A 2011 Blogging Challenge and Adventure

At one point a friend of mine, whose blogs are fantastically consistent, spent 15 days blogging along side another friend of her own about a set of pre-determined topics. I found this to be an intriguing task and considered it. However, I tend to be kind of picky about what I blog – waiting for the inspiration to strike and wanting them to say something specific, something true. If you’ve at all frequented or even visited my blog before, you’ve probably noticed it is, perhaps the most curious blog you’ve ever read. Sometimes I say little about, well, anything. Sometimes I talk about me. Sometimes I talk about Jesus. Sometimes I talk about me AND Jesus...and almost always I am spewing the thoughts making crazy circles in my head into some moderately cohesive form for the world to find and read (terrifying for you and I both, I understand). So, I sort of tabled the idea for the time.

Nevertheless, two things recently happened. First of all, I came by an article attached to a blog, where the blogger lists some 50-ish things she would want to read about in somebody’s blog. The list (though containing some which seemed a little redundant) was fantastic. And, it was real. She, a creative writer and frequent blogger, wanted to read about real things. I was intrigued by this list. Second, I had a discussion with someone about the fact that, as a person holding a youth ministry degree, I was capable of doing many things which were otherwise unspecified on my transcripts. For example, I can make a sermon-illustration out of almost any story, analogy, random object, etc. Granted – some are not as good or legit as others, but it is possible. This was followed by a chuckle and the words “It’s probably true, but I would like to see this!”

And so, I have decided to do a couple things. First, using the list of 50-some things and realizing there are also 50-some weeks in the year, once a week (hopefully the day of the week will become consistent, though this early on, I am hesitant to say which one), I will blog specifically in reference to the list. I might go in order, I might not. But you can’t see the list from where you’re sitting, so you probably won’t know. :O) So, for the next 52 weeks, have fun learning about me and my life in potentially real ways as I agree to follow a “script”. But, if you know me at all, you also know I would never willingly spend 52 weeks disclosing potentially real stories about myself merely for the sake of a list. I don’t know who all reads my blog and I like to have relationships before disclosure. LoL. So, in meeting the challenge of my friend, each of them will also be devos of sorts. Each I would like to see related back to the faith that I claim...And I am gearing towards them all being relatively legit. No floofy connections for the sake of making one.

I am hoping you will stick around my adventure. Because I am! And, of course, feel free to come back anytime in-between for other updates on scrawls that I have otherwise abandoned (when I first started blogging, I did so frequently and told no-one it existed – merely so I could get stuff out of my head). I am sure those will always chronicle my actual and current life adventures. Happy New Year to you all!

The Game of Life

Today I spent an hour playing “The Game of Life” with younger siblings Amelia and Gabriel. With five us total, this game often gets out of hand in the Kasper household. It provides and affords many opportunities not always welcome in real life.

First of all, my siblings are sarcastic and subsequently hilarious (this is always welcome in real life but under context of “game” it is much looser and there is less physical harm as a result).

Also...The Game of Life? Hello! We’re talking about the ability to shamelessly tease each other about who we’ve decided constitutes latest crushes or potential match ups. When the board says “Stop! Get Married!”, we put in another peg shaped person with enough taunting to make an asparagus blush red.

Let’s not forget the ability to pay off college loans in one turn.
Or that choosing a career is a matter of drawing out of deck.
Or how easy it is to buy stock.
Or the fact that there are fantastic ‘LIFE’ letters ready to award you for every meaningful stop in the game.
Or the fact that at some point you’ll probably get to trade salary cards with any player.

For a moment of Kasper amusement, every game proceeds as if it were real life (minus the tears and my multiple accident prone induced injuries - mostly). We forced Gabe to name his wife (Barbara Ann) and his children (like most men, he couldn’t make up his mind...it took three more turns for his twins to get names!). Amelia’s two boys, Percival and Kierkegaard, won a beautiful baby contest and their family went on a vacation to the Grand Canyon. I myself was forced to wed (with some delay...I lost a turn before the ‘wedding’) and my spouse was named Argyle, Argyle Sweater (after a cute boy in an argyle sweater serving samples who flirted with me at Meijer last weekend – much to Gabe’s enjoyment). The Sweater Family had a boy and twin adopted girls who managed to stay nameless for the extent of the game. Argyle was a bit of a frivolous spender...with a house on the lake, multiple sporting events, and traveling...but it was a full life. Not to mention, we made several contributions to Artistic endeavors (I assumed it was my daughters, of course). And did I mention I got my book published and later won the Nobel Peace Prize? My life...talk about a doozy!

I ‘retired’ after both my younger siblings (several turns actually) and was awarded the fewest retirement LIFE chips. Also, I spent most of my money in the game funding art programs for the twins, going to night school, and sponsoring Argyle’s odd ideas of amusement (The World Series, Argyle, really??). So when the game was done, I lost. When the chips were totaled and the insurance policies turned in, I was a solid million (gotta love the Parker Brothers!) below the win. As I looked at my nameless plastic family in our little green car, I sneered at my brother and declared “we did cooler things!” “Yeah, well you still lost!” grinned my winning brother.

I laugh because everything in my life is an analogy. And I laugh because I realized even in the world of board games, we are told that in the “Game of Life”, the one who ends with the most money...wins. And I think to myself “the one who dies with the most toys...still dies”.

The Bible talks about money...a lot. I typed some key words into biblegateway.com (one of my fave websites) into the default version (The NIV 2010...a strange change if you’re familiar to the traditional NIV, just as side note commentary). The word “money” came up 113 times. “Poor” 176” times and “rich” 154 times. The phrase “love of money” comes up 10 specific times...all alluding to the love of money being the downfall of man. In other words...the furthest thing from life.

There is a contemporary Christian song (Stephen Curtis Chapman, I believe) where the lyrics quote “teach us to count our days, teach us to make our days count...” I informed Gabe I won because I did cooler things than he did. My pile at the end was smaller because my time on the board was about more than landing from payday to payday.

A lesson? Probably.

But there is more to it. There has to be. My board game trips and sporting events and house on the lake was a pretty shabby description of what it looks like to make my days count. Winning at the game of life is about so much more. It is about someONE more. Jesus is the more to it. He has to be. “Just one life twill soon be past; only what’s done for Christ will last...”


“Whatever you say or do should be done in the name of the Lord Jesus, as you give thanks to God the Father because of him.”
Colossians 3:17

The greatest use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it.
-- William James

Bah-Humbug! [Take 2] - JOY

Christmas in itself doesn’t actually make me this grumpy...enough to pull two blogs worthy of an Ebenezer Scrooge holiday expletive...but the way Christmas gets twisted and contorted, well, I could probably 'humbug' legitimately from the first time I see Santa displays being set up next to back-to-school supplies and pumpkin carving kits.

Actually, I’m starting to believe most people do.

Why else are the postures, faces, attitudes of people so continuously contorted in such a sour disposition? As if they wanted to communicate to the whole world that this season has made them less than satisfied with the life they’re living?

I have to tell you...mostly it makes me less than satisfied with the people living in my world.

There is so much “bah-humbug” (perhaps because we’re so focused on the commercialism which had me so all out of sorts for ‘Bah-Humbug! [Take 1]’) that we are missing something.

The word “missing” so precariously (but for my purpose, quite intentionally placed) could mean one of two things: It could mean forgotten, neglected, lacking. Simply not recognized because it doesn’t exist. Or could mean something similar with emotional connotations...lacking with longing...absent in a way that creates a vacancy (the way one misses her dear friend after too many days)...wanted.

I find myself noticing the vacancy, longing for the presence of this missing piece. And I sometimes, (perhaps in prideful exclusion of self), see the former, a neglect on behalf of the masses, to be the reason I am “baaahhh!-ing”.

Are you dying to know? Can you pinpoint the wanting mark on the ledger?

What is missing?

I miss joy.

JOY.

It’s not there.

I’ve been embittered (yes, I recognize my contradictory use of being bitter about missing joy), by its deficient state of being all season long.

With not even a week before Christmas, (something I can hardy fathom on a personal level), I am still waiting for the joy of the season to show up. Surprisingly (because it isn’t necessarily true for my life as a whole), there is a quiet...almost peaceful joy...sitting inside of me when I think about the Christmas I can’t believe is already upon us (perhaps I’m getting old. It just doesn’t “feel” like Christmas...). I keep trying to beg of it from other people and they stare at me with confused expressions...

This morning in church was my last straw.

With the choir and bell choir and youth group and Sunday School classes all combined to put on a Christmas program, I smirked with somewhat curious anticipation. This expectancy didn’t leave but I left...frustrated.

When did Christmas become so...stoic?

As a full congregation, we sang “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” like we didn’t know the words...mumbling a ‘hark’ almost loud enough to wake up the mice.

We managed all four verses of “The First Noel” with the resignation that it my as well have been the last. Let’s go ahead and mourn its end.

We concluded a simple and [honestly] beautiful retelling of the Christmas Story with a rendition of “Joy to the World!” where I looked around daring people to crack a smile (I didn’t know why they’d start now. Their faces looked more like they had just sat on a sharp candy cane the whole service anyway...)

My sister, Amelia, home for break, sat next to me and we endeavored to belt louder (off-key, unfortunately neither of us are musically inclined) and smile broader. We both started to laugh when the words on the screen printed “hail the sUn of righteousness” rather than “sOn” and were shot dirty looks from two members of the choir.

Heaven forbid something be funny in church! Heaven forbid we take joy in the fact that the birth of Christ marked the incarnation of God into the world of man! That the birth was the beginning of an era which has yet to end – an era where God dwells intimately with and within the people He loves... Heaven forbid!

My right toe that heaven forbids it! I think heaven is begging for it!

