Adaptability, Change, and the Holidays

My senior year of college, my senior exit class for my major (youth ministry) had me take a strengths inventory profile/assessment.  The end result gave me my top five most prominent strengths.  In order, my number two result was “adaptability”.

If I had been drinking a beverage when I first received these results, it probably would have been spewed in a dramatic array over the whole of my computer screen.  “Adaptability?  Seriously?”  I cringed.  I moaned. And I laughed.  This inventory had to be mistaken.  I. Hate. Change.  My classmates and some personal evaluation helped me realize that acting in adaptability when needed and pushing forward regardless of the changes arising is in fact a strength of mine.  Life has demanded change and so I have worked around it and with it and apparently that makes me adaptable.  I ran this recently by just a coworker or two briefly who nodded and said “you go with the flow, no questions asked. You’re adaptable.” *Sigh*

Part of me still wanted to hit my head.  While I am glad it is what other people see – as I don’t want to be a person so caught up in “what isn’t” that “what IS” becomes neglected, under served, unmanaged, or missed – if I had my way, I would not choose to be adaptable.  Inside, change makes me cringe.  Without fail.  I like normalcy.  I value consistency.  In fact, I had a moment of celebration when I realized the loss of some current staff and addition of some new ones would not cause me to lose my office mailbox as it has been alphabetically placed. 

I just like when some things stay the same...

It’s a shame then that over the course of this year absolutely everything has changed.  I’ll refrain by giving labels like “for the good” or “for the bad” but everything has changed.  Or so it feels. 2011 marks the first year that has not included be as a student...since 1992!  Change. I no longer live in my parent’s home and am basically independent (minus the part where I still rely on Dad’s health insurance benefits and can’t actually move out of their home because I work a job that provides housing but my life doesn’t actually fit into my 10x10 bedroom).  Change. Oh!  I have a job.  I have been working a job I basically enjoy that doesn’t actually use my major very much for almost a year.  That’s not like before at all.  Change. My sister is married.  Change.  I have a brother-in-law.  Change.  This was the first summer in almost a decade that I wasn’t involved in ministry at Wesley Woods.  Change.  I don’t have an active cancer diagnosis for the first time since 2007.  Change.  I could keep going.  Seriously...not much in my life (minus the fact I still puke like a champ – dumb consistency) has stayed the same. 

I could have pre-anticipated such a year.  I could have because just about this time last year is when I first felt like everything I had known to be a place of stability in my life was being ripped from underneath of me.  I kept saying things like “Well, if that’s gone, at least I still have...”  as I continually reached out for other places of consistency. As a kid who grew up in a handful of places and needs both hands to recount every school, I was familiar with change and I held tight to the things that always stayed the same...

The biggest “...at least I still have...” at this point last Christmas was, well, Christmas.  For years Christmas has been getting weird.  I think it is because I am getting old.  Christmas has lost some of its magic and charm.  And ever since getting “sick” and being diagnosed the day after Christmas four years ago, a lot of the “little things” which used to make Christmas seemed to disappear.  My family was too busy and there were more important things to worry about.  But there was still something intrinsically the same about Christmas to cling to and yet, I was losing the pieces. Last year I was mourning their loss.  The hours spent on a Saturday decorating the tree and the house.  The time spent creating a mess in mom’s kitchen making candies and chocolate covered pretzels and homemade tootsie rolls.  The planning and crafting and making.  The detailed debate over what ornaments to acquire or make or find that year (I (each of us) have a specific ornament for each year so by the time I was, well, this old, I could move out and have ornaments that meant something to put on my own tree...) We would practice for church Christmas programs while watching all of the classics on TV and fighting over whether or not we had gotten through our own collection of Christmas-must-watch movies.  And when all was said and done, we would get dressed and go to Christmas Eve services and then come home and change into pajamas in time to open up presents as a family.  In the morning we would all load into the car and head to Grandpa and Grandma’s for the day.  Christmas.

But last year everything officially changed when my older sister wouldn’t be home for Christmas and so we didn’t open gifts on Christmas Eve.  We came home and nobody knew what else to do...it’s just what we always did.  And then everything changed again when Grandpa and Grandma announced the fact that it would be the last big family Christmas at their house.  Christmas was being relegated to each and their own.  And there went my last “...at least there is still...”  Christmas was gone.  Call me embittered but I am still having a hard time stomaching the change and transition as this holiday season closes in.

In fact, more things change this year.  My sister and brother-in-law won’t be home for Christmas and we won’t celebrate without them.  But they will be home later when my younger sister will be out of the country.  And there are like three services to go to after which time, undoubtedly, my brothers will watch football and my parents will fall asleep and that will be Christmas.  So what?

I don’t like change.  I don’t want to adapt this newest take on a holiday that, let’s face it, is defined by tradition – of which mine don’t really exist anymore.  And when people ask about what I’m doing for Christmas – I cringe.  I think the way things have to fall this years sucks.  And maybe I don’t want to celebrate if I can’t do it the way I want to!  The way we always have...

