And the Tears Come Softly
AK December 2008
The restlessness shreds me in scattered pieces.
An agitation moving from end back to start.
Discontented with the life I am living;
Disoriented in head and in heart.
Can’t makes sense
Of what all I am missing.
Can’t understand
Why this feeling thrives
Lost in the abyss of unsettling notions,
My spirit is dead
Though my body’s alive.
And the tears come softly.
The sobs come gently.
Confusion controlling;
My soul lacks consoling,
And the tears come softly down.
Alone by myself
My thoughts to ponder
Consumed by,
Overwhelmed by,
All that I wonder.
No one to hear
My anguished sighs.
No one to question
My silent cries.
Can’t weigh down the shoulders of those I can’t find.
So the burden of the world I must carry is mine.
And the tears come softly;
The sobs come gently.
No one around,
My cries make not a sound,
And the tears come softly down.
Something’s not right
Something’s quite wrong.
The chorus of all I that I am
Plays a sad, melancholy song.
Lost in the chaos
(Of all I don’t know).
Numb to the pain
(With scars I can’t show).
Wishing my eyes were pouring than leaking
A balm to the pleading
That my heart would stop bleeding
But this slow release is all I know.
And the tears come softly.
The sobs come gently.
The brokenness inside,
The hurt that I hide.
And the tears come softly down.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Trapped
Tonight, tonight I am feeling trapped.
Somehow smashed between the life I live, the life I hope for and the realization I have no idea what the latter consists of.
I wish. I wish I had a space to call my own. I wish every movement wasn't invading someone else's turf, every action wasn't stepping on someone else's toes, and ever word wasn't indirectly hurting someone's feelings.
I quit. I quit putting on mask with the good Christian answer. I can't wear it when everything within me cringes at God. Or at least others' sentiments in regards. With flowery language and the perfect answer, they quote to me what I should believe if I claim. And yet it all feels so fake. Maybe it wouldn't if I felt it, I believed it - but do they? Do they know what they're saying? Do they realize how worthless their words sound, how empty and pointless it all appears.
I'm done. I'm done trying. The trying gets me nowhere. I so accutely wish for the joy others find and I can't, I can't find it. I know in my head the right answers - I don't question who God is, the Saviour who died, His power to work in my life. Yet, I don't feel it in my heart. Or anywhere else for that matter. Head knowledge is all well and good until it demands back up and finds itself short.
I give up. I give up trying to figure out where this life leads and for what purpose. Whose purpose. Where am I going? And what am I doing? Why do I care? I am so lost. So terribly alone and terribly lost and feeling as if God has once again tossed me out into a dry and dreary land.
But perhaps I'm lost because I'm trapped. Because the only expanse I can see are the walls which cave in against me. The one's that leave me gasping for air and wondering if I'll make it out of this world alive...
Somehow smashed between the life I live, the life I hope for and the realization I have no idea what the latter consists of.
I wish. I wish I had a space to call my own. I wish every movement wasn't invading someone else's turf, every action wasn't stepping on someone else's toes, and ever word wasn't indirectly hurting someone's feelings.
I quit. I quit putting on mask with the good Christian answer. I can't wear it when everything within me cringes at God. Or at least others' sentiments in regards. With flowery language and the perfect answer, they quote to me what I should believe if I claim. And yet it all feels so fake. Maybe it wouldn't if I felt it, I believed it - but do they? Do they know what they're saying? Do they realize how worthless their words sound, how empty and pointless it all appears.
I'm done. I'm done trying. The trying gets me nowhere. I so accutely wish for the joy others find and I can't, I can't find it. I know in my head the right answers - I don't question who God is, the Saviour who died, His power to work in my life. Yet, I don't feel it in my heart. Or anywhere else for that matter. Head knowledge is all well and good until it demands back up and finds itself short.
I give up. I give up trying to figure out where this life leads and for what purpose. Whose purpose. Where am I going? And what am I doing? Why do I care? I am so lost. So terribly alone and terribly lost and feeling as if God has once again tossed me out into a dry and dreary land.
But perhaps I'm lost because I'm trapped. Because the only expanse I can see are the walls which cave in against me. The one's that leave me gasping for air and wondering if I'll make it out of this world alive...
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Early Morning Panic
I woke up panicked. Remembering only bits and pieces of what I have been about, I could not recall who I was, where I was, what I was doing, who the people were sound asleep to the side of me, or why I was there. No, with sun beginning to illuminate the dusky hotel room, I was conscience only of a sneaking suspicion that whatever I was doing...I was running late. All with intense understanding that regardless of my location it was imperative I find a bathroom.
I found the bathroom and spent what seemed like several minutes trying to come up with a name – any name that sounded familiar. Something to assign to my roommates and specifically the one with whom I was sharing a bed. There was something oddly uncomfortable about returning to the safe haven of sleep under the covers along side someone I couldn’t remember. And I had to do it soon...after all, I was running late. As I stood staring with my head cocked at the two double beds, it dawned on me. Youth Ministry Convention...Nashville...hotel. Morning. Late? Not a chance. I could go back to sleep for another 45 minutes at least. Sleep!...Roommates? Michelle and Steph lay breathing softly in the bed to the end. And Kenzie, the girl whose name I’ve known for three years, was following a similar pattern in my own. And my, my name was Anika. There was no reason to panic, I would be just fine.
And yet the panic is all too familiar. How many times have I stopped in the last semester, let alone the last few weeks and went “Wait! Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing? Why am I here? Who is in my bed?? (not literally of course...but with whom am I sharing my ‘intimate’ space?)” I’m conscience, really, of only two things: this underlying feeling that I am running out of time and the intense overwhelming desire for release. But unlike the dusty light beginning to peak into my hotel room, there is little illuminating my oppressive questions. I find few answers to the riddles of my sanity...and perhaps they only grant to bring more questions.
Who am I? What do I mean? What do I stand for, exist for, fight for, live for? What makes me tick, what makes me function, what makes me unique, what makes me special, what defines me? Who is Anika – who is she becoming?
Where am I? Why here? Where is life taking me? Heck, where have I been? How come I can no more pin point a spot on the map of my existence than I can give you the name of the town and status of my being? How come I feel so lost?
What am I doing? What should I be doing? How is it I am about so much...and so little? How is it I have no purpose for my doings and doings for my purposes? To what end does any of this matter? If ever I can articulate the things that I do...
Why am I here? Do I have a purpose at all? Am I here for the doings which I can’t understand? And where is here? What am I supposed to be about? What does my life mean? What does it mean for me and what does it mean for those around me? Why do I exist?
And how come I am so terrified of the people who seem to be sleeping in my bed? Or more like this morning, I can’t identify the person at all...which terrifies me the most. Why can’t I find the people with whom to share my intimate space? How is it I can so intensely desire someone to be there...close enough to touch because heaven knows I need it...and yet still keep them at arms length because I have no tolerance for abandonment – no ability to process the fear of sharing me with the unknown?
Mixed in between is the thought that perhaps it’s already too late to have my questions answered and yet they’re building up inside. Building up and spilling over and if I don’t release soon I’m going to explode. And I wonder if I woke up in this familiar panic so that I don’t. As near as I can tell, my early morning adventure occurred because I was still sound asleep when my body was screaming to pee...either I get up or wet the bed – something that would have affected my bed-buddy as well. I had to go to the bathroom, but it wasn’t time to be awake, it wasn’t time to understand. But it was that or explode. I’m not ready to be awake. I’m not ready to face the causes of my day the things I can’t understand...but it was either come to grips with reality or leak and gush out...something that will surely spread to anyone I can convince to come near. No wonder I’m so lost when it comes to the intimate areas of my life...
Oh God, help me with the things I don’t understand...
I found the bathroom and spent what seemed like several minutes trying to come up with a name – any name that sounded familiar. Something to assign to my roommates and specifically the one with whom I was sharing a bed. There was something oddly uncomfortable about returning to the safe haven of sleep under the covers along side someone I couldn’t remember. And I had to do it soon...after all, I was running late. As I stood staring with my head cocked at the two double beds, it dawned on me. Youth Ministry Convention...Nashville...hotel. Morning. Late? Not a chance. I could go back to sleep for another 45 minutes at least. Sleep!...Roommates? Michelle and Steph lay breathing softly in the bed to the end. And Kenzie, the girl whose name I’ve known for three years, was following a similar pattern in my own. And my, my name was Anika. There was no reason to panic, I would be just fine.
And yet the panic is all too familiar. How many times have I stopped in the last semester, let alone the last few weeks and went “Wait! Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing? Why am I here? Who is in my bed?? (not literally of course...but with whom am I sharing my ‘intimate’ space?)” I’m conscience, really, of only two things: this underlying feeling that I am running out of time and the intense overwhelming desire for release. But unlike the dusty light beginning to peak into my hotel room, there is little illuminating my oppressive questions. I find few answers to the riddles of my sanity...and perhaps they only grant to bring more questions.
Who am I? What do I mean? What do I stand for, exist for, fight for, live for? What makes me tick, what makes me function, what makes me unique, what makes me special, what defines me? Who is Anika – who is she becoming?
Where am I? Why here? Where is life taking me? Heck, where have I been? How come I can no more pin point a spot on the map of my existence than I can give you the name of the town and status of my being? How come I feel so lost?
What am I doing? What should I be doing? How is it I am about so much...and so little? How is it I have no purpose for my doings and doings for my purposes? To what end does any of this matter? If ever I can articulate the things that I do...
Why am I here? Do I have a purpose at all? Am I here for the doings which I can’t understand? And where is here? What am I supposed to be about? What does my life mean? What does it mean for me and what does it mean for those around me? Why do I exist?
