when he “was 13” he “had his first love...”  No.  Not love.  What he really had was a rushing surge of out of control hormones that we’ve convinced our teenagers they can certainly control and determine for themselves must definitely be love (*cough* infatuation).  And they must act on these heartbreaking and gut wrenching decisions – “could the next two weeks (if we’re lucky and REALLY in love) be the best weeks of my whole 12-year old life if I just tell him yes?  Or will he make me cry when he turns me in for the next model?  And is that okay if the next two weeks are 6^th grade bliss?” 

A previous school at my place of work had to cancel their square dance recently.  Weeks before coming to camp.  A group of these 5^th graders had made posters advertising themselves as the “Sexy Six” and any boy worth their gym shorts would have to fight for a square dance date with one of these elementary hotties. A girl didn’t come to school for days because of the teasing she received.  These kids are like 10.  Really?  Really???  And if one more girl puts up her hair before putting on her plaid shirt stating “this is the night I’ll dance with the love of my life!”  on a Thursday evening, I might just pummel her to the ground and scrub off her dripping bright green mascara.  “Sexy” was still a “bad word” when I was 10! 

Gag me with another wooden spoon at the next self-shot profile picture of 13 and 14 year olds making out with their boyfriends/girlfriends – “because you hold hands with your girlfriend when you’re in like 3^rd grade!” (I was informed recently).  Clearly acceptable. [Where are these children’s (yes, I said child!  They are!!! When did this change??)  parents?  Are they feeding the messages or does their “meh” approach of indifference only further perpetuate the growing cycle?].  

These babies, whose mom’s are still doing their wash and writing their names in their boxer shorts or delicately folding their training bras, have already sold themselves into some terrible buy and sell market of social acceptability where to be somebody you must have somebody.  Where they will forever convince themselves that to claim acceptance at all costs and to minimize cultural rejection regardless, they must propel themselves into any relationship that will take them.  Anyone with a brain sees the danger in that... 

What’s the solution?  Since ripping children away from media is a near literally impossibility...the only real option is sending a different message.  But do we?  Are we?  Do we really try?  Do we affirm and accept and encourage in a way as to allow these pre-pubescent teen wannabies to figure themselves out in their own skin without needing a “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” to define them?  Do we speak truth and instill wisdom?  Do we teach our girls they’re not property or arm candy?  That they have worth far outside looks and clothes?  Do we teach our boys that leadership and masculinity come in integrity?  That girls aren’t a conquest?  That respect is earned? 

Or are we just as much part of the problem...either communicating the same message directly or through quiet indifference?  Do we really care?  Do we really try?  Do we?  Should we?  

Do You See It??

“Do you see it?”

It was a phrase he would use often as our team worked diligently to complete projects and build the foundations for dreams.  Jon, the camp manager at Campimento del Caribe in Puerto Rico, repeated it over and over again during my spring break missions trip in 2010.

We were on a building/project/service missions trip, putting in many working hours on the site of one of the only (if not the only) Christian Camps on the island.  We spent much of our time digging trenches and laying concrete for what would be the camp’s new water slide (a HUGE deal on the island).  The previous waterslide – in it’s shabby, rickety, and terrifying form was a surprisingly big draw for kids from Juana Diaz (where the camp was located) and all across Puerto Rico.  Kids who would then have the chance to hear the Gospel; to learn about and experience the Jesus who loves them.  Kids we would never meet.  Projects we would not ourselves finish.  The realization that what we were doing was still important.

Do you see it?

To grasp hold of a vision and to claim it.  To claim it in such a way that though we were but part of the beginning of what would be, we could see the end.  To be part a part of the journey and invest in the process while surrendering the outcome. 

Do you see it?

Not long ago...a few weeks at best, my trip leaders from two years ago (in preparation to lead the 2012 trip back to the island) sent the whole of the 2010 team - my teammates and I - a message with an update.  One where they thought we would like to know that the project we spent hundreds of total man (and woman!) hours on a couple years ago had finally been finished with a relatively impressive end.  Real tubing replaced the previous tarp-lined boards and a towered stair case and...it was done.  The foundation we had laid finally meant something. 

But it was more than that.  At least for me.  Because the message update came with the reminder of the words “Do you see it?”  Words said over and over during that week which now seems so long ago.  And before the message ended a final greeting was given “thanks for your hard work way back then :)  Hope you are all well with all the paths you have taken in life.  [We] hope and pray that you are still seeking after God...even in the silent and dry times.” 