That would be honest.  And also immature.  Ridiculous.  And self-absorbed. 

Some things have to change.  Change is inevitable.  Nothing is going to remain permanently consistent and it’s just dumb that so much change has had to happen all in one year leaving my completely overwhelmed by “all that isn’t”. 

But if that’s all I focus on, I still miss it. Especially at Christmas time.  In the midst of everything I think I need to take place for it to feel like Christmas is the reality of the season.  Christ.  The reason a tradition of a holiday – something consistent – is the same reason God ordained certain holy days among the Israelites.  So that they wouldn’t forget. 

And here I am, forgetting.  Moping.  Moping because nothing stays the same when the only thing, the only One, that matters has never changed.  Psalm 55:19 promises that God doesn’t change.  That the same God who created the world, saved the Israelites, sent His son, performed miracles, and raised the dead...yep, same God.  Hebrews 13:7 says “Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever”.  Have I lost my stability? My consistency?  My normal?  Or have I just lost focus on my Rock and my Salvation?  My Security... My Peace... My Constant. 

Father God, when all around me changes... remind me that You are the Everlasting.  Help me keep my eyes on You...the One who never changes and continues to love me, just like always...

To Remember...

She was walking briskly down the street.  In a hurry...per usual.  Running late...as was becoming the new norm.  Time.  There was never enough time.  Always too much to do.  Too many things for which to keep track.  And people.  Never enough time to spare for the ones she held closest and never enough to spread adequately over those demanding it.  She shifted her bag to glance at her watch.  She had fifteen minutes at best if she were to get to work in time to have everything arranged before the rest arrived.

She looked up from her mental calculations to see a young woman.  She smiled politely and nodded her head in greeting before continuing in her hasty steps; her shoes making a steady click against the sidewalk squares.  The woman returned the nod but did not continue down the street; instead in her spot she remained although was quickly lost from view...

She paused suddenly. She felt as if the eyes of her arbitrary morning greeting were still watching her.  Considering those eyes, she also felt a sudden sense of recognition.  Her head tilted in a moment of confused pondering.  Slowly and deliberately she turned and began to walk the handful of steps back to where she saw the woman first.  The woman was still there...

She stopped and looked at the woman curiously.  “I’m sorry...” she found the words escaping her mouth almost before she knew what she was saying and long before she could retract them. “but do I know you?”  The woman responded with a similar confused yet pleasant expression but said nothing. 

She seemed not notice her companion’s silence before continuing.  “I just feel as if I know you.  You look ever so familiar.  You remind me of someone I used to know...

“Did we go to school together? High school perhaps?  Yes that seems quite possible.  I seem to remember you as one of the quiet girls? Always with your head in a book? Smart and studious? Yes!  That’s right!  Because everyone was so surprised when you spoke so well and clearly during Speech Class our senior year but no one was surprised when you were Valedictorian!”  Her excitement faded and she caught the woman’s quizzical glance.  “No, that couldn’t be it.  I would remember...

“Wait!  I was wrong!  We met in college!  You never really were in any group per se.  You were your own person, unique.  A little socially awkward perhaps.  But also witty.  Everyone was always laughing at your silly antics and comments!  That was you, right?  When you emerged as a leader, no one saw it was coming.  Didn’t know you had it in you!”  She chuckled but paused. “No, that had to have been someone else.  Someone like that I wouldn’t have to place.  I would remember...”

She shook her head and pursed her lips.  She saw the puzzled but soft look on the woman’s face and her own expression softened.  “Pardon me.  I’m not typically like this.  It’s just, just that, well...your face, those eyes.  I know you from somewhere...”  She paused.  “Do you know...?  Was it a summer of camp?  Did we counsel together perhaps?  There was one girl I seem to recall who would come alive for those weeks of camp.  Were you the one who appeared to have such a zest and a passion?  The one who got to the end of that one week and cried because she had to send her campers home to worlds she couldn’t protect or control?  No. It couldn’t be.  I wanted to be just like her.  I would know her if I saw her.  I would remember...”

A dawn of realization flashed in her eyes and she blushed briefly before leaning in just a little.  “This might be a little personal, but were you, did you, have you ever...” She collected herself before continuing. “What I mean to say is, was there ever a time in your life where it, life that it is, where it was a struggle?  Where something in your life was difficult or challenging?  Perhaps I don’t remember you and just your picture?  Maybe I prayed for you off of a list at church or something of a similar variety?  Did you ever lose someone close? Or were you ever very sick?”  She looked up and saw pain burning in the back of the woman’s eyes.  “You don’t have to answer.  I just seem to be reminded of someone who went through quite a bit.  Everyone was so proud of her strength and her courage and the way that nothing stopped her.  And I always wondered if there was more to her story than what we saw.  And yet, I hoped I could be that superhero in real life.  You know with the ability to do and be everything everyone wanted despite what was going on.  No, it couldn’t be.  Even if it were just a picture, I would remember...”