And how come I am so terrified of the people who seem to be sleeping in my bed? Or more like this morning, I can’t identify the person at all...which terrifies me the most. Why can’t I find the people with whom to share my intimate space? How is it I can so intensely desire someone to be there...close enough to touch because heaven knows I need it...and yet still keep them at arms length because I have no tolerance for abandonment – no ability to process the fear of sharing me with the unknown?
Mixed in between is the thought that perhaps it’s already too late to have my questions answered and yet they’re building up inside. Building up and spilling over and if I don’t release soon I’m going to explode. And I wonder if I woke up in this familiar panic so that I don’t. As near as I can tell, my early morning adventure occurred because I was still sound asleep when my body was screaming to pee...either I get up or wet the bed – something that would have affected my bed-buddy as well. I had to go to the bathroom, but it wasn’t time to be awake, it wasn’t time to understand. But it was that or explode. I’m not ready to be awake. I’m not ready to face the causes of my day the things I can’t understand...but it was either come to grips with reality or leak and gush out...something that will surely spread to anyone I can convince to come near. No wonder I’m so lost when it comes to the intimate areas of my life...
Oh God, help me with the things I don’t understand...
Monday, November 3, 2008
Anklets and Tan Lines
My anklet broke off today.
I’ve been wearing it since...well since at least the beginning of the summer, if not before. So a solid six months for sure.
And today, today is just sort of fell of.
Broke at the tiny little knot and fell. It’s been used and abused. Snagged and jarred. Pulled at and jostled. But it never budged. We made it through my week in the mountains of Montana, two weeks of camp, New Student Orientation week, and countless other tussling adventures.
Never did it show any sign of weakness.
But today it fell. There were no battle screams of glory. No pulling and ripping off. No scattered beads. No damaged strand.
Just removal. Off came my sock and with it, my anklet.
It left behind a crooked tan line and the odd empty feeling. The one that shows up whenever something goes missing.
When you stop wearing that ring.
When you forgot to put on your watch.
When you switch from glasses to contacts.
When the passions you sold your soul to, fall away.
When the friendship that was going to last forever, dies.
When the gentle whisper you’ve come to know as God’s seems silent.
All the things that become so staple to your life...leave a gap when they’re suddenly gone.
All the things that weathered so many storms...seem indestructible...seem to whither away, fall off without warning.
And it leaves an awkward mark – the proof that something was once there.
Like a crooked tan line and that odd empty feeling...
I’ve been wearing it since...well since at least the beginning of the summer, if not before. So a solid six months for sure.
And today, today is just sort of fell of.
Broke at the tiny little knot and fell. It’s been used and abused. Snagged and jarred. Pulled at and jostled. But it never budged. We made it through my week in the mountains of Montana, two weeks of camp, New Student Orientation week, and countless other tussling adventures.
Never did it show any sign of weakness.
But today it fell. There were no battle screams of glory. No pulling and ripping off. No scattered beads. No damaged strand.
Just removal. Off came my sock and with it, my anklet.
It left behind a crooked tan line and the odd empty feeling. The one that shows up whenever something goes missing.
When you stop wearing that ring.
When you forgot to put on your watch.
When you switch from glasses to contacts.
When the passions you sold your soul to, fall away.
When the friendship that was going to last forever, dies.
When the gentle whisper you’ve come to know as God’s seems silent.
All the things that become so staple to your life...leave a gap when they’re suddenly gone.
All the things that weathered so many storms...seem indestructible...seem to whither away, fall off without warning.
And it leaves an awkward mark – the proof that something was once there.
Like a crooked tan line and that odd empty feeling...
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Dear Daddy...
Dear Daddy,
I can’t do this. I just can’t do this anymore. It’s getting too hard, too complicated. I just want to quit. I know, I know. I’m supposed to do hard things. Builds character, perseverance, dependence...on you. I know, you never said life was going to be easy. I know, in fact, that you promised quite the opposite with the sure fire promises “I’ll be with you always...” and “Take heart, I’ve overcome the world!” Yup, I know that. I know a lot of things. Wanna help me figure out why all that knowing doesn’t seem to be making any difference? I can’t handle it all any more. It’s too much. It’s just too much.
Dad, I’m so stressed out. I don’t even know where to begin. I have homework and papers and quizzes and projects up to my ear lobes and I want nothing more than to curl up in your lap and fall asleep. I just want to sleep. Dad, I’m so tired! Where has my day gone? How is it that I’ve been awake for hours and have nothing done; nothing to show for it? What is my life except for a mere attempt to look like I’m alive, like I’m trying? Dad, wake me up or just let me sleep! I can’t handle the middle ground.
Dad, I’m sick. I’m sick of putting on a good face. And my good face no longer hides turmoil as much as it does the emptiness – the lack of anything else. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Nothing new. Good. God’s got it. One day at a time. We’ll get through.” All phrases. All excuses for an answer which screams “I don’t know. I don’t what what’s going on. I don’t know how I’m doing. I am numb, I don’t feel anything!” And just when the numbness starts to go away, there is radiating pain. An achy-ness like I can’t describe. It hurts so much to feel.
But I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Dad, I don’t even know what I’m angry at! I don’t even know if I can articulate why life just hurts so badly! One disappointment, followed by another. But it’s just disappointment. It’s just life! Make me get over it. There’s nothing there. My life is no worse off than anybody else’s and most days are really quite survivable in the scheme of things. In the long run, they really aren’t so bad. Why can’t I see that? Why am I wearing a mask that says I’m okay – when I’m not really okay – all while I have NO reason to NOT be okay?
Daddy, I am so lost and so confused. And I am so frustrated with you! I can’t make sense of where I’ve been – let alone make out a shadow of where I’m going. And, quite frankly, I feel totally in the dark about wherever it is you have me now. Can’t I have a hint, just a hint, about where any of this makes sense? I just want a window – even if it’s a dirty window, broken and boarded up. A window. I’m sick of this brick wall. This brick wall which confines me and traps – allows in no light and makes me feel as if there is no way out at all...
I can’t do this. I just can’t do this anymore. It’s getting too hard, too complicated. I just want to quit. I know, I know. I’m supposed to do hard things. Builds character, perseverance, dependence...on you. I know, you never said life was going to be easy. I know, in fact, that you promised quite the opposite with the sure fire promises “I’ll be with you always...” and “Take heart, I’ve overcome the world!” Yup, I know that. I know a lot of things. Wanna help me figure out why all that knowing doesn’t seem to be making any difference? I can’t handle it all any more. It’s too much. It’s just too much.
Dad, I’m so stressed out. I don’t even know where to begin. I have homework and papers and quizzes and projects up to my ear lobes and I want nothing more than to curl up in your lap and fall asleep. I just want to sleep. Dad, I’m so tired! Where has my day gone? How is it that I’ve been awake for hours and have nothing done; nothing to show for it? What is my life except for a mere attempt to look like I’m alive, like I’m trying? Dad, wake me up or just let me sleep! I can’t handle the middle ground.
Dad, I’m sick. I’m sick of putting on a good face. And my good face no longer hides turmoil as much as it does the emptiness – the lack of anything else. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Nothing new. Good. God’s got it. One day at a time. We’ll get through.” All phrases. All excuses for an answer which screams “I don’t know. I don’t what what’s going on. I don’t know how I’m doing. I am numb, I don’t feel anything!” And just when the numbness starts to go away, there is radiating pain. An achy-ness like I can’t describe. It hurts so much to feel.
But I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Dad, I don’t even know what I’m angry at! I don’t even know if I can articulate why life just hurts so badly! One disappointment, followed by another. But it’s just disappointment. It’s just life! Make me get over it. There’s nothing there. My life is no worse off than anybody else’s and most days are really quite survivable in the scheme of things. In the long run, they really aren’t so bad. Why can’t I see that? Why am I wearing a mask that says I’m okay – when I’m not really okay – all while I have NO reason to NOT be okay?
Daddy, I am so lost and so confused. And I am so frustrated with you! I can’t make sense of where I’ve been – let alone make out a shadow of where I’m going. And, quite frankly, I feel totally in the dark about wherever it is you have me now. Can’t I have a hint, just a hint, about where any of this makes sense? I just want a window – even if it’s a dirty window, broken and boarded up. A window. I’m sick of this brick wall. This brick wall which confines me and traps – allows in no light and makes me feel as if there is no way out at all...
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
When I Cared Enough to Feel...
I was twelve. Working on being thirteen.
When my hamster died.
I had him for a whole summer.
“Houdini” was my first real pet. He escaped three times before actually securing a home next to the fish tank. Hence his namesake. He was kind of a boring pet. There’s only so much fun you can have with a hamster. Only so much fun a hamster will have with you. He did not appreciate my Lego mazes, cared little for me initiating walks in his hamster ball and after living wild for nearly a solid month when everything was said and done...he wasn’t much of a cuddler either. Sometime in the fall the stupid hamster got sick. Pneumonia is near as we could tell. I did my best to nurse that stupid little hamster back to health but when mom came to pick me up from school one day, she came with the news – Houdini didn’t make it.
I bawled.
I sobbed.
I made a scene.
Over a dead hamster.
I wrote the most ridiculous note you’ve ever read about how I loved the hamster. How he was my friend. How he died too soon. And I was completely serious. My sincerity was evident by the tears again streaming down my face. I put that stupid, dead hamster into a box with my letter and buried him under the bush in the flower bed. It was the saddest day of my entire fall semester of my seventh grade year.