Since when did reverence negate the fact that “the joy of the Lord is your strength” (Nehemiah 8:10 – read in context, it makes the reference better)??? I feel as if the more we come to grips with how much God should be honored, adored, and feared...the more we are going to be confronted with reasons to “rejoice in the Lord always. I say it again: rejoice!” (Philippians 4:4). I’m intrigued by the fact that Paul ends his instructions in the first letter to the Thessalonians by telling them to “REJOICE always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances...” and follows it by telling them not to "quench the Spirit". (1 Thessalonians 5:16-19) I mean, it is possible the instructions have nothing to do with each other, but somehow I doubt it. Somehow I feel, expressing joy is about allowing the Spirit of God (you know, God, the one whose coming we celebrate at Christmas, who came to dwell among us in the form of the baby known as Jesus, that one, you know?) free reign.

So tell you what...take your lifestyle of “Bah-Humbug!” and shove it. (Yep, I said shove it.) Stop missing out on joy as that simply forgotten something of things going on and begin to miss the joy (of Christmas and life in general) in the same way you long and want for those dearest and closest. Miss it. And then do something about it. Because Christmas is nothing if not good news with a reason for joy...


“...Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all people...” Luke 2:10b

Of the Younger Me...

Touching softly
A picture from yester-year...
Eyes bright with wonder
With innocence to spare.
Could those sparkling eyes
Really have been mine?
So un-jaded, untouched
By a life so unkind?

Hello sweet girl,
Do you know who I am?
I’m the future you,
That smile’s end.
Am I familiar?
What do you see?
Do I look like what you imagined?
Do I resemble what you’ve dreamed?

I’m in mourning for who I was,
For what I lost when I let down every dream
Of what I used to hope to be.
I’m apologizing to
This picture
Of the younger me.

Did you know
Who you would become?
Did you ever glimmer
At this life you now live
When you were yet so young?
Did you look into the mirror
And imagine growing up?
Did you question?
Did you ponder?
Are you now the woman
You used to dream of?

I’m in mourning for who I was,
For what I lost when I let down every dream
Of what I used to hope to be.
I’m apologizing to
This reflection
Of the younger me.

I cry over what I used to know
And wonder about where the years did go.
I’m in mourning for the pieces
I lost along the way...
Is that apt but old imagination,
The wild but forgotten inspiration,
Part of the desperation
Tearing me apart
As I try to look away?

So I kneel down gently;
Pause and look tenderly;
Take that girl I used to know
In my own tired arms.
I’m not who she would hope to be,
And I’m not who she would dream to see,
She’s scared and disappointed by this older version of “me”.

“I’m sorry dear child
I’ve let you down,
I fear.
I don’t look like what you
Dreamt of
Hoped for in yester-year.”
What happened to that little girl?
The girl I used to be?
Is she still inside there somewhere?
With all of her hopes and dreams?
Or is the sweet innocence of a childhood girl
Now but a memory?

I’m in mourning for who I was
For what I lost when I let down every dream
Of what I used to hope to be.
I’m apologizing to
My memory,
My memory of the younger me.

Bah-Humbug!

I hate the commercialism of Christmas time.

And of life in general. Actually this general train of thought had been dancing across my mind. It’s on my extensive list of reasons to never have children – right next to “they’ll have to go to middle school”. I know how compelled I am by commercialism and I look at myself as one with a mild case. How do you raise a kid to not to see fitting in with the pop culture, to be defined by society, to “keep up” with those Osh B’Gosh and Hollister and Nike versions of Jones’ as the greatest good? But instead to be thankful, generous, unattached to product labels and severely attached to what and WHO really matters?? But, and however, for the moment...I digress.

Because while I hate commercialism, I especially hate it at Christmas time.

Because nothing spells "Immanuel, God with us" like making sure I get just what I always wanted.

“Get, Save, Be Merry.”

“I’m gonna get it, I’m gonna get it! ... Is it time yet? Is it time yet? I can’t wait!”

Those were the catch lines and jingles on the last two commercials I watched back to back. Both for retails stores with a gross income in the 10 digit range. “Spend! Spend! Spend!” we’re told. “Because Christmas is about getting. Getting a lot. And if you’re going to get a lot, then you are going to want to save on everything you’re going to spend. And getting and saving = joy. Happy. You like happy? I like happy. So is it time yet?”

Barf.

I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. My rant is an old one. It just doesn’t seem to go anywhere...

“Christmas is about giving not getting!” We tell our kids before buying them expensive toys and the newest hot gadget.

“The Holidays are time to remember those less fortunate!” We say as we throw 23 cents into a Salvation Army pot before driving home to cuddle up in our comfortable houses next to lit trees with warm cups of coffee and dinner in the oven.

“Goodwill, peace to all men!” And we elbow the soccer mom in the navel and ‘accidentally’ step on that middle-aged man’s foot in order to get that last Crockpot for our grandmother at some ridiculously great price. Then we go to work and gloat about our fight for the find.

We know things but we just love our stuff so much more. We get, we spend (as my brother loves to point out, you would save more if you didn’t actually buy), and we convince ourselves that this is the spirit of the season bursting through at the seams.

Gag me with your candy cane fudge dipped spoon.

My favorite Christmas passage is Isaiah’s prophecy in chapter 9. “For unto us a child is given, unto us a son is born...” Just chapters before these epic and familiar words, Isaiah names the coming Messiah as Immanuel – God with us. With the traditional story of census being taken, of a stable and a manger and an obedient Mary and a faithful Joseph, of the outcasted Shepherds becoming the bearers of the messages of angel, Immanuel has become the truest piece of the Christmas story. The “magic” of Christmas is the transcendence of realizing that the perfect love of a God for His creation became tangible in a baby boy who grew up and lived the life of a man (far different and yet not so different from the one most of us want out of most days) to die, to live. So that we would never have to know life where God wasn’t with us.

It is the reason that Christmas is about giving. About peace. About goodwill. And we best demonstrate the so-called “spirit of the season” when we are willing to embody what it means, looks like, sounds like to have Immanuel – God with us. Do people feel like God is with them when we come near? We are bearers of the world’s greatest gift...”Christ in you, the hope of glory”. Does Immanuel become all the more apparent, obvious, at Christmas?

How many, instead, question where Jesus is on Christmas? Cynically laugh and throw their finger at the nearest church manger scene. “Great story. Too bad it doesn’t actually matter!”

Maybe holiday commercialism isn’t all to blame. It can’t be solely responsible for our delinquent behaviour. But it definitely plays a part when it gets worshipped before and sometimes alone (doesn’t matter, if we’re worshipping both, we my as well worship just one. Yahweh demands no other gods) in place of the One who came to dwell among us. I don’t know, I guess I’d rather not just be known as the one who “gives good gifts” and rather be known as the one who holds a Great Gift to be given...

Solid Food?

Today I had my wisdom teeth taken out.

My lips, tongue, gums, and even teeth were some version of numb for hours. Like 12 hours. Actually they are still sort of tingling. And, despite a relatively smooth extraction and some good pain killers, my now gaping holes are sore.

My resulting mandated “soft food” restriction? Not a problem. There was no way I was even going to try. I don’t eat dairy so 75% of the oral surgeon’s suggestions were out of the question but I did make some sugar-free jello and stocked up on Bolthouse Smoothies. I was actually pretty excited about my simple diet. I did a week on a fluid diet this summer and my finicky digestive system loved me! This was going to be great.

My queasy tummy and chipmunk cheeks sipped on Ginger Ale for most of the afternoon...which dribbled out my fat lip and down my numb chin. By dinner time I was venturing towards some smoothie – which I could just about taste past my tingling tongue. I wasn’t hungry but as mom’s rolls came out of the oven, I was craving real food. I didn’t want to eat. I just wanted to chew. Despite my excitement for the break on my picky stomach, I attempted towards the roll.

I chewed with my four front teeth, smashed it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue, and spent some great effort getting my mush down my throat. It was delicious. The process, however, was not satisfying. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to move the bread towards my molars and couldn’t. My jaw hurt. My teeth holes hurt. And my unhappy Vicadin-lined tummy soon hurt too. I wasn’t ready.

My wandering mind? Even on prescription pain-killers, it went to a theology bent. Paul chastising the church in Corinth: “I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not yet ready for it. Indeed, you are still not ready.” (1 Corinthians 3:2) Paul wanted them to live real, genuine and intense lives rooted in hearty spiritual matters and instead they were still so connected to the world, it was like they were nursing on milk...something easy to swallow, easy to digest. I wondered if it was just my lacking wisdom teeth that couldn’t handle solid food...

I want to be nose deep in the Spirit, feasting on the solid food found as a result of living in the righteousness of God and instead find myself, far too often, suckling on some weak milk. Worldly matters loosely dipped in spiritual matters. After all, it is easy to digest, I don’t have to “chew” on it very long, and it doesn’t hurt too badly when it is going down. I’m “merely human” (1 Cor 3:3), regardless of the fact that I have been given the mind of Christ (1 Cor 2). I’ve been called to something more...but do I endeavor towards it?

In the same way I crave rolls and the promise of real food, I crave something more than this milk dipped spirituality. Happy digestive system or not, it’s hard to live a life on fluids when you know something better, something more. Something substantial. Something that draws me out of the life I am living and inside of life I am called to. Still, for as long as I’m gumming my way along, as long as I’m content to drink my Ginger Ale out of my dripping lip and avoid the fullness of the measure of God (Ephesians 3:19), I’ll never move on to solid foods. I want the solid food God is offering. Father, I want to be ready for this. Make me ready.

Stupid Scar

There is this fantastic six (technically seven but the last inch or so has really faded in over the course of the last year) scar across my neck. I’ve had it in some shape or form for precisely 2 years and 11 months. My scar, with stories a-plenty, used to be the first thing I saw when I looked in the mirror. I critiqued it. I studied it. I frowned at it. I smiled at it. I wondered a lot, at least at the beginning, about what other people thought when they saw it.