 

She massaged her brow and shook her head in frustration.  “I know!  I probably look crazy. I am going to be late for work and I suddenly don’t even care.  I still feel as if I know you.  The longer I stand here, the more I am convinced that you’re someone I not only know but should still know.  Should have kept in contact with.  I wish I could remember...

“Obviously it’s been years.  It must have been.  You are quite a bit older than I remember.  But then so am I.  It’s only a matter of time before my hair streaks gray with the crazy life I live!”  She laughed.  “And life must have been pretty crazy or busy since we talked last.  Your eyes are tired and your shoulders sag as you stand.  You almost look, weary?  As if it has been too long since there was anything to refresh your spirit and your soul.  I seem to remember you as having more fire behind your eyes.  But I guess I don’t really remember...” 

Her voice trailed off and her gaze was lost in a personal day dream.  A world all of her own.  When she snapped back to all she could catch was the sad look in the woman’s eyes.  Her own voice cracked and a tear ran down her face. “I wish, I wish I remembered.  I wish I remembered who you were and why you’re so important to me...”  She leaned into her purse to grab a tissue.  “Look at me blubbering like an idiot.  I’m sorry for taking so much of your time.  Time!  Oh my, I am going to be so late for work.  I really must go!”  She paused before rushing off again.  “If you think of it, if you remember, will you look me up?  I’m awfully busy but I would make some time...”  The words seemed to be lost as somewhere a clock began to strike the hour.  She reached out towards the woman’s face and compulsively brushed her smooth cheek.  “Goodbye, old friend.  Someday, someday I’ll remember...” 

She regained her composure and again rushed off.  Her hasty steps made a steady click as she hurried down the sidewalk. 

As the day began and the clock at the center of town put in its last and ninth chime, the street began to come alive.  From where the two women stood a shopkeeper flipped the sign in his door to “OPEN” and exited with a cloth in his hand.  He walked up to the pane of the two-way mirror windows he had installed.  “Silly kids.  Always making faces in the mirror and putting their finger prints on my windows!”  And with a steady motion he began to wipe away the latest streak.  Almost at eye level.  And almost as if someone had run her hand gently down the side of his face...

A head start on the holidays? THANKS, I think I will.

This comic has been a popular this year. Originally posted by at least four of my facebook friends. And I? I immediately fell in love with this sarcastic slap to Christmas’ face by Thanksgiving.

In all actuality, I think Thanksgiving and Christmas could be close friends. Thanksgiving holds no weight without the gift of Christmas. Let’s be real, those pilgrims knew precisely WHO they were thanking in the midst of their thankfulness. And while Christmas doesn’t NEED Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving (if nothing else and only in it’s modern display) helps to refocus Christmas on what actually matters.

But the latter, in fact, feeds the dilemma. With Christmas getting closer and closer to the 4th of July every year and with commercialism the way it is, it is only a matter of time before stores play year-round Christmas music instead of just-around-the-clock for the month of December.

And with gifts to be thought of, budgeted for, and bought. With the stores lined with the reds, greens, hollies, and gingerbreads of the seasons. With the air cold and the snow beginning to fall and the look of little kids bundled like snow bunnies making you wish for the smell of a pine tree...lit as you sip hot cocoa in front of a fire. With projects to be had and parties and engagements to fill your calendar...the sum total of the whole makes it hard not to get swept up into the list of holiday things to do. I, myself, decided to participate in the staff-wide Secret Santa at work which begins this week...and comes with the thoughts of stockings and holiday scheming. And isn’t separate from three dates to put onto my Christmas social calendar. And then it blew my mind to realize that Thanksgiving is but a little more than a week away.

I didn’t forget...but I had violated my own carnal rule. I had allowed Christmas to get in the way of Thanksgiving. There is a reason that the above turkey with some hutzpuh, telling Santa boy what’s what did more than make me chuckle. Almost yearly I go on a rant about the irony of a holiday set aside for the purpose of THANKS being sandwiched between a far too (in my opinion) hyped ‘holiday’ which glorifies self, self presentation, and demands for sweets, treats, and a thrill and another holiday which is becoming further and further removed from its roots and often is seen kneeling down to the gods of commercialism and greed. With me standing between two mirrors I’ve set up facing each other to make me look good, is it really any wonder I miss Thanksgiving in the process?

I don’t want to miss Thanksgiving. And so I thought I’d do something novel...something WalMart hasn’t quite thought up yet. I thought I’d get a head start on Thanksgiving. You know, beat the holiday rush so that I don’t have to do all of my giving of thanks on one day when the stress is high. Instead I’d like to recognize that every day and every moment leaves an opportunity for a personal holiday...where the notion of giving thanks seems like the only viable option. I considered the fact that most of my list probably sounds a lot like other people’s but also thought that if I got started now...that maybe I would have a semi-legitimate list by Thanksgiving instead of whatever was “left on the racks to wrap” so to speak by waiting to do my “holiday shopping” so late. And so, if you don’t mind, kindly take your tinsel and wrapping paper and butt out Christmas...I have some thanking to do.


