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!
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
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
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
Sunday, December 19, 2010
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
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
Saturday, December 11, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, December 10, 2010
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...
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...
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, December 3, 2010
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.
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.
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