It was the intensity of the final words that struck me.  Here I was trying to get a grip on the reminder of a powerful trip and the combination of the words “do you see it?” finding fruition and then individuals I both love and respect and whose opinions and insights I value signed off with something which seemed so innocent but was far from it.  With a hope and a prayer that we were still seeking God – even in the silent and dry times. 

As someone who was/is in a season of needing to be reminded to seek especially in silent and dry times (of which there have been many – especially lately), those closing words were the same challenge of the Puerto Rico trip, of the updated message.  They were words to challenge that which I couldn’t currently fathom.  A prayer to seek was a challenge to look at life as it was and to ask myself “do you see it?”

Do you see it?

Anika...Are you capable of looking at what is and staking claim on a vision of the end?  One where you embrace the journey and surrender the outcome?  To live in the hope and promise of what could be?

Silent and dry times are the hardest.  It’s easy to grasp a vision and to “see it” in the middle of a intense, rewarding missions trip.  It’s easy to see it when you can look out a blue sky with a shining sun and listen to the birds sing and subsequently feel like you are partaking in the conversation of the heavens.  It’s easy to take hold when you’re feeling nourished, refreshed, and fed into.  When the people you need to feed into you are present; when you feel a sense of direction and purpose; when you have the inclination that what you do matters and makes a difference. 

But what about when you’re not?  When you don’t?  When try as you might, you can’t?  When you are instead standing in the silent and dry...  Can one sit in sun scorched lands and lift a head to the heavens to smile screaming “do you see it!” Now there, there’s a different challenge entirely.  “Look!  See!  Can’t you see it!  Not a mirage with empty hope.  The reality! Do you see it?  Do you see what could be?  Can you take hold of a vision and live in the hope of it regardless of whether or not you can control the outcome?  Do you see it?  Do you see what God’s going to do?  Do you see that He’s up to something big?  Something bigger than you or I and certainly bigger than either of us can fathom?  Do you see it...”.

I don’t always see it and I don’t know that I see it now.  Life isn’t always that easy.  Faith isn’t always that easy.  Sometimes life is hard and sometimes it hurts and sometimes grasping hold of something bigger than the day to day (which hardly seems like laying the foundation for anything – let alone a masterpiece) seems nearly impossible.  Especially when you’d have to admit that any masterpiece that might result includes the shambles of who you know yourself to be. 

And yet... a gentle voice calls.  The same way it has been calling since God spoke to his weary and scattered Israelites... “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.  See, I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you now perceive it [do you see it?]?  I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wastelands [I’m here and speaking and providing in the silent and dry times].  The wild animals honor me, the jackals and owls, because I provide water in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland, to give drink to my people, my chosen, the people I have formed for myself that they may proclaim my praise...”  (Isaiah43:16-21)

I Am.  And I Am here.  I have formed you for myself.  And you are Mine.  You are part of what I have already begun.  

Do you see it...?

Protest to Praise: A Story and Now a Tattoo!

The "tat" - just post inking.
(pics courtesy of best friend and fellow tattoo adventurer and commiserate, Liz. :D)    

So yes, this is it friends, I was finally...

Inked!

For those of you unfamiliar with this word as a noun (*cough* Faith Wick), to be ‘inked’ traditionally refers to the act of being tattooed (or perhaps having a pen explode upon your person in a grand display). 

It’s official, I have a tattoo. 

It is something I’ve wanted for several years and have had formally decided upon for close to the last two.  I had the college itch.  The one which dared me square in the eye to do something crazy – like get a tattoo.  I had both support and criticism alike from any variety of people (surprises on both fronts!) but I assured both sides I would hold off on a tattoo until I knew exactly what I wanted and where I wanted it without a degree of hesitation.  I wanted my tat to say something real and true.  To be meaningful. To be me.

If you know me at all, you are aware of my love for a couple of things: words [stories] and symbolism. And, when possible, their intersection.   It was in discussing these thing with a few friends at camp one summer in conjunction with my draw to get inked that a camp counselor (a couple decades my senior) looked at me and said “Anika, you of all people should get a tattoo if you want one!  The best tattoos are ones which tell a story!  And girl, you have a story!  Decide on something that tells your story and go for it!” 

So the question became...what told my story? 