I’m thankful...

For a Jesus who loves me despite my mess. Who holds me on the good days and the bad. Who knows I suck, Who knows where I stumble, Who realizes I am a massive screw up with issues too great to name...and He loves me anyway. For the salvation and the relationship that is mine despite my complete lack of deserving...

For a family that continues to be there for me hands down. For brothers that make me laugh...who fix things and find things and give really good hugs for no reason at all. For sisters who listen and talk and with whom I can be completely myself. For a mom who still cries every time I leave to go back to work and who checks in and answers all of my medical questions and who loves so intentionally on people... For a dad who leads his family and protects it...who listens to my silly questions and rants and who still wants to take care of his grown up little girl.

For friends who have taken the time to get under my skin. To see the places of brokenness that lies beneath the surface and decide that I am worth their time anyway. The ones who walk beside me. Who care, who listen, who talk, who laugh, who do life, who point me closer to Jesus, who teach me how to trust, who make me a better me.

For a job that has long days and long hours and not the world’s largest paycheck...but my needs are met. My job is never boring and it has challenged me out of my comfort zone and back into pieces of “Anika” that I forgot existed. It gives me the ability to be intentional and opportunity to love on people for no reason at all. And furthermore, I’m thankful for my coworkers. (A specific shout-out to Megan Murphy who makes me smile and whom I accidently claimed was in my blog when I meant to say “blob”. Now it’s official. :D) We’re a strange bunch and, up-close, and unlikely gathering of individuals but my coworkers encourage and propel. We try hard to be there for each other. Watching the selfless way my coworkers give of themselves in their own unique ways to our young charges, compels me.

For food to eat and a warm bed to sleep in. For the ability to shower every morning and brush my teeth every night. For legs and arms that move and eyes that see and ears that hear. For sunshine to brighten days and rain to heal the ground. For a child’s laughter and a baby’s cry. For the wisdom of someone my elder. For freedom of speech, of religion...of praise. For a tedious laundry day because I have too many clothes and giant messes because I have too much stuff. For good cups of coffee with good friends...a combination to warm the soul. For the student loans I hate paying back because I have a degree. For the scar across my neck and the faithfulness of Jesus in the story behind it.

For far more than I continue to list at this moment...but may the list I started only continue to grow and become more and more specific as the next ten days build up to the joy that is not the beginning of the holiday season but the holiday that celebrates a season and a lifestyle of gratitude and thanks.


“Gratitude is one of the most telling signs of attitude. Or maybe vice versa. The moment I take time to appreciate, the moment I realize I can’t be both bitter and thankful too...”

Applications Now Accepted

My last blog post was an honest one.  Not that any previous haven’t been honest...my last one just left me a little exposed.  It was honesty with my shield missing.  While I am not sure why I felt the need to post what initially began as personal processings, I did.  And it was freeing.  It was letting go of some false pretenses and shouting from, basically, my most public venting ground, “I’m not perfect!  In fact, I don’t even know if I’m even okay!  I don’t care if you know if it is the truth!”  It was, perhaps strangely, refreshing and revitalizing to have others text and message without solutions but with words that just basically said “me too”.  Like I wasn't alone.  And as if somehow in being honest and a little vulnerable, I had allowed others to do the same. 

That being said, I decided to be strangely honest again.  I, again, am not quite sure what posting this honesty will solve or if I really want it to accomplish anything.  And, tomorrow, I will probably regret it and the potential results but, for today, I am going to be bold.  [Bear with me through yet one more piece of following explanation...]

I have a couple key friends who challenge me. (You’re probably saying “great!  That’s what friends are for!” Correct.  But keep reading.)  They challenge me in ways that matter and encourage me to be about more and better and truer and all of those great things, but they also challenge the core of who I am.  And by challenge, I mean they do things like put up a fight against my Superman complex.  My desire to come in and save the day, to be a hero in your world when you need one the most.  I’ve come to grips, in small ways, with what it means to forgive Superman.  To forgive myself for when I can’t be everyone’s everything.  And my friends, knowing me, know that I will not easily let go of an opportunity to still act upon it.  It is part of who I am.  They don’t expect me to stop my superman complex or not rush in to save the day if at all I can. Now they just want me to be healthy about it. 

Their favorite question? It goes something like... “So, that’s fine, but who is your ‘Anika’?  Who is your superman?  Who is there like that for you?” 

I like to be rhetorical and say things like...  “You’re listening to me and you’re intentional right now, so...you?”  They have to give me at least some minor legitimacy points.  If they intend to be intentional in my life like that, they’re probably that day’s version of superman for me.  [I just chalked up my own score points, for the record.]