But over the last few years, it has become so much a part of me that while I don’t forget it is there, I don’t give it much thought. It isn’t the first thing I see in the mirror. And, unless I’m meeting someone new, I typically don’t think twice about what is going on inside of others’ brains. Quite frankly, after my second surgery, it healed much nicer and is often just a pale pink line. Harder to notice. Harder to ponder about.

Except...

Except nights like tonight.

Washing my face I realized my scar was blazing red. At first I was confused and then a dawning came over me.

I have been stuffing emotions for two days. And my scar is literally a physical barometer as to my overall well-being.

In some ways, I guess it always has been. When my scar was new – within the first year or so – any time I was in the middle of uncomfortable situation or was disclosing something real about myself, my hand went to cover my scar. It took me sometime to realize I covered the most physically vulnerable piece on me to make up for my other areas of vulnerability.

Somehow, my scar continues to be my lie detector. When life is what it is and there are no outside influences, it is light pink...always noticeable of course, but that “forget about me” shade. When I’m tired, sad, down...my scar is pink. Not red, but not light enough to quite disregard. When I’m stressed, excited, sick, anxious, nervous, exhausted...my scar is red. An obvious red. And when I am angry, tense, hurt, upset, embarrassed, completely out of my comfort zone or I’ve stuffed any number of emotions...then my scar blazes bright red.

It seems...curious.

I’m sure there is a scientific or medical explanation for this but I don’t have one.

All I know is that the moment I saw my second smile glowing “cranberry” in the lip gloss department of shades, I had to step back and evaluate whatever it was that I hadn’t actually been evaluating.

Stupid scar.

It knows me better than I do.

Trust Falls...

When I say “trust fall” my guess is you know exactly what I am talking about. A favorite of leadership summits and teambuilding activities at every age, the trust fall consists of at least two people. The first stands steady and sure behind the second who rolls back on their heels with their arms across their chest and falls into the waiting arms of person number one before there is an opportunity to plummet to the ground. The second must trust that the first won’t fail. Won’t drop them. Won’t forget to put their hands out. Won’t let them down.

Sometimes I feel like life, and more specifically my relationship with God, is one giant trust fall.

Trust.

I am terrible at trusting. The trust fall? I’ve never mastered it. I always willingly stood steady and sure behind anyone who needed my strong arms, but any time I’ve gone for the fall, I stumble. I catch myself. I can rely on me. I can’t rely on you. I never realized how much that very literal exercise transcended into my very present life. How little of myself I let others hold. The guilt I feel when they do. The way in which I would go in with the aim to trust and pull back before the free fall could land me somewhere I feared, somewhere I couldn’t see.

But God says: trust. Not just people...although I am learning slowly and definitely that I have to be willing to do this too...but first and especially, Him.

I began a brief (and also limited) search into my bible for the word trust and came up with a few initial observations. First, trustworthiness is a character of God. God can be trusted. It is in His nature. It is who He is. It is a reason for thanks. A reason for praise. It is something to be imitated. Second, the innate character of God should never be questioned. And so, there is always a consequence – natural or punishment – when God is not trusted. Finally, trust and obedience go hand in hand. We are called to trust and obey, admonished when we don’t do both.

There are more observations to make and much to be said about each of the above but mostly, in my brief scan, it became evident that the trust I claimed was lacking if present at all. When I find I haven’t obeyed or claim I don’t know how to, I also haven’t trusted. More discouraging yet, my actions doubt and question the character of God. I stood back in disgust at this initial realization and had the following conversation:

[Indignantly] “I do too! I do trust You!”

“You do?”

“Well I try. And at least I don’t doubt that You are trustworthy! I don’t deny your character even though I sometimes try to catch myself...”

“Really? Because you don’t act on that knowledge and then you blame me when things go your way...”

“But...”

“Do you really trust me?”

“Yes. I do. I trust you. I think...”

“Anika, listen. Do you trust me? Do you really trust me? If you trust me...then come closer. If you trust me...then wait. If you trust me...then know my forgiveness. If you trust me...then accept my love. If you trust me...then expect me not to fail you. If you trust me...then freefall knowing I stand ready to catch you. If you trust me...then drop the burden you’re holding and let me hold it, hold you. If you trust me...then let me hold you. I ask you one more time...Do you trust me?”

I was humbled to realize I didn’t. “No. I don’t trust You. Not if this is even part of the criteria. I don’t. But I want to...”


I know God’s strength. Intimately. Genuinely. Absolutely. But, as my own previously penned words express “How can I possibly triumph the strength of the arms I have never allowed to carry me?” Or never allowed to catch me. I still stand in front of His ready, sure, and guaranteed presence doubting He’ll catch me if I fall towards where I know He is waiting. And yet, I am asked to trust. I want to. "Oh for grace to trust him more..."


The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him. Psalm 28:7

But I trust in you, Lord; I say “You are my God.” Psalm 31:14

Encouraged

In my short time as an SAU alumna, I have made several trips back to my alma matter. (It helps that my sister is a sophomore there and so I have at least excusable reasons other than homesickness to venture back as often as I do/have.) But I always try to make the most of my trips on the campus that is still familiar and comfortable if not quite still mine, if no longer quite home. With connections to people on faculty and staff and students freshmen through super-senior, there is any number of people I could run into, recognize, purposefully seek out, spend meaningful time with.

I think my favorite part has been that selfish part of me that doesn’t need the recognition but appreciates the affirmation and the acceptance. I do try to be intentional with my visits. To connect with people I may have missed the last time around. But I am always amazed by the people who find me first. In the last few visits I have laughed: “I am WAY more popular as has-been then I EVER was a student!” I can’t think of a visit where someone(s) – and sometimes someone(s) I would have not at all expected – has not seen me and I am greeted with a face that was lit up. With an “Anika! You’re here! It’s SO good to see you!” With a hug.

In the awkward land of “so now you’re a college graduate”...a land that college students realize is coming and hope will never happen to them...a land where even the most basic experienced community is ripped from underneath of them and disconnect is a painful reminder that four years is plenty long and never long enough...these pieces come as welcome and needed respites from day-to-day life. I come back from SAU notoriously exhausted with a spirit that’s curiously light.

I easily forget what it is like to be around people who affirm your personhood...just for being you. I forget the importance of former professors and bosses and advisors who are still eager to be involved in your life and to speak truth into it. I forget that feeding into people in little ways has this way of feeding back into you. I forget that there is freedom in being known and still loved...even and despite the deals and messes in your life. I forget the power of asking people where God is working in their lives and being uplifted by the accountability and strength in the answers. I forget that God shows up somehow clearer in the faces of fellow believers who together seek to mirror Christ in their lives.

And those things, those people, encourage me. The reminders of things so easily forgotten encourage me. I am reminded of how much I love people...and that endeavoring towards ministry I can’t articulate isn’t stupid. I’m reminded that there are people who ask real questions and stick around to hear real answers. I am reminded that I am part of a bigger picture...and that I can’t sit in my brokenness without recognizing the brokenness in the lives of others. I am reminded of things I shouldn’t need to be reminded of...like the fact I have an intrinsic worth as the daughter of the King too. It is easy to be okay being an involuntary celebrity when the encouragement reminds me of the joy that is already mine...

Something tells me that this marked way that encouragement is a natural response to the life we live and the people we interact with is part of the way things were meant to be. I feel...blessed...to be a recipient of it and only hope I reciprocate in such a way as to be part of the strengthening of the Body as whole...

“Therefore, encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.”
1 Thessalonians 5:11

Let it be so

Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper,
but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.
Proverbs 28:13


This is the message we have heard from him and declare to you:
God is light; in him there is no darkness at all.
If we claim to have fellowship with him and yet walk in the darkness,
we lie and do not live out the truth.
But if we walk in the light,
as he is in the light,
we have fellowship with one another,
and the blood of Jesus,
his Son,
purifies us from all sin.
1 John 1:5-7


I have loved you with an everlasting love;
I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.
Jeremiah 31:3b

Even if it Hurts

I was getting ready to blog today...

About seven times.

And for about seven different reasons.

The weight of the world sitting curiously on my shoulders.

This morning during my workout/prayer time...it was your worlds. Every world. With faces and names and lives and situations flooding through my head, I pushed all the more intensely on my elliptical and I shouted (aloud) "Daddy, hold them! Hold their worlds. I'm not big enough! I can't do it! I can love them but I don't know if they know just how much I do. And I can't fix it. I can't fix all of the brokenness. Fix it, because I can't..."

Another time it was THE world. Stemming from me making rice muffins. After eating four without flinching (very curious and strange for me...), I wondered how food allergies and intolerances were diagnosed in other countries, what they did about them. All until a cynical voice in my head replied “if they eat enough to develop an intolerance to anything...” What started as guilt fell to a hurt for thousands of kids whose faces I can’t even create a frame of reference for...

I wanted to blog after watching a youTube clip of a vivacious four-year-old who dances in the mirror saying everything great about her life. I wondered when the last time I was so excited about the great things in my life. Let alone the times I am confidant enough to say “I can do anything good!” (Philippians 4:13 maybe?) with the help of the One who’s strength I rest upon. Do I trust? Do I praise?

Tonight a new family friend who recently went through some extreme life crap joined us for dinner. A man seeking earnestly to figure out where God would have him, he asked honest and interested questions. Knowing something of my story (that I didn’t tell him), he asked me – based upon where he now found himself – if I ever found it hard to be depend on God during my circumstance. It proceeded to reveal many small pieces of my story. He later thanked me for telling him and for being real and asked me if it was hard to share. "It's not my story,” I told him plainly, “it's God's. I didn't always see it that way but I'm realizing if I am going to allow my story to actually be about Him, then I don't have the right to not give evidence to where I've been, where He's taking me, if I'm asked. I want to live my life to make God known..." With a fervent prayer for God to be known in and through me, I realized...