I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. It’s been nearly 8 years since Houdini went to be on that giant hamster wheel in the sky. And I laugh. I laugh because I cried bitter tears over a hamster that hated my guts. Not only that, I cried hard! I laugh because I wrote a letter to anyone who might happen upon my shoebox grave to let them know that the little rodent corpse they saw meant something to me.
I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. And I think about the years that have passed me by. Years since I cared enough to feel. My seventh grade year was filled with plenty of tears...long after the great hamster tragedy. My eighth grade year was far from a picnic. I cried often, probably daily. I felt everything. Everything hurt. Evident by the bitter tears streaming down my face. And sometime come my high school years, I quit. I couldn’t handle it anymore. It was too hard to feel. And quite frankly, I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care enough to put the feeling in.
I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. And I wonder what it would be like to again be able to cry over the simple things. Heck, I wonder what it would be like to cry over the hard things. So often I will tears to come. “God, I’m breaking inside! Let me cry! Let me somehow release everything built up inside of me!” And sometimes, if I’m lucky, a single dry sob will come from my throat. I want it to be okay to cry. I want to feel. I want to care. What happened to the girl who sobbed when her hamster died? Does this have more to do with life than merely “growing up”?
I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. I cried the other day and wish I could do it again. I wish I could find my way back to being twelve...when I cared enough to feel...
When my hamster died.
I had him for a whole summer.
“Houdini” was my first real pet. He escaped three times before actually securing a home next to the fish tank. Hence his namesake. He was kind of a boring pet. There’s only so much fun you can have with a hamster. Only so much fun a hamster will have with you. He did not appreciate my Lego mazes, cared little for me initiating walks in his hamster ball and after living wild for nearly a solid month when everything was said and done...he wasn’t much of a cuddler either. Sometime in the fall the stupid hamster got sick. Pneumonia is near as we could tell. I did my best to nurse that stupid little hamster back to health but when mom came to pick me up from school one day, she came with the news – Houdini didn’t make it.
I bawled.
I sobbed.
I made a scene.
Over a dead hamster.
I wrote the most ridiculous note you’ve ever read about how I loved the hamster. How he was my friend. How he died too soon. And I was completely serious. My sincerity was evident by the tears again streaming down my face. I put that stupid, dead hamster into a box with my letter and buried him under the bush in the flower bed. It was the saddest day of my entire fall semester of my seventh grade year.
I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. It’s been nearly 8 years since Houdini went to be on that giant hamster wheel in the sky. And I laugh. I laugh because I cried bitter tears over a hamster that hated my guts. Not only that, I cried hard! I laugh because I wrote a letter to anyone who might happen upon my shoebox grave to let them know that the little rodent corpse they saw meant something to me.
I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. And I think about the years that have passed me by. Years since I cared enough to feel. My seventh grade year was filled with plenty of tears...long after the great hamster tragedy. My eighth grade year was far from a picnic. I cried often, probably daily. I felt everything. Everything hurt. Evident by the bitter tears streaming down my face. And sometime come my high school years, I quit. I couldn’t handle it anymore. It was too hard to feel. And quite frankly, I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care enough to put the feeling in.
I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. And I wonder what it would be like to again be able to cry over the simple things. Heck, I wonder what it would be like to cry over the hard things. So often I will tears to come. “God, I’m breaking inside! Let me cry! Let me somehow release everything built up inside of me!” And sometimes, if I’m lucky, a single dry sob will come from my throat. I want it to be okay to cry. I want to feel. I want to care. What happened to the girl who sobbed when her hamster died? Does this have more to do with life than merely “growing up”?
I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. I cried the other day and wish I could do it again. I wish I could find my way back to being twelve...when I cared enough to feel...
Friday, October 3, 2008
Irony?
As I sit at my computer screen, with plenty better to fill the void of time I’ve simply decided I wish to kill, I can’t get over it. The juxtaposition that is. The dichotomy. The irony. On my computer, more specifically on facebook...hoping for a message, a wall post, a poke. Anything. Something. Someone. Someone to remind me that I still exist. Like an artificial high – I live in these current moments for connection to the world. Any part of it. So excited I was to open my inbox to three notes on my wall. Only to crash and burn when I realized my replied wall post was not going to replace an actual conversation.
When was the last time I had a real conversation? Not an exchange of “how are yous” in the hallway. Not me telling you when my next doctor’s appointment it is. But a real conversation – talking about things that actually mean something...a chance for me to spill my heart about things that matter and listen as you respond. About anything! I can think of very few of these conversations since school started...A handful tops in the six weeks I’ve been here...if you count the general discourse you would expect out of any moderate friendship (my roommate’s bothering me...calculus sucks...)
And furthermore, for as much as I would love to talk, I long to be touched. I crave touch. Isn’t that weird? Especially from me. Anybody who knows me AT ALL knows I spent almost 6 years of my life totally encased in a bubble. Hugs were a definite no-no. I didn’t like them. From anyone. I didn’t have friends and it transcended to even my family. Getting something as simple as a hug meant I’d have to reciprocate and I wasn’t willing to give emotion to anybody – because anybody who held my emotions could destroy them. If I rejected you first, you would never have the opportunity to reject me. And it worked. But I opened myself up for the kill... And in the process I found for as awful as it hurts – for certainly some of those I have allowed to hold me have also dropped me – I can’t ignore the feeling of being held. To know...if only for a second...that I mean something to someone. That another human being values me and is willing...if only for a second...to keep me safe. I’ve been hugged twice this week...I think. Well one was a loose side hug... And I’m sure there are some out there dying for a hug and a half a week. But how do you wean yourself off of people who care? How do you spend a year and half - almost two - basking in a life of community to be ripped out all too suddenly and placed into a familiar but foreign land?
I love that blogs are like over grown diaries – journals for the world to read. And yet, I post this completely convinced that no one actually reads my blog. I don’t normally. Anything I post is something I am completely “o.k.” with the world seeing. Am I “o.k.” with the world knowing these things? Things I don’t know if I’ve ever told people before – not my closest confidant – at least not in so many words? I don’t know. And for, perhaps the first time ever, I don’t care. I have no idea why I post this now. Perhaps because I can’t get over it. The juxtaposition that is. The dichotomy. The irony. Of knowing I’m posting something almost private for the world to read...all the while knowing no one will read it.
When was the last time I had a real conversation? Not an exchange of “how are yous” in the hallway. Not me telling you when my next doctor’s appointment it is. But a real conversation – talking about things that actually mean something...a chance for me to spill my heart about things that matter and listen as you respond. About anything! I can think of very few of these conversations since school started...A handful tops in the six weeks I’ve been here...if you count the general discourse you would expect out of any moderate friendship (my roommate’s bothering me...calculus sucks...)
And furthermore, for as much as I would love to talk, I long to be touched. I crave touch. Isn’t that weird? Especially from me. Anybody who knows me AT ALL knows I spent almost 6 years of my life totally encased in a bubble. Hugs were a definite no-no. I didn’t like them. From anyone. I didn’t have friends and it transcended to even my family. Getting something as simple as a hug meant I’d have to reciprocate and I wasn’t willing to give emotion to anybody – because anybody who held my emotions could destroy them. If I rejected you first, you would never have the opportunity to reject me. And it worked. But I opened myself up for the kill... And in the process I found for as awful as it hurts – for certainly some of those I have allowed to hold me have also dropped me – I can’t ignore the feeling of being held. To know...if only for a second...that I mean something to someone. That another human being values me and is willing...if only for a second...to keep me safe. I’ve been hugged twice this week...I think. Well one was a loose side hug... And I’m sure there are some out there dying for a hug and a half a week. But how do you wean yourself off of people who care? How do you spend a year and half - almost two - basking in a life of community to be ripped out all too suddenly and placed into a familiar but foreign land?
I love that blogs are like over grown diaries – journals for the world to read. And yet, I post this completely convinced that no one actually reads my blog. I don’t normally. Anything I post is something I am completely “o.k.” with the world seeing. Am I “o.k.” with the world knowing these things? Things I don’t know if I’ve ever told people before – not my closest confidant – at least not in so many words? I don’t know. And for, perhaps the first time ever, I don’t care. I have no idea why I post this now. Perhaps because I can’t get over it. The juxtaposition that is. The dichotomy. The irony. Of knowing I’m posting something almost private for the world to read...all the while knowing no one will read it.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Christian Hologram
It looks almost real
It moves just so
It says the right things
So you’ll never know...
That it’s just a hologram.
A 3-D projection up on a wall.
A single hologram...
Looks so real,
But there’s no substance at all.
Just an image lacking all matter.
Just a picture without all the “stuff”.
Just an icon of all I’m after.
But just a hologram will never be enough
Any image without substance is a lie.
Any Christian without the heart, the core, is a fake.
In the name of keeping up appearances,
It doesn’t matter if they’re asleep
As long as the outside looks awake.
Sick of watching a bunch of Christian holograms.
3-D projections up on a wall.
Sick of living with a bunch of Christian holograms.
They look so real,
But there’s no substance at all.
It moves just so
It says the right things
So you’ll never know...
That it’s just a hologram.
A 3-D projection up on a wall.
A single hologram...
Looks so real,
But there’s no substance at all.
Just an image lacking all matter.
Just a picture without all the “stuff”.
Just an icon of all I’m after.
But just a hologram will never be enough
Any image without substance is a lie.
Any Christian without the heart, the core, is a fake.
In the name of keeping up appearances,
It doesn’t matter if they’re asleep
As long as the outside looks awake.
Sick of watching a bunch of Christian holograms.
3-D projections up on a wall.
Sick of living with a bunch of Christian holograms.