And yet, [here is where the next stage of honesty comes in; brace yourselves], if I am being truthful with them and myself, they aren’t enough.  Not always. 

I spent several hours talking to my best friend last week (far too late into the night and early morning hours I might add).  We started by venting a couple frustrations and I ended in an all-out ranting tirade of my life.  I wish I could say I was bemoaning world hunger and war and disease but it was far pettier a matter.  Kind of pathetic actually. And I went from rant to jealous tirade...because she made a comment about running a frustration [that had come up in our discussion] past her mentor. 

She runs a lot past me and I past her and there are not too many secrets we keep from each other...but she still has a mentor.  Someone older and wiser and grounded who knows her and knows enough of her story to be intentional.  Someone who seeks her out just to check in.  Who gives advice and counsel from a place removed from situations and her job and her immediate life based solely on what is known about her, about Jesus, about the world.  I was jealous.

I wanted one. 

Not a want like you see an awesome Crockpot on an infomercial and you consider how handy it would be and so you add it to your Christmas list in case your mom wants a great idea. You would probably use it if you had it around, after all.

No, a want that is almost more of a need.  It’s not.  Not really.  I can live without one.  But it is becoming a very real and deep desire.  Not a necessity but if I had a legit one, I feel as if I would probably question how I could live without them.  I’m at that stage in my life where I have to agree with my well-meaning friends.  I could use someone to be my ‘Anika’.  My superhero. Someone I could call on a bad day or ask to do coffee and know they would have sound advice or at least a listening ear.

My friend and I are pretty close in age, I being just a couple years older, and I trust her with a great deal and can rely on her listening ear and genuine advice but in my tirade I told her she didn’t cut it and explained why I needed more.  That I needed someone who had lived through more than I had.  Who could give advice based on life and experience.  Someone who was inside my life personally but an objective outsider to my life as a whole.  Someone I could come to grips with the fact that I could care about them and their life but for once it wouldn’t be an Anika investment or even a mutual I-feed-into-you/you-feed-into-me relationship.  Instead I would just accept the fact that this relationship would, to me, feel more one-sided...me on the receiving end.    

But I feel pretty stuck in the whole matter.  For as many young and younger people I’ve mentored for times and seasons over the years...I don’t know where to begin.  I, myself, have never actually had a mentor.  I’ve been the mentor but I really don’t know how this all works. Where does one find a mentor?  Do I send out a link to the website with the job description and let people know that applications are now available?  Do I find them or do they find me?  Should I ask for a resume and cover letter or just have them fill out the questionnaire? 

I have this list of extensive specifications (I’ve been told by peers it is fair but again, never done this.) which I feel like cancels out any I can think to be the willing and puts me into a realm of unknown which negates one of my specifics.  Sketch, I know, but true.  Hence the application (which I realize no one would actually fill out if I were to actually create it) seems like the best option.  (Can you Craig’sList something like this??).

I need someone (and when I say someone...I’m really saying someone female.  I guess I could have a guy mentor but something tells me my life would better be understood and communicated back to me by a chick) older and wiser.  Older is somewhat relative though also concrete (I’m 23, older is clearly nothing less than 24 although I would love a few more years than that, although not excessively more.  I need someone still relevant).  Wiser is a little more subjective.  And I need someone I have a connection to...I don’t want to build a relationship from the ground up so that when it gets legit and/or natural enough, mentorship can begin.  I need them outside my day-to-day life so that they can be subjective about my day-to-day life.  I need someone who will sit and listen to my life story from start to finish – potentially for hours – and possibly say little more than asking for clarifying questions or asking for more details as I got it all out...so they would have to have a base understanding of all the reasons I tick the way I do.  They need to love Jesus (given) because I can’t and won’t take life advice from someone who doesn’t but I also need someone who will challenge my relationship with Christ and feed the fact that I like to think intelligently about matters of faith and discuss things from a deeper end.  I need someone moderately accessible and someone I would feel comfortable calling with a question or asking to talk or to do coffee or texting saying “pray for me today – it’s rough”.  And I need someone who is willing to take the time on me.  Who sees me as worth the investment... 

Not a small list.  Not a small job description.  Applications aren’t actually available (of course) but I think I am on the lookout, and the prayout (that is a personal word I’ve created to describe when I begin to pray with intention about something), for that “someone”.  The someone who will be nothing more and nothing less than exactly the person God knows I need and whom He will place in my life not a second before or after the time I am ready accept it.  Yeah.  

*This might be as honest as life gets in my blog for a while.  So breathe easy, a sigh of relief perhaps. I’ll return to our normal programming soon.  It is just always a bit of a surprise if you’re going to endeavor towards my abandoned scrawls... 

An Honest Post

Just now, I thought about updating my facebook status and I desperately wanted to write the words “I miss Jesus...” into the little text box. 

“Why?” you might be asking...

Well, because of all of the things going through my mind and heart and life right now, that is the truest description.  I miss Jesus. It was the only thing I felt compelled to write.