There were pieces that needed to be shared. Pieces of my story that remain untold that will one day need to be given over to be God’s story if I really continually pray for God to be revealed in me. Secrets have to come out of darkness if Christ is going to shine through. The thought of sharing secrets gave me a panic attack and caused me to physically shake in a way I thought I was cold and would never get warm. The hurt of the worlds of other people, let alone my own...it was too much. And all I could think of was a Relient K song I love...

“You said ‘I know that this will hurt. But if I don’t break your heart, then things will just get worse...’”

I believe God has something He is doing in and through me with the weight that has my heart breaking. Trying to remember that life is about surrender. If I want to be whole, if I want wholeness for the ones I love and pray for, if I want wholeness for the world I want to impact, if I want my story to be given to God for His use and disposal, then I have to allow Him to do what it takes, despite the cost, to make my heart brand new... Even if it hurts.

Name that Tune...

If I start singing the words: “I, the Lord of sea and sky, I have heard my people cry...” Do you know what song I am singing? What if I kept going “...All who dwell in dark and sin, my hand will save...” I could start on the chorus...

But I didn’t actually even need to get that far. Or through the first line, for that matter. Although it took me until line two to make the connection...

My family reads devos together at dinner time. “Keys for Kids” has long since been replaced as we’ve grown and over the last couple years we’ve taken to reading from “Our Daily Bread”...starting with reading the Bible passage and surrounding text and finishing with the day’s devotional. I, with my theology degree, love to have an official end be a discussion about how the devo did or did not do a good job of biblical exegesis and interpretation; how the passage could have been better applied; or, how the illustration could have been more appropriately tied into a different passage of scripture.

Tonight I was tired and not feeling my best and was content to merely listen without argument (friendly though it may be) and without critique. The devotional had to do with being willing to love across the cultural divides, to be willing to show the light of Christ in midst of a very different and very dark world. “That’s nice.” I thought. Not disagreeing but feeling like their presentation was a little weak.

And then they ended with some sort of “How will you share God’s love across the cultural divide?” challenge.

At which point, it occurred to me I was humming a song.

And I listened to the words in my head “I, the Lord of sea and sky...”

I smirked and half-groaned and, as my family closed in prayer, I raised my head and whispered “Okay, I get it...”

Have you named that tune?

The chorus breaks into: “Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord?...”

It just happens to also be the song which I believed, at the time, to confirm and affirm my newly chosen youth ministry degree.

I don’t believe much in coincidence. A friend reminded me this weekend of the fact that, if we allow it, everything...every conversation, every instance, has the potential to be a divine appointment. I love this traditional hymn, but I would question why it would all the sudden come to mind without reason. And why after such a challenge... if not to signify something I have felt stronger and stronger and stronger over the last few weeks – God wants me for ministry. He’s set me aside for it. Why me, I have no idea.

I can do any other job in-between, probably. God hasn't told me "no". But, at some point, I, heart, mind, body, and soul, am never going to be satisfied until I’m stuck in the middle of something He is doing. Doing in way that the all of who I am is given to it...not just as a part of my bigger picture – but AS my bigger picture. Though for the life of me, I still can’t put a finger on what. My restless spirit waits.

What do you do when you feel like in a “call to be faithful”, the “call” is becoming more and more intense and the “faithful” is becoming more and more ambiguous? My only response, the only one I can think of, is Samuel’s. “Speak, for your servant is listening"... (1 Samuel 3)

Here I Am, Lord

Be Made Whole

Your eyes pierce
In intense dark confusion,
Focused as if seeing
Life light-years away.
They hold
The key to your heartache,
They show the hurt
You won’t, don’t dare to say.

And I look into your eyes
And I know
Through the pain and through the darkness
You’re dying to be made whole.
And you blink away the fears
And hold back the tears
Beginning to seep
From your tired soul.
And I can see through your eyes,
You’re dying to be made whole.

Your words throb
With weary exhaustion.
Each syllable weighing
Each short breath down.
The fatigue holds
The things you’re not saying,
Unmasking the weak smile
Just covering your frown.

And I listen to your voice
And I know
Through the noise and through the chaos
You’re dying to be made whole.
You shrug off the upset
And wipe away the cold sweat,
Failing to admit
Life is taking its toll.
And I can hear in your voice,
You’re dying to be made whole.

Your shoulders sag
Under the weight of the world,
The pressures of living cracking
Your hard outer shell.
You’re begging for strength
Just to get to tomorrow,
Looking for the life
You lost when you fell.

And I watch as you stand
And I know
Through the resolve and through the weakness
You’re dying to be made whole.
You internalize the unspoken,
Piecing together the broken,
While the shards fall
From your grasping control.
And I can watch as you stand,
You’re dying to be made whole.

Your heart leaks
From your begging eyes;
Your voice quivers
And your spirit cries.
Oh precious child
With brokenness to spare,
This world of taunting sorrow
Was not meant for you to bear.

And I feel your heart bleed
And I wish you would know
Though unwarranted and undeserved
There’s One who died to make you whole
You collapse into His strong arms
And rest upon His mercy scars
While His love covers
While His whispers console
Your precious bleeding heart,
He died to make whole...



***It's been a long while since I've been compelled towards "poetry". But this is what flowed when I started to journal the other night after too many separate and very different conversations that all came back to the same... Sometimes I just want to come in and hug away and fix all the brokenness in the lives of my "kids" and I have to remember the fixing isn't up to me. Oh Father, step before me to do what I can't and provide your restoration to those dying to be made whole...

‘What’s In A Name?’ Part2 – We Reproduce Who We Are

I spent considerable time while at my grandparents reflecting on what it meant to “be a Kasper”. I’m old enough to see things I didn’t see before and analytical enough to look into words and situations and one of my profiled strengths is that of a connector and I began to put together pieces. As grandma told stories and grandpa gave me instructions in the green house, as I watched my grandparents interact and both respond to life as it came, I began to look for where I fit into the beautiful mess.

I wish I had an opportunity to meet my Grandpa Baas and more time to spend with my Grandma Baas...as I know I am just as much them as I am the Kasper which gives me my namesake. I know my whit and quirk is my Grandma B’s. I am convinced how much I love to learn and read and my aptitude for arbitrary and useless information is hers as well. If I had to guess, some of my zest and intrinsic uniqueness and appreciation for the less-than-ordinary came from her. I like to think that my desires to live generously and to love people authentically (not that my Kasper grandparents don’t, by any means, Grandma B was just known for those things...) could have been passed down to me as well. I know some of my indirectness, “addictive” nature, and propensity towards saving everything (less attractive features) probably came from her too.

And I do know that while I am very “Baas”, I’m almost all Kasper. I’ve watched it come through the more and more time I spend with my grandparents. There is no mistaking who I am. Somewhere in the middle of this pondering came the reminder of a quote which reads: “You teach what you know. You reproduce who you are.” Hmm...

As grandpa pointed to seedlings and showed me how to transplant and I took to the dirt, I thought “I could do this. I could be a horticulturist like grandpa if I wanted to be...” I didn’t want to be...but I was capable after some simple instructions. Most people would not step up to a greenhouse work bench and start transplanting, but they probably could too if my grandfather was standing there next to them as well...showing how to wedge a hole, separate the roots, replant the small green flower want-to-be. But that wouldn’t make them a Kasper. You teach what you know. (And I’ve learned a lot from my grandpa.) But you reproduce who you are...

My grandpa is stubborn and bull-headed and proud. If it is his idea, it is the best. If it was your idea first, it will have to be his brand new, second to be the one implemented. He takes life by the horns and doesn’t let anyone else’s ‘no’ get in the way of his made-up mind. He does what he wants... and asks for permission later (if ever at all). Grandpa strives towards excellence and works hard. He wants things done well (and tells you when they aren’t up to par). He’s critical. Independent and obstinate, he is the breathing embodiment of ‘if you want something done right, you do it yourself!’ He is intentional and committed, loyal and credible. Grandpa’s ‘yes’ is ‘yes’ and his ‘no’ is ‘no’ and if he says he’s going to do something, he will. If he doesn’t think he can follow through, he makes no promises.

If I spend too much time thinking about these pieces of my grandfather’s character, I start to laugh. Looking at him is looking in a mirror. The outlets are different but the root the same. I am stubborn and critical (sometimes this is good, other times...not so much). No one can change my mind if I’ve made it up. I work hard and I want what I do to be done well. I follow through, (literally to a fault). I would rather do it right the first time than delegate. If I have an idea, I like mine best.

My grandma is a Kasper by choice. And after 51 years, much more Kasper than not. She is dedicated. Faithful. Patient. Selfless. She puts aside what she wants to work on consistently to help my grandpa. She’s exacting and precise – after cooking for decades; she still follows recipes “just so”. She is a servant and gives of herself willingly but tries to hide how much she enjoys when something she did (aka: the cake at the funeral luncheon that the boys couldn’t get enough of) makes other people smile. She grasps on to the small details and her grandkids know they’re loved when she remembers little things (like which one of us would rather have her banana bread or cheesecake or ginger snaps over anything else...). She is also insecure, unsure. She wants the approval of others and doubts herself consistently until that approval is met. Whether it is years of grandpa’s exacting standards or part of her nature (stories from her childhood would point to the latter), she wants to measure up. But grandma is feisty. Adamant. Determined. Ready to take on projects...wants to see them finished. She fights for things that matter to her and ‘sticks to her guns’ when confronted with something contrary to what she believes to be right and true.

Some of who my grandmother is I see in myself. Some I want to see. I am unsurprised by my love for finding little ways to make people smile and remembering the little details about people which help me accomplish it. My need for my own projects and my adamant determination? Grandma’s. My fight to the death for things I care about? Grandma’s. I hope her dedication and selflessness and the faithful and patient way she serves and comes alongside [my grandpa] can be things to be said true of me as well. I want them to be true of me but I will question it...because I want to measure up and will doubt myself until I have the approval of others...