They look so real,
But there’s no substance at all.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Viewing my own Cancer Experience in Light of the Communicative Properties of the Social Penetration Theory
COM 200 was the most discouraging class of my entire year to date and just today. This is not to say I did not learn anything – for certainly I did. And this is also not to say that it wasn’t beneficial – for it was. But in so many ways it condemned me to utter hopelessness. Dooming me to be without ability to form new, meaningful relationships for as long as cancer also dominated my life.
Social Penetration Theory. In the words of Dr. Paul Patton “for some of you, the realization of this information will cause you to jump inside and your jaw will drop and you will go ‘that’s why!’” Yes Dr. Patton, something like that. I had read through the chapter – I was fully aware, if only cognitively exposed, to the way such an explicitly obvious theory would apply to everyday life. My life in fact. I could plainly identify how pieces of the puzzle played into my puzzle, my life as a whole. I had many light bulbs; many “aha!” moments – but nothing seemed exceptionally profound. The Social Penetration Theory was clearly explaining things I had clearly seen – giving explanation and reason behind many of the relationships I have had.
But as I sat in class, my insides collapsed. As Dr. Patton went on dramatically and excitedly – creating a personal monologue based discussion as the class watched on – I suddenly began to see things from a new perspective. Or really, rather, from the same perspective with a new filter. My hand went to my neck and I touched my scar. That scar, cancer, everything...that was it. That was why I suck at life. As class went on, it all seemed to make a peculiar amount of depressing sense. Please let me explain.
Social Penetration Theory works on the basis of the model of an onion – the idea that we reveal things to people at varying layers of intimacy – a process of reciprocated self-disclosure as a relationship forms. I share something about me, you share something about you. And vice-versa. If there is no initial rejection and similarities are assumed, deeper levels are traversed. Sets of people are essentially in the process of unveiling the same level at the same time. Fundamentally, it is the theory explaining how relationships start, continue, and die. And why it sucks to have cancer.
First of all, appearances work as a baseline pseudo form of self disclosure. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but appearances are often one of the first things drawing us to engage with one another. I have been told by a few daring soles that my scar is, by some, found intimidating, gross and repulsive. According to this theory – many will never approach me to ever begin a relationship – based on the sight of my scar alone. Let’s not even contemplate other such reasons.
Second - you’re expected, naturally, to disclose at the same level you inquired at – subsequent self-disclosure is given based on your response, etc. Those who are un-repulsed by my scar often interact with me for a time at the baseline level. Any who dare proceed further ask about such an awkward and obvious blemish. The scar itself is in the next level of self-disclosure and, for me, the answer is as well. But that is because it has become so natural. On the contrary, however, an answer like “cancer” sends most people into much deeper levels of self-disclosure. It’s a fake bottom. While my answer has just barely rubbed the surface of who I am, others believe I have trusted them with a great truth. Even though I, in fact, have revealed very little to the inquirer and in fact have much more to disclose under such a broad topic – the answer feels deep.
This plays out in one of two ways and I find the result to be a discouraging rock and hard place to be stuck between. 1) Unsure of how to respond by my unexpected answer, most retreat. This was too much “Anika” to be given and, based on the rules, reciprocity would demand an answer at a similar level. Afraid to divulge that much of themselves (seeing, again, the false bottom) many do not attempt more. 2) Some, though not near as many as before, see this false bottom and feel honored to be holding such a “close piece” of who I am. They assume a deeper relationship than actually exists because I have disclosed so much. While not necessarily opening themselves up to me – they assume they know more of me than what I have actually given, creating a phony sense of belonging on both of our parts. I am left with two options – equally seemingly inadequate. I could just not answer their questions and our relationship can remain almost worthless or I can answer truthfully – either way ending up without the solid relationship I crave.
And this all leads into those who make it beyond this point – third – my current relationships. This one piece of self disclosure (some believing they’ve made it fairly close to the core of who I am) becomes the fore-front of who I am as a person. As a result I have several very shallow friendships – all formed on the basis of cancer. They, only reaching a very little piece of who I am, assume haphazardly this to be not only the depth but also the breadth of interest. This is all they discuss – because it is all our relationship and level of self-disclosure is based upon. I have either no conversations (possibly because of my lack of ability to form meaningful friendships) or dozens (with many of my sideline spectators, cheerleaders, supporters and casual relationships) in a day. When I have any number of personal conversations – they all take place within the realm of these pseudo relationships built upon my ability to trust them with the knowledge that I in fact have cancer – meaning every conversation I have is about cancer. It is not that I do not value these relationships on a basic level, we just aren’t (and probably never will be) close.
In many ways, in fact most ways, cancer, for me, has turned into a fake form of self disclosure. I can disclose cancer without disclosing anything. It can in fact be a solid wall to hide behind enabling me to close off other pieces of who I am. Few understand why I hurt for meaningful relationship though I have few willing to see past and break down the walls. Hardly any one will breach issues of political comprehension, theological justification, my fears, my fantasies, my secret longings – the real me. I have ceased to know, and constantly question, whether or not another piece of me even exists – for rarely do I have a meaningful conversation about anything other than cancer. And meaningful is very much relative to the eyes of the beholder. Most of my cancer discussions never breach a level where I can complain about the injustices, talk about what God is teaching me inside it or reveal my secret fears. That fake bottom throws people into believing they’ve got a pretty good picture of who I am inside of cancer without doing anything but air brushing the surface.
And this analysis is only the beginning. I was able, in my initial eye-opening discovery to pinpoint many direct examples of relationships, etc, that have taken place inside each of the realms I have stated. And, quite frankly, there is plenty more to the theory available for me to delve into – currently untouched and untapped by my ability to connect it to cancer. Depenetration, for example, and watching relationships that existed before the onset of a cancer announcement, slowing ebb away and dissolve (occasionally for some of the same reasons listed above – some in conjunction with other theories, etc). How I can’t wait for the saga that makes up my life to end. Cancer is a huge defining factor of who I am – but it is not the truest thing about me. Unfortunately, it tends to take precedence – in other’s minds and, admittedly, in my mine as well. Until it ends, however, it will continue to be under constant forces of mystical communication practices that guide relationships...things like the Social Penetration Theory.
Social Penetration Theory. In the words of Dr. Paul Patton “for some of you, the realization of this information will cause you to jump inside and your jaw will drop and you will go ‘that’s why!’” Yes Dr. Patton, something like that. I had read through the chapter – I was fully aware, if only cognitively exposed, to the way such an explicitly obvious theory would apply to everyday life. My life in fact. I could plainly identify how pieces of the puzzle played into my puzzle, my life as a whole. I had many light bulbs; many “aha!” moments – but nothing seemed exceptionally profound. The Social Penetration Theory was clearly explaining things I had clearly seen – giving explanation and reason behind many of the relationships I have had.
But as I sat in class, my insides collapsed. As Dr. Patton went on dramatically and excitedly – creating a personal monologue based discussion as the class watched on – I suddenly began to see things from a new perspective. Or really, rather, from the same perspective with a new filter. My hand went to my neck and I touched my scar. That scar, cancer, everything...that was it. That was why I suck at life. As class went on, it all seemed to make a peculiar amount of depressing sense. Please let me explain.
Social Penetration Theory works on the basis of the model of an onion – the idea that we reveal things to people at varying layers of intimacy – a process of reciprocated self-disclosure as a relationship forms. I share something about me, you share something about you. And vice-versa. If there is no initial rejection and similarities are assumed, deeper levels are traversed. Sets of people are essentially in the process of unveiling the same level at the same time. Fundamentally, it is the theory explaining how relationships start, continue, and die. And why it sucks to have cancer.
First of all, appearances work as a baseline pseudo form of self disclosure. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but appearances are often one of the first things drawing us to engage with one another. I have been told by a few daring soles that my scar is, by some, found intimidating, gross and repulsive. According to this theory – many will never approach me to ever begin a relationship – based on the sight of my scar alone. Let’s not even contemplate other such reasons.
Second - you’re expected, naturally, to disclose at the same level you inquired at – subsequent self-disclosure is given based on your response, etc. Those who are un-repulsed by my scar often interact with me for a time at the baseline level. Any who dare proceed further ask about such an awkward and obvious blemish. The scar itself is in the next level of self-disclosure and, for me, the answer is as well. But that is because it has become so natural. On the contrary, however, an answer like “cancer” sends most people into much deeper levels of self-disclosure. It’s a fake bottom. While my answer has just barely rubbed the surface of who I am, others believe I have trusted them with a great truth. Even though I, in fact, have revealed very little to the inquirer and in fact have much more to disclose under such a broad topic – the answer feels deep.
This plays out in one of two ways and I find the result to be a discouraging rock and hard place to be stuck between. 1) Unsure of how to respond by my unexpected answer, most retreat. This was too much “Anika” to be given and, based on the rules, reciprocity would demand an answer at a similar level. Afraid to divulge that much of themselves (seeing, again, the false bottom) many do not attempt more. 2) Some, though not near as many as before, see this false bottom and feel honored to be holding such a “close piece” of who I am. They assume a deeper relationship than actually exists because I have disclosed so much. While not necessarily opening themselves up to me – they assume they know more of me than what I have actually given, creating a phony sense of belonging on both of our parts. I am left with two options – equally seemingly inadequate. I could just not answer their questions and our relationship can remain almost worthless or I can answer truthfully – either way ending up without the solid relationship I crave.