And so now you might be asking “so why not post it then if it compels you so?”

Because, if we’re going to be honest, I probably care too much what others think.  And I have this feeling that if I had posted just that, someone would probably think I was down in the dumps or needed to be encouraged or reassured...or something. 

Something tells me, based on my past experiences, that I couldn’t write those three words without facebook messages asking me what was wrong or comments about how close Jesus was – I just needed to remember and find myself wrapped in His presence.  How much He loved me.  How much others loved me.  How I needed to take the time to connect to my Savior. 

Yep. I know.  I know all of those things. They would have all been well-meaning and true reminders.  But also not enough and not the point. 

The truth is, despite what I know and what others could remind me of, the sum whole of the situation is simply that I miss Jesus.  The statement is what it is and for the most part, it stands alone.

I miss Jesus.  I KNOW He is active and present in my life. I KNOW He loves me. I KNOW that He promised to never leave me or forsake me and so He is not really so far away.  I KNOW lots of things.  But, I still just miss Him.

I feel distant.  And He feels far away. I know He is near and I’ve watched Him bat from my corner and I’ve watched as He has shown up quite clearly through the hands and voices and ears and faces of others in my life over the last few weeks.  And still...

I miss Jesus.

Whenever I get to a point of this honest admittance, I know it is my fault.  I think about the last time I made an honest effort to meaningfully connect to the God I love and the Savior I claim...the one whom I now so desperately wish for...  I think and I know.  I know that if I’m really honest... 

If I’m honest, I can’t remember the last time I sat down with my Bible to simply connect. Not to look something up or double check a reference or do a quick bit of research but to just read the words from the One that loves me best. 

If I’m honest, I can’t remember the last time I prayed the conversational prayer that used to remind me that Christ was my best friend.  The prayer time where I could spend a two hour drive in an empty car telling Him everything in my life and the lives of all those I knew and cared about.  Where I could pause and bask in the silence and wait for His whisper.  A natural and comfortable time to talk and listen.  Instead my prayers feel like rushed attempts to beg Jesus not to leave, to show up, to hold me as I feel incapable of making it through the day.

If I’m honest, my journal – my previous default when other areas of connecting to my Jesus seemed lacking – sits nearly empty and the existing entries matter little.  Writing is dull and lacking the passion of the girl who used to figure out where God was working in her life...through her fingers.

If I’m honest, I spent some time this morning reading through some old journals and blog posts and being a little amazed and embarrassed knowing they were my words and words I couldn’t have written if I were not intentionally connected to the source.  Connected to where Jesus was at in my life. Embarrassed because I don’t think I could have written those things this morning if I tried...

If I’m honest, it is Sunday...just after noon and I am sitting in my living room in my pajamas.  David Crowder is playing from my iPod and speakers but the words seem hollow.  Worship music seems superficial.  I didn’t go to church – or make the effort to.  And if I’m really being honest, I haven’t made the effort towards church attendance since returning to the Doh this fall.  I spent a while looking for a church last spring and came up short and unimpressed.  I got it into my mind that going to a church where I left with the dry taste of stale bread crumbs...served to me in the company of strangers who didn’t care one way or the other that I was sitting next them... instead of feeling fed, was useless.  If I was only going because I felt I had to and because others thought I should, obligation wasn’t reason enough.

If I’m honest, I have a few incredible and meaningful friendships.  People who remind me verbally and physically that they love me, care for me, are proud of me, will be there for me.  But if I’m being honest, I haven’t had an incredible or meaningful conversation about matters of faith in weeks with any of them.  Jesus comes up.  But He’s not the topic or the endeavor.  I haven’t prayed with another person in as long or longer.  With church attendance all but non-existent, the meeting together of believers to encourage and propel one another in the faith and to press on toward the goal of Christ Jesus seems to also leave a gaping hole. 

If I’m honest, I know that at the root, I’m too busy.  I work long days with long hours and struggle to make time for other things that should probably matter... like sleep and laundry.  Let alone things that are really important.  I work hard to go out of my way to love and to serve and to be invested and intentional in the lives of others.  And I wake up realizing that if I were doing it for anyone but Jesus, it would be worthless – and far too exhausting – to continue.  And yet I’m reminded of a quote that states “It is possible to be so busy in service to Christ as to forget to love Him”...

If I’m honest, I’d have to admit that I’m not really trying. Quality time is my highest love language.  If I feel loved, someone has given me quality time.  If I give love – it is either a direct act or an exact outsourcing of my time.  I miss Jesus but none of my time goes to the actual pursuit of spending time together.  Of growing our relationship.

If I’m honest...I have no idea why I am being so honest or why I am about to post it.  If I’m honest, I hate the fact that this honest post will give a chance for my interested or curious world to know that not only am I not perfect (big shocker there) but that somehow I’m even less perfect than what I would hope them to think and know.  If I’m honest I would have rather have thought of something meaningful to say that might have alluded to the fact that Jesus and I are just fine.  Blossoming even.  Than have you know that I feel...stuck.