All of those things...from my Grandpa and Grandma K and my Grandma Baas? Those aren’t things you teach. You don’t sit down and say: “today kids, we’re going to talk about how to be as stubborn as a mule.” I mean, you could, if you knew about it. But that doesn’t make kids stubborn. No more so than giving a day seminar on being a servant leader. I mean, you could, if you knew something about it. But talking about service and selfless abandon doesn’t make perfect little helpers or world-changing leaders. I am who I am as a “Kasper” (with Baas heritage) not because I was taught how to be a Kasper (although sometimes I was told straight out “You’re a Kasper! Act like it!”), but because it is a part of who they are, it was modeled for me, demonstrated, embodied. You live what you know. I am because they are. You reproduce who you are...

So where am I going with this? Good question. I’m not sure I’m certain. It is just that I realized I know lots of things. I am the keeper of enough random, arbitrary, and useless information to keep my Puerto Rico team giving me that amused and bewildered eyebrow smirk for a really long time. Furthermore, I have a lot of right answers...about how to do life even! I talk to my teenagers and impart truth and say wise things and watch and listen as they try to absorb all I want them to learn. I can teach what I know.

But what about who I am? I’m a Kasper. Clearly. This is day two of “what’s in a name?” We’ve got that one. What do I reproduce? The people who spend time with me...what are they becoming? I mean, perceivably, the more time you spend with me the more stubborn, determined, passionate, insecure, and clinically insane you will become. That’s who I am...but is there more?

Yesterday I wanted who I was to point back to who Christ is. I want people to see my identity and family line as Child of God as something told and true. So now what? Because I believe I am called to ministry. Do I teach about how much Jesus loves? Or is that love so much a part of who I am that those I minister to become pieces of love reaching hands into a broken world? Do I teach about grace or do I extend it to you and point to Grace which hung on a cross and died as the perfect atonement for the sin I deserve to die for? Do I teach about joy or does my life radiate with a peace which passes understanding and a lifestyle which says praise is choice and is always the choice to be made, regardless of circumstances? Do I teach or do I live? Any old scholar can teach a lecture hall class on theology, will my life stand to personify? Can I be in ministry if the things I “know” aren’t true of me? Well sure. Bobble-headed and fantastically brilliant pastors are a quarter a dozen (inflation and all). But the ‘so what?’ factor is missing. Isaiah 29:13 (then quoted in Matthew 15:8 and Mark 7:6) says “you honor me with your lips but your hearts are far from me” and 1 John 2:6 says “if you claim to be in Him, you will walk as Jesus walked” and it is proceeded in verses 3 and 4 with “We know that we have come to know him if we keep his commands. Whoever says, ‘I know him,’ but does not do what he commands is a liar, and the truth is not in that person.” The first verse tells us that knowing things and being things are separate. The second that claiming things comes with a response. The third that if we don’t act out of truth we claim, the truth isn’t a part of who we are. In short? True ministry will come if I am reproducing who I am...and who I am is centered in who Christ is...not merely if I can teach what I know.

I am a Kasper. No two ways about it.

If I say I am a Christ Follower with the same certainty, would it be reflected in what I do? In who I am? In who YOU are? If not in who you are, have I taught the truth and not lived it? Because I can teach what I know, but I can only reproduce who I am...

‘What’s In A Name?’ Part1 – Family Resemblance

I’m a Kasper.

Perhaps this goes as something unsaid. Obvious.

I have been a Kasper for 22 years...since the day I was born and the nine months which preceded it. It’s one of those things you don’t exactly get to choose...

But I am a Kasper.

Through and through.

The perhaps, most epic and known plays of all time is Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet”. And with it comes the unforgettable and cherished line: “What's in a name? That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet.”

The audience cheers silently, the reader smirks. ‘Yes! Deny the father! Refuse the name! That girl has a point! The name doesn’t make the person, the person makes the name! Go for it!’

Sort of. But not really. We’re wrong. Juliet is wrong. A rose by any other name does smell a little less sweet. There is much in a name. The name comes with expectations. The name brings definition.

Hubert Humphrey once wrote: “In real life, unlike in Shakespeare, the sweetness of the rose depends upon the name it bears. Things are not only what they are. They are, in very important respects, what they seem to be.”

I am no different. I am what I seem to be. My name is no different. Being a Kasper says a lot about me. Whether I want it to or not (more on this tomorrow?).

I guess I’ve always been aware of this, to a point. But I’ve never been around a lot of other “Kaspers”. My immediate relatives are several hours away. I could be connected to my parents and siblings growing up, but never anyone else. This alone said something about who I was and who I was expected to be, but my lines go deeper.

I’m in the process of spending two weeks at my grandparent’s house as I write this. It’s the longest I’ve spent in Ionia since I was six...when I lived here. Kaspers...my grandparents, my uncles, my cousins...they are well-known around these parts. Yesterday grandpa took me out for lunch and was greeted again and again and again by various customers throughout the small café. Everyone seemed to know him. And I was with him and so demanded an introduction. “And who is this?” they would say pointing to me, “does Marian [my grandmother] know about your young dates?” “This is my granddaughter, Anika, John’s girl.” My grandpa would reply. “Oh! Well! It is so good to meet you!” In the introduction I would watch eyes and expressions elevate me on some acquaintance scale because I was related to Sid.

Being known by my name, my family of origin, is a tall order and it comes with a great deal of responsibility. My grandpa is highly respected in the Ionia area and if I am truly a Kasper, I should match. My favorite visit at the Café was a woman who came, greeted my grandpa, inquired about my identity and replied “Oh! I can see it now that you’ve said something. She looks a lot like you, Sid!” I shot my grandpa a confused and amused glance as she walked away...I had never been informed I looked like my grandfather before. Grandpa smirked at me and shrugged. “What are you looking at me like that for? I don’t even know who that lady is!” We shared a laugh but the fact of the matter remained, it didn’t matter if grandpa could have picked her out of a line-up of strangers, she knew exactly who my grandfather was and as a result was confident she knew things about me.

It made me wonder what and how and who I represent. If someone (from Ionia, say) were to meet me without my grandfather around, would they be able to see the family resemblance without the family name because of my work ethic, determination, willingness to lend a hand, desire for excellence? Would they find out I was a Kasper and say “Oh! I can see it now that you’ve said something! You look/act a lot like...[quite frankly you can fill in most any immediate Kasper grandparent, uncle, aunt or cousin name here]...!” Or would they marvel at how a pear like me could fall from the apple tree?

And it made me wonder further about what and how and Who I represent. I have a Kasper lineage but I also have namesake as a [daughter] of God (Galatians 4:6). Adopted (Ephesians 1:5) into an inheritance that will never perish, spoil, or fade (1 Peter 1:4). I have staked a claim on my faith and try, though never as painstakingly as such a name asks, to work out my salvation (Philippians 2:12). ‘Faith without works is dead’ says James 2 and my actions ought to represent the family line I am claiming. There is much held by a name (for good and for bad) when I tell someone that I’m a Christian. Do I live up to the definition that name gives in the way that I should? Furthermore, what if someone were to meet me without that label, that title, that name? Would they see my service, my hope, my desire to be gracious and forgiving towards others, my perseverance, my patience, my peace, my joy, and most of all my love? Would they find out I was a follower of Christ, a professing child of God and say “Oh! I can see it now that you’ve said something! You look a lot like Jesus!” Or would they try and speculate how I could possibly be what I claimed?

Some day, I hope I’m confused for Jesus. May a declaration like “I am Child of God!” seem as obvious and unsaid as stating “I am a Kasper”. May being known by my name and the identity I hold in Christ always be my greatest pursuit and most obvious recognition...

I Don’t “DO” Poop...(Crap Produces)

I'm on an afternoon escape break from a two weeks spent at my grandparent's house. (The escape was to internet and not from them, for the record.) I've had fun "pondering" on Gallagher, my faithful computer, while at the g'rents so this will probably be the first of several installments on this, my trusty, blog... :O)



No one ever confuses me with the princess, sissy girl types. Not even on accident. I’m a sturdy-looking girl that lives in jeans and t-shirts. My hair is always thrown up into a messy pony. My make-up is simple. I am just now developing an understanding in my relationship with the color pink. I love to be barefoot and I’m always up for a modest adventure. I am not afraid of hard work. I rake. I mow lawns. I scrape paint. I haul dirt. I am decent at first aid (perhaps because my sturdy look is deceptive and masks “accident prone”) and I’m not afraid of or put off by blood (mine or anyone else’s). I get my hands dirty. I hold my own.

I don’t know if when I sat down to write, I was prepared for the self disclosure which may, in fact, follow, but I my as well start by being honest...

I don’t “do” poop.

This may seem like a minor piece of self disclosure, but I hate admitting it. It ruins my image. Sissy girls run away from poop. Anika doesn’t run.

But I hate it. Absolutely despise poop. The thought of it makes me gag. (This whole vignette is making me queasy, actually...)

Don’t get me wrong, I first and foremost deal with what I have to. I’ve babysat a dozen kids while they were in diapers and I have changed my fair share. But I’m relatively certain they got changed because the idea of sitting with a poopy butt is grosser than wiping one. And if I ever came into a situation where a pile of sissy girls (and boys for that matter) were standing in a circle not dealing with some poop, I would probably scold and step up because that’s what I do. [Not to mention safe-guarding my image for another day.] But I would be cringing on the inside.

So today (what is now several days ago), when my grandpa told me we were going to take some loads of manure down to the hoop house to get ready to mix dirt, I was mentally gearing myself up for such a task. I am not a city girl, I know about manure. Manure is poop. Got it. I can handle it. Grandpa is impressed by the things I take on and if I hesitated, I would never live it down. And we headed to the aviary. Bird poop. My sour stomach churned...