And this all leads into those who make it beyond this point – third – my current relationships. This one piece of self disclosure (some believing they’ve made it fairly close to the core of who I am) becomes the fore-front of who I am as a person. As a result I have several very shallow friendships – all formed on the basis of cancer. They, only reaching a very little piece of who I am, assume haphazardly this to be not only the depth but also the breadth of interest. This is all they discuss – because it is all our relationship and level of self-disclosure is based upon. I have either no conversations (possibly because of my lack of ability to form meaningful friendships) or dozens (with many of my sideline spectators, cheerleaders, supporters and casual relationships) in a day. When I have any number of personal conversations – they all take place within the realm of these pseudo relationships built upon my ability to trust them with the knowledge that I in fact have cancer – meaning every conversation I have is about cancer. It is not that I do not value these relationships on a basic level, we just aren’t (and probably never will be) close.
In many ways, in fact most ways, cancer, for me, has turned into a fake form of self disclosure. I can disclose cancer without disclosing anything. It can in fact be a solid wall to hide behind enabling me to close off other pieces of who I am. Few understand why I hurt for meaningful relationship though I have few willing to see past and break down the walls. Hardly any one will breach issues of political comprehension, theological justification, my fears, my fantasies, my secret longings – the real me. I have ceased to know, and constantly question, whether or not another piece of me even exists – for rarely do I have a meaningful conversation about anything other than cancer. And meaningful is very much relative to the eyes of the beholder. Most of my cancer discussions never breach a level where I can complain about the injustices, talk about what God is teaching me inside it or reveal my secret fears. That fake bottom throws people into believing they’ve got a pretty good picture of who I am inside of cancer without doing anything but air brushing the surface.
And this analysis is only the beginning. I was able, in my initial eye-opening discovery to pinpoint many direct examples of relationships, etc, that have taken place inside each of the realms I have stated. And, quite frankly, there is plenty more to the theory available for me to delve into – currently untouched and untapped by my ability to connect it to cancer. Depenetration, for example, and watching relationships that existed before the onset of a cancer announcement, slowing ebb away and dissolve (occasionally for some of the same reasons listed above – some in conjunction with other theories, etc). How I can’t wait for the saga that makes up my life to end. Cancer is a huge defining factor of who I am – but it is not the truest thing about me. Unfortunately, it tends to take precedence – in other’s minds and, admittedly, in my mine as well. Until it ends, however, it will continue to be under constant forces of mystical communication practices that guide relationships...things like the Social Penetration Theory.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Labeled Inconsistency
I have an old hotmail account. One I set up like 8 years ago...right before or after I turned 13. When the coolest thing you could possibly do was set up your own free e-mail address. The internet was still pretty new back 8 years ago. You could have just about any domain name you wanted. I was a hard core middle school Christ follower – and my favorite band was DC Talk. My address, ingenious: jesusfreakajk. I used the address pretty faithfully throughout my jr. high and high school years. By the time I reached college, however, it was not only antiquated but almost useless. I had no friends who e-mailed me...let alone used that address. I received a couple of subscriptions there and I had a huge storage limit holding dozens of old e-mails I didn’t have the heart to send into permanent oblivion and could have my large picture files sent there...but otherwise, I just used my school account. There was no need to pay much attention to my old hotmail address.
Except for one thing: all of the really random online accounts I hold are still set to that e-mail address. I haven’t had a good reason to switch them. This includes my half, ebay, and amazon accounts...where mostly I just buy my textbooks for ridiculously good prices but occasionally sell some of my own...in hopes being able to afford all these new books I’m buying. Not too long ago I shipped off my old statistics books to California. Without too much of a second thought I was $50 richer and I saved some poor college student nearly that much on having to buy a brand new copy by providing them with my impeccably and exceptionally maintained used books. Well, at least there was no second thought until I received an angry, embittered e-mail stating the CD (which I never used and was still in perfect, in tact condition when I sent it) was cracked – rendering the entire sale useless. What did I think I was trying to pull and what was I going to do about it?
What was I trying to pull? I didn’t send a cracked CD...nor did I mail it in anything but sufficient packaging to guarantee a safe delivery. I marked the book used – excellent, but used not new and, quite frankly, my book (complete with workbook) was a steal...regardless of an injured CD which was no where near my fault. I mean I felt bad but what I was I supposed to do? I explained this all calmly and professionally in an e-mail reply and offered my apologies as well as the internet link where I accessed the CD information when I was statistics student...advised by my professor as a much more accessible way of obtaining the same information. I even wished her a nice day.
Except, the issue wasn’t resolved. I received a second flaming angry letter from this embittered buyer. Again demanding I come up with a solution to her completely unsatisfactory purchase. I had a dilemma. I wanted to tell her to stop her whining and quite frankly, to shove it. But it was attached to an e-mail address, a label, a title which read “Jesus Freak”. Quite frankly I don’t need some hostile, inconsistent, rude college student 4000 miles away to like me. In fact, I don’t even think I want her to like me. But, anything I said and anything I did would be a reflection on the title I held. Not only on me but on the Christ I claimed and the label I maintained. There could be no inconsistency. Needless to say...I spent incredible time and prayer on my second e-mail.
I wonder, however, how often I think through that same process...and how often I should. How much more conscious I should be of labeled inconsistencies. How many times have I acted as a less-than-adequate representation of Christ while in the driver’s seat...with the outline of a fish on my car. How many times have I been impatient if not rude or condescending – even unintentionally...while wearing one of my many Christian t-shirts. For that matter...if my facebook status praises Jesus...does my homepage do the same? What about other Christians? What are we doing as a body of believers to make sure that our thoughts, actions, and lifestyle mirror the t-shirts we sport, the bracelets we wear, the bumper stickers we plaster all over our cars? Or is what the world seeing when they see “Christian” just labeled inconsistency?
Except for one thing: all of the really random online accounts I hold are still set to that e-mail address. I haven’t had a good reason to switch them. This includes my half, ebay, and amazon accounts...where mostly I just buy my textbooks for ridiculously good prices but occasionally sell some of my own...in hopes being able to afford all these new books I’m buying. Not too long ago I shipped off my old statistics books to California. Without too much of a second thought I was $50 richer and I saved some poor college student nearly that much on having to buy a brand new copy by providing them with my impeccably and exceptionally maintained used books. Well, at least there was no second thought until I received an angry, embittered e-mail stating the CD (which I never used and was still in perfect, in tact condition when I sent it) was cracked – rendering the entire sale useless. What did I think I was trying to pull and what was I going to do about it?
What was I trying to pull? I didn’t send a cracked CD...nor did I mail it in anything but sufficient packaging to guarantee a safe delivery. I marked the book used – excellent, but used not new and, quite frankly, my book (complete with workbook) was a steal...regardless of an injured CD which was no where near my fault. I mean I felt bad but what I was I supposed to do? I explained this all calmly and professionally in an e-mail reply and offered my apologies as well as the internet link where I accessed the CD information when I was statistics student...advised by my professor as a much more accessible way of obtaining the same information. I even wished her a nice day.
Except, the issue wasn’t resolved. I received a second flaming angry letter from this embittered buyer. Again demanding I come up with a solution to her completely unsatisfactory purchase. I had a dilemma. I wanted to tell her to stop her whining and quite frankly, to shove it. But it was attached to an e-mail address, a label, a title which read “Jesus Freak”. Quite frankly I don’t need some hostile, inconsistent, rude college student 4000 miles away to like me. In fact, I don’t even think I want her to like me. But, anything I said and anything I did would be a reflection on the title I held. Not only on me but on the Christ I claimed and the label I maintained. There could be no inconsistency. Needless to say...I spent incredible time and prayer on my second e-mail.
I wonder, however, how often I think through that same process...and how often I should. How much more conscious I should be of labeled inconsistencies. How many times have I acted as a less-than-adequate representation of Christ while in the driver’s seat...with the outline of a fish on my car. How many times have I been impatient if not rude or condescending – even unintentionally...while wearing one of my many Christian t-shirts. For that matter...if my facebook status praises Jesus...does my homepage do the same? What about other Christians? What are we doing as a body of believers to make sure that our thoughts, actions, and lifestyle mirror the t-shirts we sport, the bracelets we wear, the bumper stickers we plaster all over our cars? Or is what the world seeing when they see “Christian” just labeled inconsistency?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
And She Walks By
Hollow eyes.
An empty stare.
Only vague sparks
That once something was there.
The faintest sense
She might have been crying.
The aching reminder,
That a piece of her is dying.
And she walks by.
We don’t care if she cries.
It’s all too bad,
That’s she broken inside.
It’s not our job.
To make her feel like she’s loved.
To stop,
To care,
To comfort,
To hug.
When she walks by.
She sits alone.
Eyes cast down.
She drowns out the sound,
Of others passing by -
Ignoring her agonizing sigh.
She tries to pretend the solitude
Causes no pain
All the while wishing
She had just one friend to claim.
And she sits to the side.
We don’t care if she cries.
It’s all to bad
That she’s broken inside.
It’s not our job
To make her feel like she’s loved.
To stop,
To care,
To comfort,
To hug.
Even though she sits to the side.
And we walk on by...
An empty stare.
Only vague sparks
That once something was there.
The faintest sense
She might have been crying.
The aching reminder,
That a piece of her is dying.
And she walks by.
We don’t care if she cries.
It’s all too bad,
That’s she broken inside.
It’s not our job.
To make her feel like she’s loved.
To stop,
To care,
To comfort,
To hug.
When she walks by.
She sits alone.
Eyes cast down.
She drowns out the sound,
Of others passing by -
Ignoring her agonizing sigh.
She tries to pretend the solitude
Causes no pain
All the while wishing
She had just one friend to claim.
And she sits to the side.
We don’t care if she cries.
It’s all to bad
That she’s broken inside.
It’s not our job
To make her feel like she’s loved.