If I’m honest, I desperately don’t want to be reminded of cliché and rote answers about God’s presence and His faithfulness.  Not about things I already know.  Because I do know them – beyond a shadow of a doubt.  Jesus and I aren’t fighting.  We’re just not close.  I hate it but it is what it is as I sit and I type.  If I’m honest, I don’t desire to feel this far away from Christ but I also want it to be okay to admit that I am...without feeling like the only solution is for the distance to be immediately fixed with another easy answer. 

If I’m honest, I don’t have anything else to say but this seems like a useless way to end a spiel of so many words...

If I’m honest, really honest, I miss Jesus.  I simply miss Him.  And if I’m honest, I don’t know where to start doing anything about it...

Counter-Cultural?

The other day I made a quick run to the store after work.  Having the night off, I wanted to endeavor a quick baking project and decided to pick up my items at the local Save-A-Lot. 

I was rounding aisle seven with my cart full of four items, (My mom always taught me to start with a cart as you just never knew. Thanks Mom!), when I encountered an Amish couple...in very traditional Amish garb and with distinctive haircuts, caps, features, etc.  I’ll admit I was a little surprised but smiled kindly and politely before embarking onto aisle eight. 

I thought little of my encounter in front of the cheese and breakfast sausage section until I went to check out (now with seven items total...just enough to make the cart worth it.  See! Mom, IS always right!).  Just in front of me at checkout was the Amish couple. I fear my face registered immediately perplexed and befuddled.  I don’t suppose I stopped to consider what you might purchase if you were Amish and shopping at a Save-A-Lot in downtown Hillsdale.  But I know I wasn’t expecting to see the cashier scanning through (easily) a dozen or more bags of potato chips, four cases of soda, and a few packages of Mrs. Freshley’s brand (like Little Debbie’s) packaged baked goods. 

I am not anywhere near kidding.

As I checked out and went to my car I found myself puzzled in a strange amusement.  In my mind the equivalent and sum total of a counter-cultural people is the Amish.  In a world of technology and fashion, sex, drugs, and rock and roll – the Amish have stayed amazingly close to what they believe to be truth.  And yet, getting in my car, all I could think was “well, you don’t get much more submersed in current culture than ho-hos, ding-dongs, potato chips, cheese puffs, and off brand Mt. Dew!”

And the whole scenario has had me thinking. 

Thinking about what it really means to be counter cultural. 

If you really want to look and be different than the world...what does it look like?  Sound like? Act like?  How will the world know?  Is it really so important at all?

Romans 12:2 has the oft quoted but, I feel, poorly executed (by myself most certainly included) instructions “Do not conform any longer to the pattern of the world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind...”  To be in the world, but not of it.  Paul is pretty obvious about the fact your mind will need to be renewed.  To be counter-cultural is, after all, a whole new way of thinking. 

And Paul never implies being different from the world is going to be easy.  A verse before he “urges” his readers to offer themselves as living sacrifices, offerings of worship before God (Romans 12:1).  It will take the whole of who you are, yourself set completely aside, no longer shaped by the world around you – if ever the world is to be shaped.

Can I be counter-cultural?  Am I physically capable and spiritually willing to continually lay myself down...not so that I don’t look like the cultural around me, but so that I look more and more like the God I love?  Not just in word and claim (of course it is my desire!  But anyone can say that!), but honestly ready to live a life that is a whole new way of thinking...  Later in Philippians 4, Paul admonishes to think about whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, and praiseworthy.  It’s a start... Or the start.  Where the things I choose to think about become my way of doing life...  

My mom used to have a small plaque on the wall that read: "Watch your thoughts, for they become words.  Watch your words, for they become actions. Watch your actions, for they become habits.  Watch your habits, for they become character.  Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny." 

I would dare to take the word “destiny” at the end and change it to “legacy”.  It will become the legacy.  The legacy you leave, the mark you place...when you leave the world, leave that job, leave a class, leave a party, leave a room.  What will the world you worked and lived among remember about you when for one reason or another, you are no longer there?

Can I live a life where I become known for my peace?  My joy?  My forgiveness? My truth?  My kindness?  My purity? My reality? My love?  Will it look anything different from the world’s claims on each?

If I really want to look and be different than the world...what does it look like?  Sound like? Act like?  How will the world know?  Is it really so important at all?

“Live in such a way that the world will be glad you did.”  -- Max Lucado


"So here's what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life - your sleeping, eating going-to-work, and walking-around life - and place it before God as an offering.  Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don't become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking.  Instead, fix your attention on God. You'll be changed from the inside out..." 

Romans 12:1-2a The Message

The Epicenter

I love the word “epicenter”.  I think it is fantastic.  The word epicenter just sounds like it has power, has energy, has intensity.  It should.