I watched as Grandpa took his trowel and began chunking out some of the nesting squares. I waited for my assignment. I fetched Grandpa a stool and returned as he, with his bare hands, was dusting out the space. Perhaps TMI, (yay self disclosure!), but I started my period today. I am always nauseous, to a fault, for the first three days of Mother Nature’s special blessing. And today just happened to be poop day besides. Awesome. I felt the bile slide up my throat as I gagged and then forced myself to get a grip. I secretly and silently prayed “please have Grandpa tell me to do something that requires the shovel!” at which point he turned around on his stool and said, “how about you do this and then I’ll get started on some of the other pieces.” The insufficient trowel was mine. I swallowed hard, thought about the fact Grandma was working on lunch and tried not to lose my morning coffee, as I proceeded to trowel out 10 gallons of bird poop from nesting squares over the next hour.

At some point in the middle of this, I realized I was disgusted, but not disgruntled. I smirked as I heard the birds chirping happily overhead and my grandpa talk to and razz them. I sarcastically (although not bitterly) half laughed to myself as I tuned in to the mocking songs, “You would get a kick out of me doing this! Crazy birds!” For whatever the reason, the next thing to enter my mind was the beginning of one my life verses: Romans 5:3-5. “Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings...”

I was glad my grandfather was a full 30 feet away and hard of hearing, because I began to laugh out loud. I put a trowel full of manure in the bucket and chuckled under my breath “pretty sure this was not what Paul was talking about in terms of suffering!”

But it made me think about the “crap” in life. Real suffering. The suffering of Christ. A suffering I would like to think I have tasted in part and participated in as the result of living in this falling and breaking world...and know that it is but a nibble in comparison to others, let alone Paul who first penned the words. A suffering which, if we are honest, for as much as our floofy American lifestyle affords, we all know too well. Crap. Life’s crap. Suffering. My mind continued to recite the verse. “Because we know suffering produces...”

I stopped. Suffering produces? Crap grows? Tomorrow, all the manure I hate so much, all of that caked gray bird poop I tried not to gag with as we moved it into the hoop house, will get mixed with fresh muck (a rich, dark dirt) so that my grandpa can begin creating potting soil. Potting soil, even the kind you buy at the store, is a nutrient-rich fertilizer and dirt combination (with some Styrofoam and peat moss, I learned). There is a reason that people buy potting soil and don’t simply try to plant their flower and houseplants in some dirt from under the tree in the backyard. That dusty tree dirt isn’t good enough. It’s missing the substance that sustains.

The fact of the matter remains...

Crap produces.

I am getting a tattoo on my foot within the next couple of months that pretty much sums up the journey God has taken in me on in this thing called life. It will read “Protest to Praise” with a Psalm 30:11 reference. I want it to stand as a testament to the fact I am a work in progress. That for all the times I’ve begged God to show up, He’s already been there. That He stands in midst of my storms, that He carries, He sustains, He heals. “Protest to Praise” (the title of one of my favorite songs) encompasses my story. Part of me thinks that if such is my reasoning in getting inked, I need a second tattoo on my other foot. The two can match. “Protest to Praise” on the one foot with a mirror image on the other reading “Crap Produces”. Yep, pretty much sums that one up...

The fact of the matter remains, whether you are a “no blood, no guts, no vomit, no pee, no poop” sissy or not, I dare say none of us are actually rip-roaring ready to go when it comes to “life crap”, when it comes to suffering. I think we look at the task at hand, the shoveling of manure in our days, and take it on (some of us better than others – some, quite frankly, not well at all) and try not to lose our lunch as the bucket continues to fill. And yet, I, and many of us, can probably attest to the times in our life that we’ve shoveled the most manure also being the times in our life where we’ve seen the most growth. Where Romans 5 gets worked out and we stand somewhere on the other end (perhaps having not even quite left) and see that our suffering has produced things like perseverance, character, hope which doesn’t disappoint...and a richer relationship with the One who sustains and pours love into our hearts and lives.

May I remember, despite my disdain for poop...both in and of life...to never forget that crap produces. Which is reason enough for joy...

Hope

One of my “life words” (you know, those words that by merely being said bring a meaning and direction to all that life holds) is HOPE.

It hasn’t always been. Actually in the scheme of my life, it hasn’t been very long at all.

Hope became one of my life words some 2 ½ years ago. In my first semester as a cancer patient and furthermore, a student with cancer, I can’t say ‘hope’ was really in the forefront of my mind. I don’t know that I had considered the word at all until one of my professors stood in front of our lecture hall class and began telling a personal anecdote. This wasn’t unusual for him and we all settled in for story time. He was explaining how he realized this particular instance of his life was causing him to lose hope and the need for hope and then he said:

“When I think about hope, I think about Anika. I think about all she is going through and experiencing and see someone who has and is hope...”

The whole class turned and looked at me awkwardly and I remember blushing some terrible shade of fluorescent red as I managed a wiry smile.

My insides were screaming! I was intensely frustrated with this professor whom I both appreciated and admired. I was at the season of my experience where I was crippled by supreme exhaustion and a medically induced depression. My smile was painted, pinned on, screwed in tight and so automatic that I no longer knew when it was real. This smile accompanied words that I expected others wanted to hear but I, myself, barely comprehended or heard as they left my mouth. And, I was fighting tirelessly with a God I was convinced wasn’t really doing much. Hope? Me? You’re kidding, right?

Over the next few months, I came to understand that the word hope had more to do with standing in the promise and expectation that God was going to show up. Hoping, at its truest, is standing attest to the fact that God is present, active, involved. Despite the fights I have over and over and over again with the only One in the universe who loves me completely and perfectly and unconditionally, I do tend to stand in the expectation that He is in the business of showing up, revealing Himself, giving reasons to look past where I’m at to see where He is...

Hope reminds me that regardless of where I’m at, life isn’t over yet. God has more in store. He needs to be praised anyway. (Praise is a developing “life word”...I’m just not very good at it).

The last couple months of my life have been characterized by transition. Difficult transition. I can’t say I’ve done a good job of holding onto a life word like “hope”. I get stuck in the drudgery of my days bemoan how much I feel I’m missing and worry about what will or will not be provided... Praise hasn’t come naturally and praise, which is a choice, has not been the choice I have made. I’ve chosen instead to sulk and complain – far too often.

This week as piece after piece seemed to be coming together for a job I was actively pursuing, I rediscovered how much hope (and praise) had been missing from my waiting game. And yet, hope is all about seeking and trusting God to work all things together for the best – and not about what I think I would wish for to happen. As I found myself hoping, I found myself drawn back to the face of Christ and subsequently away from the position I so thought I wanted. God is showing up...just not in the ways I expected. Perhaps I was pulled away (I declined a position before I was offered – although that is where it was headed) because (among other reasons) I feel God has something different and better in store. Hope says God showed up just as much as helping me find peace in rough decisions as He is in leading where the next step is. A God who shows up like that is worthy of praise, always.

1 Peter 1:3-9

Stupid Head

Ummm...

I need a hug.

Probably a long one.

And someone to help me figure out this war that is raging inside of my head!

How can something feel like the best and absolute worst choice all at the same time?? How does something rotate between finding me excited and full of the most intense dread? Why does there seem to be a peace in saying "no"...when the logical answer is to say "yes"? Am I running because I'm afraid? Or am I pursuing for the same reason? Do I step out into the unknown despite fear and anxiety...or do I listen to these 'checks' which seem to be pulling me back?

Needing more answers.

And to feel less overwhelmed.

And probably a decent and potentially long hug.

To Be Known

Working on what is now almost three days ago...

I had a bad day.

Really it was just a bad afternoon which turned into a bad evening. Which subsequently had myself curled up in the corner with my back to the wall, my teddy bear on my lap, and my knees bent up to my chin as I cried quiet, hot, and frustrated tears for almost an hour.

Somewhere in the middle of this...

I wanted to scream.

Not just to release (a good scream will do that for you) but to be heard. I wanted my scream to be intentional. I wanted...

I wanted to be understood.

I was struggling with why I had just successfully had the first teenage fight with my dad since I was well...a teenager. In high school. Why my dad, who typically “gets” me the best when it comes to my parents and my internal frustrations, just...wasn't. Not even close. Why I felt so petty and why it hurt so much...

So I blogged.

I blogged everything I wanted to scream. And then I left it there for the world to read.

The release felt...good. Healthy. Real.

And within hours I was wondering if leaving myself so raw inside my cyber world had been such a good idea. And by the next morning I dreaded the messages from friends who were there to support me in my frustration, anger, and bad day...but not because they were supporting me. The fact that there were so many who found it, read it, told me they loved me...I needed it. Badly.

And yet, I dreaded it. I hated it.

I hated the fact they knew.

Knew that I wasn’t perfect. Knew that I was far from having it all together. I openly admitted to insecurities. I whined and I complained. I was harsh in presentation and willing to allow circumstance to dictate not only my attitude but ultimately how much I wanted to trust, in confidence, who I was in Christ.

And I put it on display like a dejected drama queen. Or so my next morning interpretation said...

I was embarrassed.

I wasn’t willing to openly deny anything I said or felt...because despite the fact the sting was gone, I still felt them. It was still a real conversation. My response (regardless of its appropriateness) was still true.

But the fact I had said it...

My closest friends, at least one or two of whom found my blog; know I’m not one who easily admits to my weaknesses. I hide behind a smile and keep-on-keeping-on when I feel kicked in the face. Some applaud me for ability to keep my chin up regardless (of whether I’m breaking inside) and some hate me for how fake (perhaps legitimately) I sometimes come off. I am “fine”, “good”, “doing alright”, until you ask the right question or prod just enough to get the real answer. And so something about being so open and real on facebook? Scandalous!

I wondered what compelled me to do such a thing, but it didn’t take long to come to an answer.