To stop,
To care,
To comfort,
To hug.
Even though she sits to the side.
And we walk on by...
Friday, September 12, 2008
Even When It's Not
Every year I struggle with the sinking feeling of leaving the spiritual high of a week of camp. This year, this year God showed me something amazing, towards the end of the week, in the words of a song. As we sang “Blessed Be Your Name,” a song I've heard more times than I can count, I was struck by the dichotemy of the words which challenged me to bless the name of God when the world was all as it should be...but then too, even when it’s not. The words, at the moment, had burned so sharp and true. Cut so deep, I knew I had to focus on them. And I did. As the song played on, the words “Even when it’s not, even when it’s not...” played through my ears, through my mind, through my heart.
It took me another day pondering over the strangeness of the intensity of the words to come to a realization about the rightness of my world at camp in contrast to the “outside world”. I came home with the weight and sadness of departure still very real but by Sunday a written understanding, a call, a challenge from God, nearly audible stating “You blessed my name when the world was as it should be and now that it’s not – bless me anyway!” It cut me to the core. And the response felt so very right.
Ironically? It was the exact next morning that my world would again crash in against me. My doctor would call and tell me it was time to try and do everything over again – that my world was again not as it should be. I bottled the frustration and tried to pretend that it didn’t bother me – all the while feeling like I was being punched over and over again in the gut. Really rather upset with the God who would allow this to go on...again. For the last month, I’ve been in varying stages of disconnect. Sometimes God and I are fine. I give Him my will and control. But often it seems, we reach an impasse and I won’t talk to Him for a while as I seek to understand the underlying resentment I harbor.
Until it occurred to me this week... “Even when it’s not” had nothing to do with camp. It was a great piece to understand, a fantastic application, but “even when it’s not” was preparing me for another upheaval on my life. Another chance to praise God during my roads marked with suffering and painful offerings. It was God’s challenge to me – a day, two days early! “Anika! You blessed my name when the world was as it should be. And now that it’s not...bless me anyway!”
My world isn’t quite right. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t flow right. So many pieces of it are off and cancer is just one huge heaping helping of all that is wrong. I’m frustrated...with life in general. With being back at school. With being back at school and the “cancer kid” for yet another semester. With being back at school, the cancer kid, and a relative loner. With being such a loser I had to go in blind for a roommate as a junior...and am stuck with a roommate that is far from my perfect match. I’m frustrated that the environment which always forced me to come alive seems to be slowly choking the life out of me. The place which always, beyond a shadow of a doubt, forced me to see the face of Christ...has left me searching for when He intends to show up. Yeah, frustrated. But I’ve been given a choice – a choice and a challenge. A decision and a dare. Praise isn’t a natural response; in fact it’s unnatural response. It’s a sacrifice, a choice, an act of obedience and, ultimately, the only way. I don’t want to praise God now...but He calls me to anyway. “Anika you bless my name when your world is ‘right’. Bless me now too...Even when it’s not.”
It took me another day pondering over the strangeness of the intensity of the words to come to a realization about the rightness of my world at camp in contrast to the “outside world”. I came home with the weight and sadness of departure still very real but by Sunday a written understanding, a call, a challenge from God, nearly audible stating “You blessed my name when the world was as it should be and now that it’s not – bless me anyway!” It cut me to the core. And the response felt so very right.
Ironically? It was the exact next morning that my world would again crash in against me. My doctor would call and tell me it was time to try and do everything over again – that my world was again not as it should be. I bottled the frustration and tried to pretend that it didn’t bother me – all the while feeling like I was being punched over and over again in the gut. Really rather upset with the God who would allow this to go on...again. For the last month, I’ve been in varying stages of disconnect. Sometimes God and I are fine. I give Him my will and control. But often it seems, we reach an impasse and I won’t talk to Him for a while as I seek to understand the underlying resentment I harbor.
Until it occurred to me this week... “Even when it’s not” had nothing to do with camp. It was a great piece to understand, a fantastic application, but “even when it’s not” was preparing me for another upheaval on my life. Another chance to praise God during my roads marked with suffering and painful offerings. It was God’s challenge to me – a day, two days early! “Anika! You blessed my name when the world was as it should be. And now that it’s not...bless me anyway!”
My world isn’t quite right. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t flow right. So many pieces of it are off and cancer is just one huge heaping helping of all that is wrong. I’m frustrated...with life in general. With being back at school. With being back at school and the “cancer kid” for yet another semester. With being back at school, the cancer kid, and a relative loner. With being such a loser I had to go in blind for a roommate as a junior...and am stuck with a roommate that is far from my perfect match. I’m frustrated that the environment which always forced me to come alive seems to be slowly choking the life out of me. The place which always, beyond a shadow of a doubt, forced me to see the face of Christ...has left me searching for when He intends to show up. Yeah, frustrated. But I’ve been given a choice – a choice and a challenge. A decision and a dare. Praise isn’t a natural response; in fact it’s unnatural response. It’s a sacrifice, a choice, an act of obedience and, ultimately, the only way. I don’t want to praise God now...but He calls me to anyway. “Anika you bless my name when your world is ‘right’. Bless me now too...Even when it’s not.”
Monday, September 1, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Feel the Silence
We had given up on trying to decide on something for dinner. Instead my sisters and I sat down to the television in the breakfast nook and proceeded to watch the last half of a rerun of an old sit-com we were otherwise unfamiliar with. We chuckled at the creative dialogue formed between a husband and wife who recently discovered they were to be first-time parents. However, as the show came to a close, the story line wrapped up with the devastating announcement from the key character: she had miscarried. Without any to-do, the scene faded and the show ended.
Faith, my sister, looked to up. “Hmm.” She said softly, talking mostly to herself. “I’m glad they didn’t end with music – you know, the show jingle they always play at the end. It was a sad scene and that’s okay. You don’t need the extra noise all the time. Sometimes you just need to feel the silence to understand...”
“What?” I questioned as much as myself as of her. I could feel my breath quicken and my brow furrow and my eyes blaze with a sudden desperation. “Finish your sentence. Understand what?”
“That was it. Just understand...” Faith said all too matter-of-factly.
She may have said something more. I don’t really know; I wasn’t paying attention. All I could hear was one phrase, one sentence, on arbitrary comment made by a sister who often speaks much truth but rarely speaks with the eloquence I was sure I just heard. “Sometimes you just need to feel the silence to understand...”
I couldn’t sit still. I was restless, longing and desperate. I felt crazed. For reasons I couldn’t understand, somehow I felt it was the answer and the question. Because in one breath and the rapid beating of my heart I simultaneously declared “That’s it!” and “What’s it?” It was all so simple and yet so complicated.
Let the voices fade. My voice, the voice of the world – the voice of everything except for the voice of God. I wanted a God shaped q-tip to come and fill my ears so that there was room for Him alone. With all of the other voices faded – if even for mere seconds at a time – I heard silence. And the silence irritated me, agitated me, discontented me. Before too much time would pass I would always stand in utter impatience. “God!” I would scream – my voice, the voice needing to fade more than any other – invading the stillness, “Say something already! I’m here! I’m waiting! I’m listening!” But so often no answer would come.
I took the silence at value and saw it for what I thought it was – nothing. Sometimes if I was quiet before God long enough He would answer me. Though often the answer was as dissatisfying as “wait,” there was a response. But silence, silence was something else all together – neither the answer nor the question but the dead space in between – nothing. And yet, and yet perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was both.
“Sometimes you just need to feel the silence to understand.” I have so often attempted to outlast the silence to hear the voice – the sure, gentle whisper, the knowing, the never audible but always genuinely the voice of God to receive the truth I longed and waited for. And in due time, God’s time...the answer, regardless of whether or not it was the one I had been hoping for, is mine to have. But never once have I stopped to consider the beauty of the silence. Never once can I remember trying to feel the silence. What does that even mean? What does that even look like?
My agitated discontent in seeking to understand with the lack of a voice, was it wrestling out the voice of silence? “Sometimes you just need to feel the silence to understand...” I considered for a moment that perhaps to hear and feel silence is not so much listening for the presence of something new – but listening for the exclusion of the other things. What does it feel like NOT to hear the other voices? Is THAT what it is like to feel the silence? When all of the other voices finally fade and all I hear is silence, am I finally hearing truth? What is there to understand in the stillness and solitude of the presence of God? And to what end does it lead to a point where I might understand...
Faith, my sister, looked to up. “Hmm.” She said softly, talking mostly to herself. “I’m glad they didn’t end with music – you know, the show jingle they always play at the end. It was a sad scene and that’s okay. You don’t need the extra noise all the time. Sometimes you just need to feel the silence to understand...”
“What?” I questioned as much as myself as of her. I could feel my breath quicken and my brow furrow and my eyes blaze with a sudden desperation. “Finish your sentence. Understand what?”
“That was it. Just understand...” Faith said all too matter-of-factly.
She may have said something more. I don’t really know; I wasn’t paying attention. All I could hear was one phrase, one sentence, on arbitrary comment made by a sister who often speaks much truth but rarely speaks with the eloquence I was sure I just heard. “Sometimes you just need to feel the silence to understand...”
I couldn’t sit still. I was restless, longing and desperate. I felt crazed. For reasons I couldn’t understand, somehow I felt it was the answer and the question. Because in one breath and the rapid beating of my heart I simultaneously declared “That’s it!” and “What’s it?” It was all so simple and yet so complicated.