It took a surprisingly short amount of time to draw a decisive conclusion.  It was the middle of 2008.  Smack dab between “thyroid cancer take one” and “thyroid cancer take two: the continuing story”.  I rotated constantly between KNOWING God’s faithfulness and provision and the feeling as if He were so very distant and disconnected from who I was and what I was going through.  The same now on some epic and larger (or so it felt) cancer scale as it had, well, always. 

On my “WOW 2002” CD (don’t judge, I know it’s old!) – there was a hidden track.  It was something I almost never made it to the end of the CD to listen to and did't think much of it.  But I caught it my freshman year of college as I sought to redefine what life would look like then and so the song “Protest to Praise” became my theme song throughout that year.  A song I could relate to.  A song where the band (DownHere), the singer, spent time wrestling with where God was and when He was going to show up.  With the air of a psalmist, however, the singer interjects his own searchings to say he will cry out until he, himself, has a change of heart.  Until he goes from protest to praise.  Because, you see, God hadn’t checked out of who he was or what he going through...and he was confident God was going to see him until the end. 

In a nutshell, that’s just it!  That’s my story.  The song spells it out but those three words say it all.  Protest to Praise is in fact the epitome of my story.  Until I go from protest to praise.  Until I recognize who I am (Anika Joy Kasper - no more, no less), and how small I am, and WHO’S I am...  Until I realize that in all of the life I know and sometimes hate; of all of the life I sometimes feel like the God I love so much has checked out of... He hasn’t.  Life is still about surrender.  It’s taking the life that I know and giving it back to One who was holding it in the first place.  It’s praising in the midst of hell and high water, in the midst of things in life that no one will blame me for calling crap, and deciding that God is worthy of my praise anyway.  That He is still God.  

So often in my life I need to go from protest to praise...and too often I find myself going from praise back to protest before I’m brought back to praise.  It’s my story.

And my story?  It’s now on my foot.  Because my story is my journey, where I’ve been and where I’m going and [again with the symbolism], I couldn’t think of a better place it should be. 

On my foot the phrase “Protest to Praise” is followed by the reference to “Romans 5:3-5” which simply reads "Not only so but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.”  [Btw, while I've memorized the traditional NIV and such are the words I know and love, however I SO appreciate the way it is worded in The Message...]

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this was the verse claimed for me, and then later one I was able to claim, while going through cancer.  It says that whatever I think I’m stuck in now, I can take it to good measure because in it is hope.  Yep.  Hope. 

The tattoo itself?  Yeah, it hurt.  I would be lying to say it didn’t.  (Although it wasn’t nearly as painful as I expected nor as painful as any one of my surgeries).  Part of me was glad it hurt.  The process in the story behind it hurt. Terribly. Who would want it any other way?

Permanent?  Yes.  Regrettable?  Not a chance.  How can I regret a constant reminder of God’s faithfulness in my life?  I can’t.  Plus, in all reality...it holds a story that must be told...

Protest to Praise – DownHere

I knew the times would come
And now the times have landed
With stinging abrasion
As ready as I seem to be
It's never like I planned it, yeah

I'm wrestling my thoughts I'm overcome
Would you give me up I'm asking Lord
There's no where I sense Your presence here
So I will cry out, until I go...

From protest to praise
You're always amazing me
You're changing me slow, but surely
And You're going to see me to the end.

How long will I be
Forgotten by You forever?
Cuz you're not making sense here
Seems like an eternity has made a hoe between us, yeah

I'm wrestling my thoughts I'm overcome
Would you give me up I'm asking Lord
There's no where I sense Your presence here
So I will cry out, until I go...

From protest to praise
You're always amazing me
You're changing me slow, but surely
And You're going to see me to the end.

You're changing by slow but surely
I just can't help but see it that way...
Cuz you're going to see me to the end.

Running on Empty? Good. And Other Thoughts on Vacuuming...

So...I am my mother’s daughter.  I assume for many reasons but among the most recently obvious is my love to vacuum.  Perhaps more than I love to vacuum, I love the look of a vacuumed floor.  In my life, a vacuum is among the most essential of household items and not having one for more than a week or two is a near travesty. 

Imagine my delight then when, upon mentioning the need to find a reasonable or perhaps rejected vacuum cleaner last fall my sister and brother-in-law came to my rescue.   As newlyweds they had been gifted some great piece of dirt-sucking machinery and would gladly give me possession of their previous device. 

Granted this previous vacuuming device appears to be 30 years old and was Steve’s grandmother’s before it came to be theirs and certainly before it became mine. 