I had wanted to scream...because I had wanted to be understood.

A friend sent me a link the next morning...to a sermon that talked about how we use things like facebook and blogs to be whoever we want to be, whoever we want to be known as, when in all reality, our deepest desire...is just to be known.

Despite my embarrassment, I think part of me wanted to be known. To be understood. To be validated. Justified. In parts of me that were real...and not just parts I wanted others to see.

I think my fear is that too many blogs stating my day’s woes and too many facebook statuses where it sounds as if the world feels out to get me and I will come to be known by my struggle. I don’t want to be known by the hardest things going on in my life. I don’t want them to define me. They aren’t the truest things about me.

But they are true things about me.

I don’t want to be known BY my struggle, but I think parts of each one of us to want to be known WITH our struggle. We want people to know us for the good, the bad, and yes – even those ugly dark places we want to keep hidden...

And we want them to love us anyway.

We want to know that in somebody else’s eyes, our greatest transgressions, shortcomings, don’t make us less adequate, less human, less deserving of love...but even more so. That somehow grace, mercy, forgiveness and redemption are found in the places of our lives that most hurt.

I decided not to retract my blog. I couldn’t retract it from the 47 people who viewed my page over the next 24 hours and I couldn’t retract it from reality. And I realized for all I wish people didn’t know and assume and assess about me and my life for reading it, there was no reason to disguise and hide reality, merely for its own sake.

It is another lesson in being humble when it comes to admitting weaknesses. But humility comes as part of the cost you pay to be [truly] known...

If I Could Re-Do College...

A few days ago, I “liked” the facebook status of one of my young college-sophomore friends which gave instructions to “like” the status and then the holder of the status would reply with answers to an assortment of listed questions...about me. I was intrigued. Among my reply [which had me as crayon color “purple pizzazz” and that my official animal was “Larry the Cucumber”] was the response (to the probe “something I’ve always wanted to know...”) “if you could redo college over again, what would you do different?” I’ve debated this a considerable amount in the last year (yes, even while I was still in school) and especially in the last few months. I felt this pondering, rightfully, deserved a response. And I decided maybe it was a response for more than just Megan. So I’m posting...



Megan, to answer your question, if I could redo college over again...



I would do more fun things. I would go to Denny’s at 2am or make my first midnight WalMart run before the last week of my college career. I would always run out of my dorm at full speed to take advantage of a time to play in the rain. I would host more dance parties in my room. I would attend random SGA events just because they were offered. I would photo shoot just for the heck of it with friends. I would purposely seek out laughter.



I would sleep more. I don’t think I would do less homework (maybe I should say I would, but I don’t think this would actually change...) But I would change priorities. “It get’s done, it always get’s done” should make time for healthy things like Jesus and people and sleep and eating more than once in four days and not just my so-called “responsibilities”.



I wouldn’t be so afraid. I wouldn’t be so afraid of what people thought of me. I wouldn’t hide in my shadow. I wouldn’t look for excuses to be involved in people’s lives...I just would be. I would seize more opportunities. I would decide that I could wonder for weeks if someone hated me...or I could just continue to love them regardless of the response. I wouldn’t stay awake at night worrying about what tomorrow held...



I would take more initiative. I would call friends for dinner instead of hoping someone would invite me to join them. I would join people I knew (and didn’t know for that matter) at lunch instead of sitting alone, by myself, meal after meal after meal. I would recognize sooner that my “no touch!” bubble was a poor defense mechanism and allow myself to be hugged more than seven times my freshman year. And four years later...I would be the one to lean in for the embrace first.



I would let down my mask occasionally. I would be honest about how hard it was to be a college student with cancer. I would admit that I wasn’t holding up as well as I wanted people to believe. I wouldn’t try to convince people I was a wonder-woman in order to somehow prove God was strong... I would point to my weakness and measure it up to God’s strength and let God speak for Himself. I would surrender more and allow myself to give up control...realizing without control my mask would begin to slip and I would have less to hide behind.



I would ask for help more often. I wouldn’t have tried so hard to do everything by myself. I would have questioned professors for clarity and taken advantage of offers for extensions. I would have looked for people to help me run Bible study during my sophomore year and people to ride with me during my drives back and forth to Ann Arbor during my junior year. I would have not only taken people up on offers for prayer but asked for it. I would have looked to someone, anyone, on my Nashville trip, to grab my backpack, admitting that four days after surgery, it took everything I had to lift it. I would have taken advantage of the offer of my friend who told me she was just across campus and was available whenever I needed her...I would have found her more and spilled my guts and trusted her to keep me safe...seeing as she already offered.



I would have found a mentor. I would have [been not so afraid], {taken more initiative}, (asked for help more often) and looked for someone who could have fed into me on a normal basis. Someone older (like, long out of college), wiser, trustworthy, tuned in to who I was and what I was going through and where God and I were headed. Someone who would have guided and befriended and maybe even slapped me back to reality a time or two...



And, finally (about time, right?), I would try to realize that for every decision I was or wasn’t making...that for as much as I felt like I was or wasn’t living up to the perfect way to go about the life I was living...that God was going to use every step to teach, to lead, to help me grow, and to bring me to where He was and where He wanted me to be...regardless of the pain and seeming disarray of the journey...

So Much for Measuring Up...

“So, what did you do today?”

“Honestly? Not a thing. It’s almost four and I just took a shower....” In all actuality, it has far more to do with the fact I think I’ve been fighting my brother’s flu for the last four or five days, just got home from another busy weekend, and didn’t really want to take on the world than anything else. There is quite a bit I could be doing if I felt up to it today...

Dad didn’t give me a chance to justify my answer or explain. Instead he made quite clear, quite early on, that he was disappointed in me. He had a productive Monday and the fact there was nothing to show for mine was shameful. I spent the rest of our conversation trying to defend myself...because looking into my dad’s eyes and listening to his tone of voice it was obvious, obvious that I didn’t measure up.

I felt so defeated.

“So you did nothing and probably heard nothing from Kentucky, either, huh?” Kentucky referred to my most recent job pursuit and I knew that “Kentucky” was just a piece of dad’s bigger picture. I needed a job. I needed to make money. I needed to do something with my life. My current existence was unacceptable. The remainder of the conversation made that increasingly clear.

In summary, pursuing one job at a time was stupid. That’s not the way the job market goes. You don’t find one job to apply for and put your time and energy into seeing where it might lead, you put feelers out in multiple positions and wait for one to bite and then you take advantage of it. [And if I wasn’t actually interested in those positions?] So what? Somebody has to pay back college loans. Clearly my “heart wasn’t in the right spot” and I would have to “pray about my unrelenting mindset”. I wasn’t even looking at temporary employment for God’s sake. Your sister at least took initiative! [Did I say that? Who said I wasn’t? I just didn’t want to feel committed to a job I hated and not feel able to taking advantage of opportunities that might arise. Temporary or seasonal jobs feel considerably more realistic when you aren’t moving from one to the next to the next...in hopes that they are going to pay enough to help you keep track of your financial obligations. Are there any around? Because they don’t pay enough for me to move out... It would be easier to step into a job I hated knowing it was just filling in the time until I started something legit.] But you can’t wait for something “legit” to decide to look for some sort of employment. Obviously you’re not doing anything with your time or your life; you’d have a fine time convincing someone you wanted a job at all. [So should I just jump at a paycheck? Because there’s nothing like doing something you hate for the rest of your life!] So melodramatic! It wouldn’t be for the rest of my life. I could always get out and do something I actually wanted to do later. Haven’t I ever heard of giving a two weeks notice and quitting? [So I should walk into a job that makes me cringe knowing that I am looking to give my two-week notice at any moment? Because that sounds responsible!”] Stop changing the story. We’re talking about temporary jobs not ones with a contract commitment. You are never going to get a job you want because you don’t know what you’re looking for and so nothing is ever going to satisfy you. It’s about time that you and responsibility get a job and stop sitting around my house all day!

Cool.

Because now I’m feeling so much better about life.

This whole time that I hated my life because I was without a job and immediate obligations for the first two and three and then four week stretch in the last six years? Apparently I was slacking. The hours I spent on my computer until three o’clock in the morning were me...not trying? Every time I tried to redefine my existence in lack of the expectations I so long had allowed to be placed on me by every person I came in contact with...missing? Apparently the only thing I was missing was the fact my parents, and at least my dad, has expectations to which I don’t measure up.

Just as I was settling into a peace about this season of “wait”, just when I thought I was being faithful to seek and to trust, just when I was thinking that I was pursuing the doors I felt had opened for me, just when I realized being so concerned on what I didn’t have made me petty and selfish in light of what I did have, just when I decided not to rush into things and get down on myself for what I wasn’t doing, just when I resolved to not allow the job I did or didn’t have to define me, and just when I was allowing myself to heal from the damage such huge transition always puts on my life...

I’m told I’ve been doing it all wrong. It’s not enough. I’m not my sister. Not Faith who was subbing at least three days a week and teaching a class at the local community college during her “transitional phase”. Faith was actively pursuing things; she had an interview lined up by this point for the job she’s been in for the last two years... She moved out after the first of the year. Do I realize she has all of her school loans paid off right now? Yep. I do. Thanks.

Whatever I’m doing...I’m not measuring up and it’s not enough. Which I have, in the last hour, easily absorbed and interpretted as “Anika, you’re not enough...” I’m not good enough. I don’t measure up. You were that golden child when you were away at school with a maintained cancer diagnosis while pulling a 4-point. But now, now we just point to this girl who lives in our basement and has nothing to show for it.

Cool.