Let the voices fade. My voice, the voice of the world – the voice of everything except for the voice of God. I wanted a God shaped q-tip to come and fill my ears so that there was room for Him alone. With all of the other voices faded – if even for mere seconds at a time – I heard silence. And the silence irritated me, agitated me, discontented me. Before too much time would pass I would always stand in utter impatience. “God!” I would scream – my voice, the voice needing to fade more than any other – invading the stillness, “Say something already! I’m here! I’m waiting! I’m listening!” But so often no answer would come.
I took the silence at value and saw it for what I thought it was – nothing. Sometimes if I was quiet before God long enough He would answer me. Though often the answer was as dissatisfying as “wait,” there was a response. But silence, silence was something else all together – neither the answer nor the question but the dead space in between – nothing. And yet, and yet perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was both.
“Sometimes you just need to feel the silence to understand.” I have so often attempted to outlast the silence to hear the voice – the sure, gentle whisper, the knowing, the never audible but always genuinely the voice of God to receive the truth I longed and waited for. And in due time, God’s time...the answer, regardless of whether or not it was the one I had been hoping for, is mine to have. But never once have I stopped to consider the beauty of the silence. Never once can I remember trying to feel the silence. What does that even mean? What does that even look like?
My agitated discontent in seeking to understand with the lack of a voice, was it wrestling out the voice of silence? “Sometimes you just need to feel the silence to understand...” I considered for a moment that perhaps to hear and feel silence is not so much listening for the presence of something new – but listening for the exclusion of the other things. What does it feel like NOT to hear the other voices? Is THAT what it is like to feel the silence? When all of the other voices finally fade and all I hear is silence, am I finally hearing truth? What is there to understand in the stillness and solitude of the presence of God? And to what end does it lead to a point where I might understand...
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Blessed Curse
It’s the blessed curse. I can’t decide if it is one or the other and so have come to the conclusion that it must be both. I am writing – constantly. And constantly I am finding connections and lessons to God in the smallest of ways...through the single word of a song and the unsuspecting and fleeting comment of a friend or the gentle whispers of the beauty surrounding me. Everything I stop to think about for even a second becomes a word, a paragraph, a meaning.
And I despise it. I feel like I am constantly over analyzing every piece of my world. Can I not just see an aloe plant for an aloe plant with not also having to consider – very personally – the difference between surviving and thriving? Or tonight, I was getting ready for bed when my routine landed me with toothpaste in my eye. Never before have I encountered this phenomenon – especially with my glasses still on - nor can I explain exactly how it happened. But the moment my eye began to burn with searing pain – my mind went instantly from “my eye hurts” to “what connection can be made, what truth told, in the telling of this story?” Everything is a story.
And I love it. Despite my irritation, I love the stories. I love the connections I’ve found. The days where God feels the farthest away lately are the days without stories. I love having been taken to a place where I think little of the analyzing I do before I find myself wrapped in the ponderings which bring me closer to my Saviour. I love being able to see God in the little things – and recognize an ability to see Him in things that otherwise have no immediate correlation. For He exists even in those things as well. Oh what a blessed curse.
And I despise it. I feel like I am constantly over analyzing every piece of my world. Can I not just see an aloe plant for an aloe plant with not also having to consider – very personally – the difference between surviving and thriving? Or tonight, I was getting ready for bed when my routine landed me with toothpaste in my eye. Never before have I encountered this phenomenon – especially with my glasses still on - nor can I explain exactly how it happened. But the moment my eye began to burn with searing pain – my mind went instantly from “my eye hurts” to “what connection can be made, what truth told, in the telling of this story?” Everything is a story.
And I love it. Despite my irritation, I love the stories. I love the connections I’ve found. The days where God feels the farthest away lately are the days without stories. I love having been taken to a place where I think little of the analyzing I do before I find myself wrapped in the ponderings which bring me closer to my Saviour. I love being able to see God in the little things – and recognize an ability to see Him in things that otherwise have no immediate correlation. For He exists even in those things as well. Oh what a blessed curse.
Write
Write. One of my very first ventures on this, the blog I have yet to tell well, anyone, exists questioned me. The innocent question of a little girl left me swirling for answers I could only struggle with myself and beg of God. “Miss Anika,” she had said, “what is your favorite thing to do; the thing you just want to do all of the time?” I was struck by how few options I felt like were even there for me to stop and consider – and all of them came up short. And the question only continued to feed into the battle I was already waging – the battle in which I sought to find exactly who I was...as I was in a desperate search for me.
I have not come much farther in my search. The revealings I have are small and point to things I cannot understand. Peculiarly I am being brought through yet another process – different from the last in many ways including the fact that I see the process running and working in front of me. I recognize each stage as it occurs – as if naturally stating where I now am based on what God has chosen to reveal to me. And still, as of yet, the process has not led me to the end – nor can I imagine, though I am able to recognize the process, where it may lead.
But this I do know...as I seek to understand this process, this new set of developments, all I want to do is write. All of the time...I just want to write. Even when I don’t want to write, this aching, this yearning pulls me to think, to ponder, to process...until every word meets the page. I write to feel. I write to understand. I write to connect and to feel connected. I wish I were a better writer – more eloquent, more linguistically savvy, more profound. But I can only write the way I know and the way that comes so naturally from my fingers on the keys. And perhaps my inability is alright – for perhaps any better and I would be proud or the world would take note. And perhaps the writings, though sometimes containing truth too good to keep to myself, are meant, for the time, for me alone. Write. So many times I sit down and all I want to do is write...
Still, however, I don’t think writing is my answer. I don’t think writing is what I was supposed to discover – but maybe it is supposed to be the means in which I am to go discovering. Discovering what it means to be me...to find me...to find myself caught in the epicenter.
I have not come much farther in my search. The revealings I have are small and point to things I cannot understand. Peculiarly I am being brought through yet another process – different from the last in many ways including the fact that I see the process running and working in front of me. I recognize each stage as it occurs – as if naturally stating where I now am based on what God has chosen to reveal to me. And still, as of yet, the process has not led me to the end – nor can I imagine, though I am able to recognize the process, where it may lead.
But this I do know...as I seek to understand this process, this new set of developments, all I want to do is write. All of the time...I just want to write. Even when I don’t want to write, this aching, this yearning pulls me to think, to ponder, to process...until every word meets the page. I write to feel. I write to understand. I write to connect and to feel connected. I wish I were a better writer – more eloquent, more linguistically savvy, more profound. But I can only write the way I know and the way that comes so naturally from my fingers on the keys. And perhaps my inability is alright – for perhaps any better and I would be proud or the world would take note. And perhaps the writings, though sometimes containing truth too good to keep to myself, are meant, for the time, for me alone. Write. So many times I sit down and all I want to do is write...
Still, however, I don’t think writing is my answer. I don’t think writing is what I was supposed to discover – but maybe it is supposed to be the means in which I am to go discovering. Discovering what it means to be me...to find me...to find myself caught in the epicenter.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Deafening Silence
An empty room,
A hollow hall,
No other soul,
No one at all.
Alone with myself,
The quiet is consuming
Not a word is spoken
Yet the noise is resuming.
I cannot escape my own ponderings
I cannot flee the wonderings.
And my thoughts scream enough for a crowd.
Who knew silence could be so loud?
I want to run,
Run far away.
Far from everything,
Everything my mind is trying to say.
All that I know,
All that I fear
All that I treasure,
All that I hold dear.
I am away from the people,
Gone from the cacophony
But in the end, in the end,
I can’t flee very far from me.
I cannot escape my own ponderings
I cannot flee the wonderings.
And my thoughts scream enough for a crowd.
Who knew silence could be so loud?
A hollow hall,
No other soul,
No one at all.
Alone with myself,
The quiet is consuming
Not a word is spoken
Yet the noise is resuming.
I cannot escape my own ponderings
I cannot flee the wonderings.
And my thoughts scream enough for a crowd.
Who knew silence could be so loud?
I want to run,
Run far away.
Far from everything,
Everything my mind is trying to say.
All that I know,
All that I fear
All that I treasure,
All that I hold dear.
I am away from the people,
Gone from the cacophony
But in the end, in the end,
I can’t flee very far from me.
I cannot escape my own ponderings
I cannot flee the wonderings.
And my thoughts scream enough for a crowd.
Who knew silence could be so loud?
Monday, June 23, 2008
Never Old
When I was in Montana, I couldn’t help but stare at the mountains, all of the time. I took picture upon picture upon picture of the landscape – hoping, attempting, to capture the beauty and the splendor of the mountains in the frame of my camera. Each time failing to do the snow capped peaks and the majestic grassy cascades any justice. So I would close my eyes and take a deep breath in. And then look around and shake my head. “It never gets old...”
How many I, or one of my group members, used that exact phrase. “It never gets old.” We could never get our fill of the incredibleness of creation that surrounded us. Waiting for the mountains to seem like a tree or a bird – just a piece of the scenery, each day we were amazed at how much the view still took our breath away. How many times I would look at sun melting warmly over the hills and praise God for his creation. And I wonder, if maybe it never got old me, because it never got old to God.
How much God must delight when His children delight in the things He’s made – created for us to marvel at and see Him in. I wonder if He just waits. Waits for one of His own to raise her eyes to the sky with arms lifted high and the words “God, I love you. I love that you made me. I’m speechless at all I see. Indeed, all that you made is good!” resting on her lips. Smiling as she wonders how she can even be worth His time – have any significance or beauty in comparison to such incredible creation. And her praises – they never get old. God listens with a smile on His face saying “Say it again! Love me again! Praise me again! It doesn’t get old!”
For as long as the view was fresh and breathtaking, for as long as my eyes and my words were full of awe, God would get the praise. And my praise never got old to Him. And so the reason for praise never got old to me. Father God, may all you have created, may all your great works, never get old...