But it was free.

And it worked.

And it would be mine.

Stoked!

I brought it back and vacuumed my whole apartment.  

Glee. 

It wasn’t the world’s most impressive piece of equipment but it was leaving the floors looking swept and it was far better than nothing.  Not to mention, what was I going to expect out of a stone age piece of equipment? 

Needless to say, the health of this prized possession seemed to be declining.  It’s sucking power was just not remaining adequate and I was beginning to consider breaking down to make a legitimate vacuum cleaner purchase.  But not today.  The puttering but faithful would just have to do for a while longer.  Which meant I was going to have to change the bag. 

Change the bag I did.  I hadn’t touched the bag since it was gifted to me several months ago.  And it was fuller than I had thought and probably well past over-due.  In fact the bag I removed didn’t match at all the bag I replaced it with.  Ah well.  Here was to praying the thing would last a couple more months.

And then I flipped on the switch.

Two words: 

Power. House.

The vacuum cleaner took off almost on its own and gripped the carpet like a champion while hoovering fragments of floor dirt from seemingly a foot away.

This mind?  Blown!

Here I was ready to replace the vacuum cleaner.  Believing it had served long and well but would need to be retired.  Instead, all it needed was to be emptied.

In a life of irony, almost every other thing in the world runs better when full.  A full tank of gas.  A full battery.  A full stomach.  A full night’s sleep.  We draw analogies and tell people not to run on empty. Ever.

Unless of course...you’re a vacuum.  A vacuum needs to be empty to run at its prime.

Not always, but sometimes, I not only am but want to be and need to be a vacuum.  I need to be empty.

They seem like strange words to write. 

No one wishes to be empty.  The feeling of emptiness is often accompanied by a hopelessness and mourning for what isn’t.

But a vacuum...a vacuum can only be filled if it is first empty (evident by my own champion Hoover).

Emptiness proceeds fullness.  I love the imagery of Isaiah 58:11 where it reads “The LORD will guide you always, He will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land [in a place of emptiness] and will strengthen your frame.  You will be a like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” 

I am reminded of the contemporary worship song with the chorus “Hungry I come for I know you satisfy...  Thirsty I come for I know your well does not run dry...” 

Even the beatitudes include a note about being blessed for hungering – for those will be satisfied (Luke 6:21).  And Psalm 107:9 promise that God satisfies the thirsty and gives the hungry good things. 

If we come full – chances are we’re only full of junk and garbage.  And if I come full, I can almost guarantee that junk and garbage is me.  I am full of me as much as anything the world seeks to destroy me with.  The combination gets in the way.  Get’s in the way of an opportunity to be filled – to be satisfied.

Like a vacuum, I do my best “work” when I’m void of the garbage.  And I do even better “work” when the empty void created at the loss of the things which don’t matter and hinder is replaced by the filling God wishes to do and to be in my life.  [Would I turn into a champion?  A power house?] 

Lent is about to begin.  Cliché misunderstandings aside, Lent includes a time of reflection.  A time to reflect on the junk that fills a life and keeps it from doing the work it was created and designed to do.  To go into the next 40 days empty.  That I might be satisfied and filled... 

Wearing Your Pants Backwards: Why You Don’t Have to Wait for Hindsight to See 20-20, Some Rambling Lessons on Trust.

"Wearing Your Pants Backwards:

Why You Don’t Have to Wait for Hindsight to See 20-20, 

Some Rambling Lessons on Trust."

  

That’s what I’ll name my next book.  [If in fact I ever finish the latter of them all.  If in fact I start any of the later for that matter.]  And I think the whole book will be about changing perspective.  Being proactive instead of reactive when it comes to investing in people, in relationships, in ministry.  It’ll be about trust. 

Last week I wore my pants backwards for the entirety of a day.  I don’t know what compelled me to do this exactly (although my pants stayed on for the first time in many days with the changed angles) other than the fact it came up at cabin leader training and I had a group of kids who it was extra fun to be goofy and silly with.  I only actually intended to wear them backwards through breakfast but when their amused befuddlement became the utmost for my own amusement, I had to keep going.  The fact every time my students saw me it confused them more, somehow made the whole ordeal that much funnier and that much better. 