I don’t know what I should be doing. I don’t know what passion I should give up on in order to pursue a job that will somehow make me more of a person, a better daughter. Should I give up all passion and just get a job with a paycheck? I mean, Paul was a tentmaker. My guess is that he would have rather been just doing ministry, but you’ve got to pay the bills somehow... I could just suck up my disdain for the ineffectiveness and logistics of church ministry. Where, if I was a good youth pastor with a growing ministry, I would disciple volunteers and hope they were doing a good job loving on the teens in my so-called care. My list of reasons why I feel un-called to church ministry is extensive...but also removed from capability. I mean probably, technically, God help me, I could run a decent youth ministry and hope that the church was willing to pay me when everything is said and done. I could give up my love for ministry, for talking about Jesus, for conversation that encourages teens to seek the face of Christ more fully and work in a secular community-based youth environment. I could still work with youth but my ministry would have to be my life and that would have to be enough. My passion for theology couldn’t be a defining factor. I could give up both my passion for young people and my passion for ministry and just walk into some dead-end “temporary” position that keeps me living at my parents house forever and leaves me stuck because despite its temporariness, there’s no obvious way out and no better alternative. Why does “job I hate using my degree” vs “job I hate not using my degree” vs “job I can tolerate that removes the reason I chose my degree” seem to be my debate? Why are there no more options?

Maybe I wouldn’t be so upset with the fact that I am letting my dad down; that I managed to disappoint him when all I ever really tried to do was represent him and his legacy well; that I am not good enough and don’t measure up...if it didn’t circle back to how much I disappointed myself; let myself down. Maybe it just hurts to have to encounter the truth you have come to believe about yourself through other peoples’ eyes. Maybe I’ll be good enough for my dad, let alone my Heavenly Father, if in fact I can ever be good enough for me.

Enough?

I'm not enough.

And I know I'm not enough.

My head knows I'm not enough. But my heart hasn't quite caught up.

I want to be enough. To hold my kids and their worlds.

But I'm not...not enough.

I'm called to bear their burdens but I'm not called to be their savior. I can't rescue them from their choices, make their decisions for them, redeem them from hurt and chaos they carry.

There's only one Savior. Only One who can love perfectly when I cannot. One who bears perfectly my burdens and the burdens of those I so desperately just want to hold.

And He holds me.

So despite the fact that I still try to hold the worlds and cannot because I am not enough...I know I am being held. And I know He holds the worlds and the lives of those I so love. He holds us.

I am not enough.

But I can hold on to the only One who is more than enough. Who has proven Himself as the One enough for me and for the ones I wish I was enough for...

Father, help me point to Enough...

I Suck At Life

I suck at life.

Sometimes I say this as a way of expressing just how much I am just not a fan of the way I choose to do this whole living thing. I’m not very good at it. I mess up...a lot. In significant ways. Ways I won’t start by admitting on my blog. Sometimes I say it merely because I messed up. Because, well, I’m human and I’m not perfect. This fact bothers me and I will oft come to the conclusion that I suck at life. When the latter is my basis, when I say it just so, I have certain friends who will contradict my assertion before my next breath can be drawn.

But it’s true.

I suck at life.

I don’t mean to be as self-depreciating as it sounds. But then again, I do.

I suck at life. And so do you.

Let’s face it. When it comes to this whole “living” thing, we are giant screwballs. If you’re half the screwball I know myself to be then, for as much as I love you, you suck.

I’m sorry. But it’s true.

Lately, I’ve found myself especially aware of my shortcomings. Engulfed by the pieces of me that aren’t just “human” and therefore imperfect but are also less than adequate, less than decent, less than human. I find myself consumed by all of the pieces of me I hate. And there is much worth that sort of despising. How is it, I wonder, these hideous pieces can be so clearly in the forefront of my mind and still present? Why is it I don’t usher them out of my heart, soul, mind, and life before they continue to destroy the glory I was created in? Why is it I don’t always feel like I can? How is it that sometimes I don’t feel like I want to?

I’ve spent a significant amount of time in Romans 7 with the Apostle Paul lately. For as often the times where I have thought I couldn’t possibly meet the level of discipleship and servitude and absolute surrender of the early church, the more time I spend in my Bible the more I’m realizing most of them, though dedicated beyond my imagination, sucked at life. And they made into the most popular, longest lasting, most often stolen, widest read book the world has ever kown. I figured, despite the inability to reconcile how much I despised the ugliness inside of me, there was safety in numbers and knowing we were all screwballs and I wasn’t the only one who had seriously messed up life, was comforting. Paul was a mess up. He claimed to be the worst of sinners once, (it’s only because he hadn’t yet personally met me I think). But Paul understood my questions and struggle. How much he knew he sucked at life and how much he hated that.

In Romans 7 (starting with verse 14) Paul starts monologue-ing his plight. “We know that the law is spiritual; but I am unspiritual, sold as a slave to sin.” How many times I’ve felt like my sin controls me... “I do not understand what I do.” Amen! “For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.” So often I feel as if the pieces of who I am that I hate the most get to become the things which define me because they are the things I act on... [skipping down to vs 18] “I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what it is good, but I cannot carry it out.” Keep preaching Paul, you’re speaking my language... For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do – this I keep on doing.”

You know what that spells? My life. Paul’s struggle. His words defining my life and my struggles. It spells pretty clearly that I suck at life. There’s no doubt about it. A few verses later Paul talks about how his inner being delights in God’s law but that there is a war waging on his mind that makes him a prisoner to sin. That is the recipe of every piece of me that I hate and baked in the oven at 350 for the last, say, 22 years and it has produced a pretty sucky life. One I’m not very good at. One where I never measure up. One where I don’t live in the Spirit who I claim lives in me and I don’t act on the hope I claim to have in Jesus Christ. Instead the sin I so adamantly denounce is the thing I allow to dictate, too often, both my thoughts and my actions. It controls my attitude and steals my joy.

I suck at life.

And so do you. None of us are perfect. So even if you are twice as good at life as me (which isn’t hard), even if you never let anyone down and always wake up and lie down in the hope of the Living Lord and the fruits of the Spirit are oozing from your very being, you probably still suck at life.

What’s funny is that even though I know you suck, the fact I love you will negate my desire to ever see you as a sucky person. Just as the friends who know me and my heart and my shortcomings better than anyone else will stop my declarations of my life of suck-a-tood, so I would probably and most certainly stand in the way of yours. When I see you, I don’t see the fact you suck...love and grace cancel that.

It was a little like a light bulb. Paul cries out at the end of chapter 7: “What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God – through Jesus Christ our Lord!” This gave me some hope. Paul sees a rescuer from this paradoxical life that he sucks at through Christ. And chapter 8 follows off by Paul stating that those who claim Christ find no condemnation.

And I wondered...

I wondered if the love Christ has for me meant that when He looks upon me and the way that I suck at life that His love covers over how much, daily, I let Him down. How can He not just see all that’s wrong? I wonder if Paul spent the whole of two huge chapters in the intense book of Romans talking about grace without ever saying the word. This whole idea that God gives good gifts to children who don’t deserve it. That Jesus looks down and sees His beautiful disaster and chooses to identify me by my beauty rather than my disaster.

I hate that I suck at life.

And I know that this realization comes with the call to allow my sinful nature to have the crap stomped out of it by the Spirit who I must give permission to control me. If Christ is in me, then my body, the one that sucks is dead to sin. I get to be alive in righteousness. The parts of me that suck don’t have to.

“But life is still about surrender.”

It’s been my personal assertion for the last couple of months. A declaration with various levels of understanding and undisclosed implications on this life I suck at.

Life is still about surrender.

I won’t measure up. Because I’m human. But if I’m not my own. If the control isn’t mine to have. If Perfection is given the power to dictate this life that I suck at living...

Oh God! Give me the power to surrender this life I suck at before I can no longer find my way back to you...

Mentor

Mentor.

He called me mentor.

As if it were my name. It was the way I was introduced.

We were walking through his dormitory floor when he ran into one of his friends, his good friends. Someone he doesn’t have to try to impress with a word that gives the illusion of seeking “wise counsel”. Someone he chills with and hangs with and checks in with. They were reconnecting and I stood the side, smiling as I watched their encounter.

“So where you headed, man? What are you up to?”

“Oh, I’m just taking off to spend some time talking to my mentor.” He stated matter-of-factly and head pointed towards my direction with a wiry grin.

The acknowledgement on his part caught me off guard and surprised me. I didn’t have time to keep the shock from registering on my face. My charge laughed gently and easily.

“Oh come on! Don’t look so surprised! You know that’s what you are in my life! And I’m very thankful for that. So...” he turned and looked at his friend, “I’ll catch you later.” Turning back to me, “ready, mentor?”

I smirked as we headed down the stairs.

And my mind was caught on this crazy word. What it meant. All that it entailed.

My young friend brought up this concept three more times in the course of our walk and talk. It was clearly not a spur-of-the-moment declaration to his buddy in the hall but something he had been thinking on. He declared, on no uncertain terms, I was his mentor and he did not intend for that to change.

My reaction went from shock to a proud acceptance. For all of the “kids” in my life – my teens that I claim and love – the ones who seek me out as a safe place for guidance and to chat and to feel affirmed and sometimes set straight – most don’t claim me back on such official terms. He chose me to mentor him and I was honored.

But pride soon fell, appropriately, to humility. Knowing I mentor, unofficially, nearly a dozen teens, is one thing. To be seen from their perspective as an official mentor comes with great responsibility. They are looking for direction and anticipating I am going to steer them the right way. They are looking for a listening ear and are hoping I pay attention what is and isn’t being said. They are looking for affirmation and desiring I’ll care enough to talk, to share, to hug. They are looking for authenticity and are praying I care enough to kick them in the face when they need it and admit where my own edges might also be frayed. They are looking for love and for purpose, for relationship and friendship...and the unspoken need is for me to point them to Jesus.

Can I do all of that? Am I called? Am I equipped?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Either way, I’ve been chosen.

May I continually seek towards the Father so I may say as unashamedly and uninhibited as the Apostle Paul “follow me as I follow Christ”...