How many I, or one of my group members, used that exact phrase. “It never gets old.” We could never get our fill of the incredibleness of creation that surrounded us. Waiting for the mountains to seem like a tree or a bird – just a piece of the scenery, each day we were amazed at how much the view still took our breath away. How many times I would look at sun melting warmly over the hills and praise God for his creation. And I wonder, if maybe it never got old me, because it never got old to God.
How much God must delight when His children delight in the things He’s made – created for us to marvel at and see Him in. I wonder if He just waits. Waits for one of His own to raise her eyes to the sky with arms lifted high and the words “God, I love you. I love that you made me. I’m speechless at all I see. Indeed, all that you made is good!” resting on her lips. Smiling as she wonders how she can even be worth His time – have any significance or beauty in comparison to such incredible creation. And her praises – they never get old. God listens with a smile on His face saying “Say it again! Love me again! Praise me again! It doesn’t get old!”
For as long as the view was fresh and breathtaking, for as long as my eyes and my words were full of awe, God would get the praise. And my praise never got old to Him. And so the reason for praise never got old to me. Father God, may all you have created, may all your great works, never get old...
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Wait
So many questions. I left for a much needed and much anticipated trip to the mountains of Montana with questions. Of myself and of God. Desperate for a rekindled passion for my Saviour, I anticipated great things. Furthermore, I anticipated great answers.
As I woke up each morning - before my group mates would stir - to spend my own special time with God, I would stare at the sun rising bold and beautiful over the mountain tops and lose myself in the majesty and spleador of my Creator. I felt wrapped, entrapped, in His love for me - me, a gem in the crown of His creation. Much greater than even the vast hills which lie to my every side though I could not fathom my own worth. And I would pour my heart out before my Father and my God and wait for His reply.
Mostly my attempts to silence myself before my King were answered with similar silence - devoid of the answers I so accutely desired. And so I continued to seek. And though I felt as if I could see God - clearly and plainly - I could not hear His voice. I had yet to let the other voices fade. As I struggled to surrender the voices of my questions to hear the voice of God, the assurance of an answer rang in my soul and played on my lips.
"Wait."
I know no clearer word. The answer - the one had been waiting for, searching for, longing for. Wait. An answer wrapped in discontent. Ready to rejoice in the knowledge of a response, instead I was soon frantic. "What am I waiting on? What am I waiting for? What am I supposed to do while I wait?!?"
"Just wait."
I have a feeling Montana was just the beginning. Just the start of the next stage God intends to bring me through in my life. And though I am unnerved at the lack of clarity, the foggy destination, I pray to continue to listen for and hear the voice of God. Until all becomes clear...I wait.
As I woke up each morning - before my group mates would stir - to spend my own special time with God, I would stare at the sun rising bold and beautiful over the mountain tops and lose myself in the majesty and spleador of my Creator. I felt wrapped, entrapped, in His love for me - me, a gem in the crown of His creation. Much greater than even the vast hills which lie to my every side though I could not fathom my own worth. And I would pour my heart out before my Father and my God and wait for His reply.
Mostly my attempts to silence myself before my King were answered with similar silence - devoid of the answers I so accutely desired. And so I continued to seek. And though I felt as if I could see God - clearly and plainly - I could not hear His voice. I had yet to let the other voices fade. As I struggled to surrender the voices of my questions to hear the voice of God, the assurance of an answer rang in my soul and played on my lips.
"Wait."
I know no clearer word. The answer - the one had been waiting for, searching for, longing for. Wait. An answer wrapped in discontent. Ready to rejoice in the knowledge of a response, instead I was soon frantic. "What am I waiting on? What am I waiting for? What am I supposed to do while I wait?!?"
"Just wait."
I have a feeling Montana was just the beginning. Just the start of the next stage God intends to bring me through in my life. And though I am unnerved at the lack of clarity, the foggy destination, I pray to continue to listen for and hear the voice of God. Until all becomes clear...I wait.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Simple Victories
With a kink in my neck I allowed my head to fall back as far as it would go. At the end I felt the strained pull along the scar line on my neck. I was struck, suddenly, by the marvel of allowing my head to flop back. And remembered my many “mini marvels” the first couple months after surgery the ones that went clear until March...
There was such pain in my incision, and I had to adjust to the little things. I remembered the soreness of sleeping...on my back, on my side, on my stomach...for all put my head at an angle where my incision screamed in throbbing, shearing, pain. To tilt my head back – or forward, at all, was an impossibility – to sleep, to stretch, to pray or otherwise. A frequent Listerine user...my first subconscious attempt left me with tears in my eyes, choking, gagging, and gasping for air. It was so impossibly hard and it hurt so badly! And on top of it all...I had no voice for six weeks, six solid weeks where my loudest scream was a just-audible whisper.
And there was such excitement. I could hardly contain myself as week after week I would strive to put my head back just a little farther. The first night I could sleep naturally on a pillow was a near-miracle. I danced in the hallway the first time my voice cracked for more than a couple of words. And I again choked on the Listerine – only this time from laughter – when another hesitant try resulted in gargling. I cheered; I thanked God; I told everyone. They were simple victories, but victories none-the-less. And God was to have the glory in them too.
I wonder when I stopped looking for the simple victories in life. When I stopped thriving in even the small things and only paid attention to what I thought mattered... Have I lost sight of the little blessings, the mini marvels, God is throwing into my day? In so many ways I am desperately waiting for something big – something to shake my foundations, motivate me, compel me, inspire me – something complex, intricate. Am I let down in the search for the complex by ignoring the simple? When will I again give God the glory for all of my simple victories?
There was such pain in my incision, and I had to adjust to the little things. I remembered the soreness of sleeping...on my back, on my side, on my stomach...for all put my head at an angle where my incision screamed in throbbing, shearing, pain. To tilt my head back – or forward, at all, was an impossibility – to sleep, to stretch, to pray or otherwise. A frequent Listerine user...my first subconscious attempt left me with tears in my eyes, choking, gagging, and gasping for air. It was so impossibly hard and it hurt so badly! And on top of it all...I had no voice for six weeks, six solid weeks where my loudest scream was a just-audible whisper.
And there was such excitement. I could hardly contain myself as week after week I would strive to put my head back just a little farther. The first night I could sleep naturally on a pillow was a near-miracle. I danced in the hallway the first time my voice cracked for more than a couple of words. And I again choked on the Listerine – only this time from laughter – when another hesitant try resulted in gargling. I cheered; I thanked God; I told everyone. They were simple victories, but victories none-the-less. And God was to have the glory in them too.
I wonder when I stopped looking for the simple victories in life. When I stopped thriving in even the small things and only paid attention to what I thought mattered... Have I lost sight of the little blessings, the mini marvels, God is throwing into my day? In so many ways I am desperately waiting for something big – something to shake my foundations, motivate me, compel me, inspire me – something complex, intricate. Am I let down in the search for the complex by ignoring the simple? When will I again give God the glory for all of my simple victories?
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
A Good Question...
I was babysitting today. Not really enjoying it – I was doing my best to control an unusually short wick – but not all-together despising it either. I was finishing up a craft project with the three girls when Mary, age four, came and tapped my knee.
“Miss Anika?” Her sing-songy voice asked with a questioning look.
I smiled as I looked directly into her eyes. “Yes Mary?”
“Miss Anika, what is your favorite thing to do in the whole world? What do you just want to do all of the time?”
That wasn’t a question I was expecting. I paused. Mary stared at me. I paused some more. I glanced back at her and made a very ‘matter-of-fact’ face. “You know Mary...that is a very good question...”
Mary’s face turned very serious and she looked at me intently. “Yes. A very question. I asked a very good question!” And she ran off.
I wish I could have run off too. What is my favorite thing? What do I just want to do all of the time? Anything? What am I passionate about? What do I live for; breathe for, what defines me? Why do I want to answer with “Jesus” and why does my gut, my life, my heart, scream it’s not enough? Shouldn’t it be? Or does Jesus define the answers rather than stand in for them? For all of the questions...why don’t I know?
For so long being sick has been my focus, my consuming, defining, controlling aspect of life. I lived being sick, I fought being sick, I strove to be more than being sick...though I never really knew what I was striving for and never really obtained it, I experience Jesus through being sick. Now that I don’t have to fight for normalcy – it’s been “given back” to me...I no longer know what it is. Who I am. I find myself off, lost, and in the search of me.
“Miss Anika?” Her sing-songy voice asked with a questioning look.
I smiled as I looked directly into her eyes. “Yes Mary?”
“Miss Anika, what is your favorite thing to do in the whole world? What do you just want to do all of the time?”
That wasn’t a question I was expecting. I paused. Mary stared at me. I paused some more. I glanced back at her and made a very ‘matter-of-fact’ face. “You know Mary...that is a very good question...”
Mary’s face turned very serious and she looked at me intently. “Yes. A very question. I asked a very good question!” And she ran off.
I wish I could have run off too. What is my favorite thing? What do I just want to do all of the time? Anything? What am I passionate about? What do I live for; breathe for, what defines me? Why do I want to answer with “Jesus” and why does my gut, my life, my heart, scream it’s not enough? Shouldn’t it be? Or does Jesus define the answers rather than stand in for them? For all of the questions...why don’t I know?
For so long being sick has been my focus, my consuming, defining, controlling aspect of life. I lived being sick, I fought being sick, I strove to be more than being sick...though I never really knew what I was striving for and never really obtained it, I experience Jesus through being sick. Now that I don’t have to fight for normalcy – it’s been “given back” to me...I no longer know what it is. Who I am. I find myself off, lost, and in the search of me.
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