The day ended when an energetic camper came up to me stating “Anika!  I have a joke!” “Go for it!” I replied enthusiastically.  “What’s blue and backwards and unzipped?”  Without hesitating I chuckled and responded “My pants!” *brief pause* *gasp* “My pants!!!!”  As I reached for my bum where my zipper had been located all day my young charge laughed contagiously and responded “just kidding!  But we got you!”  Admittedly after the color returned to my face (it had drained), her contagious laughter was joined by my own and I find the entire situation and joke hysterical.  Even if I probably won’t make wearing my pants backwards a life decision. 

The next day, Thursday, realizing just how attached I had become to these students (both cabin leaders and campers alike) – I nearly had a meltdown.  The realization that is true of every week became somehow unbearable this time around: I get these kids for three or four or five days at best and I have to send them home.  I found myself roller-coastering through what my dear friend and co-work called “proud mom” and “anxious mom” moments. 

Proud mom times where I would merely watch and begin to smile and almost laugh.  Their joy and dedication, their love for life and friendship with each other was infectious.  They were my kids.  I loved them. And I was indeed proud of who they were and who I saw them becoming. 

And other times, other times, anxious mom broke in.  It was like watching with my pants on backwards.  The perspective was all off.  I was looking forward and looking beyond as if I were looking behind.  This is where the meltdown happened.  Because as I watched out and looked at a room full of kids, MY kids, I suddenly had this vision of who they would be as high schoolers, as adults.  I had a notion about what they would look like, be like.  I was seeing who they would become.  And it scared the snot out of me.  First because my room was full of 6^th graders not teenagers or college kids...I shouldn’t be “seeing” anything.  And second and mostly because I could see the picture but I couldn’t control it.  I couldn’t control who they would become.  I couldn’t walk along side them for the next 10 years of their life.  I couldn’t dictate which of these kids would end up an alcoholic or in an abusive relationship.  I couldn’t stop the girl who would statistically get pregnant before she graduated or the boy who’d drop out addicted to drugs.  I didn’t get a say. 

I was seeing 20-20, or so it felt.  The truth is such clarity it started to destroy me. Seeing how each little piece of their day, their life was being currently impacted.  Something I only should have been able to see in reverse I was suddenly hopeless in preventing from the front.  With my zipper to the back I felt most unable to guard and protect the most vulnerable pieces.  And like my camper who laughed that it was already down, I was convinced I had somehow left exposed all of the lives I so desired to protect.   

But life is about, among many other greater things which find home inside this one, perspective.  And on Friday morning as my computer crashed with the messages for the youth retreat I was speaking at unable to be retrieved and my kids going home and my high schoolers making this girl so proud of their leadership and love and investment, I just stared.  I should have panicked.  It’s what I do best.  My anxiety level should have skyrocketed...I am an expert in the field of acting out of situational anxiety.  But I didn’t; it didn’t.  I simply stared.  Tired and defeated I realized I held no control.  Over anything.  And so I simply stared and began to talk out loud.

[I feel it necessary to note that I don’t think I’ve ever audibly heard the voice of God, but I often have conversations where I realize I’m answering out loud to things no one has said.  Things God is speaking gently into the chaos of my spirit.  Our conversation on Friday morning went a little and a lot like this...]

“God, I don’t even know what to do or where to start.”

“With what?”

“I have to send them home...”

“Yes...”

“But I can’t!  They’re mine!”

“Yours?”

“Yes, mine!  I claim them.  I always claim them!  But this week is was different.  It’s harder.  Who they’ll become. I just, I can’t...”

“Were you faithful?”

“With what?”

“With them.  Were you faithful?  Did you show them truth and love them as much as able in the time you were given?”

“Yes.  I mean, I don’t know.  I think so...”

“Then send them off.”

“But they’re my kids...”

“They were never your kids.  Not to begin with.  They will first and always be mine.”

“So what do I do?”

“What are you going to do?”

“What choice do I have but to give them back to you?”

“Be faithful with the time you’ve been given, but choose to trust me...”

Choose to trust.  Because trust is a choice. 

I don’t have to wait for hindsight to see in 20-20 if I can wear my pants backwards from time to time.  If I can see in advance what typically I should only see in reverse.  If I am faithful in the moments then I won’t have to look back to see where I was the missing link in the future I can’t control.  Perhaps I’ll be able to look back and see where maybe one faithful moment was enough to change the whole trajectory.  To be faithful in the now and to trust that they’ve always been God’s...if they were never mine to begin with.

Start where you are.

Use what you have [and the grace you have been given]

Do what you can.

It will be enough...