Today, I went looking for the word “epicenter”.  I realized for as many times as we talk about a certain office being the “epicenter” of a company or how a store is the “epicenter” of the mall, no one really defines it.  It is a word everyone knows – and no one can really harness.  I liked its inability to be harnessed. Because, in looking for a definition, I had a goal: I wanted to know if I could, if it was possible, to put parameters on what it might mean to be in the epicenter of where God is...

My dictionary results made my blood flow with anticipation.  Casually, any focal point of activity can be an epicenter.  The office in the company, the store in the mall...if that is where the activity is focused, it can be called the epicenter.  What would it look like to ensure I lived in such a way as to always be where God was the busiest?

However, I was soon to learn something different, something more.  The word “epicenter” is a geology term.  It refers most appropriately to the point on the earth’s surface directly above the focus of an earthquake.  Woah...How can I be connected to where the power of God is shaking the whole world?  I wanted to be where God was propelling the biggest activity – where the whole world was quaking because of the way He was hitting the surface of the earth.  I wanted to be in the middle.  I had come to a point where I found myself writing constantly, uncontrollably.  I decided it wasn’t anywhere near my answer but instead was my means to get to my Answer.  Anything to get me closer to where God was, is....  

My online dictionary research concluded with a “usage note”.  It said the geological usage was the most correct and the “figurative extensions” of the word should always be used in dangerous, destructive, or negative contexts.  Oh...

I did not want to find myself in the middle of something negative and destructive!  And yet, what I was really looking for, was the unmistakable and irreplaceable intensity of what it meant to truly follow Christ.  “He who wants to save his life will lose it...”  Sounds destructive.  “If any one would come after me, he must deny himself...”  Sounds negative.  “In this world, you will have trouble...”  Sounds dangerous.   Jesus promised things that were not all daisies and rainbows and said “this is what it means to be part of what I’m doing”?  Scary right?

I truly believe God is working inside the world I don’t understand.  Where my life is experiencing the earthquakes I cannot comprehend and leave me unable to get up off of the floor I am on, perhaps God is about to use me to be in the middle something so big, only God could have done it.  Perhaps the hurts and pains and uncertainties of this thing I think I’m living...are pieces and parts of what it means to be in the destructive and dangerous calling of what it means to be a Christ follower. 

I can be stuck on a word – legitimately or not – but in the end, it is the idea of following Christ with dangerous abandon that has my blood flowing with anticipation.  So I guess I am going to continue to be on a mission to discover.  Discover what it means to be me...to find me...to find that me caught in the epicenter...  

Forgiving Superman

When I was a young’n, watching “The Adventures of Lois and Clark” was a family affair.  Caleb loved the superhero interchange (it was about Superman...in case you are unfamiliar) and Faith and I (especially – although Amelia as the fourth was forced to join) would be swept into the continuous story and drama line.  Superhero or unfolding plot line as a secondary realization, however, years after my last episode and some clips still sit familiar as if the memory was fresh and new.

It seems curious...the clips a memory revives long after it first registers it.  The clips that would have made a strange impression as a child that now seem to be recalled with familiarity and truth.  There was one episode – late in the series – where Lois (now knowing Clark’s true identity) and Clark were married.  They were vacationing or something of the like when Clark heard something.  Off in a distance was a cry for help.  He was stuck.  Did he respond to the call because he knew, because he could, because he should?  Or did he stay back with his wife?  After all, he just wanted to be Clark Kent.  But he was also Superman...so was there any choice to be made at all?  Who would most need to forgive Superman?

It was this short clip from my memory and these and similar questions which plagued me this week.  Because, suddenly, the answers could be personal. 

You see, it all started when I was having an off Monday (which flowed into an especially busy week with days which were not 'off' just over-full). I don’t let myself have “off days” and I was increasingly grumpy not at the day but at my own bad attitude.  I was mad at the fact I couldn’t force myself into a better mood, that I was letting (and had let...) people down, that in my need to have someone come in allow me to have an off day...I couldn’t be the strong shoulders to lift up someone else. Two of my coworkers who know me best and whom I worked most closely with this last week challenged my inability to get a grip on my world.  Separately of each other both coworkers looked my directly in the eyes stating “No one expects you to be Superman, Anika...” 

Except, well, except I do... 

I have long since been accused of having a superman complex.  I have a desire to save the world.  Most specifically, yours.  If I know you...then I literally mean your world.  I’ll admit I’m a fixer but much more than a desire to come in and solve what is wrong, mostly I just want to answer your cry for help.  I care, I try, I invest, I want to be there for you – if at all I can be, no questions asked.  People need people in their lives who can be superman for them from time to time.  Argue as you well, but you know it is true.  I’ve wanted to be a superman for the proverbial or literal you. Regardless of the time of day or the time it would take.  Regardless of what I had to put aside or move out of the way...I’ve tried to prove to you that you are important, that you matter to me, that you are worth whatever I have to give...whenever you need it most.  Work, mentorees, a family wedding, friends, plans, dreams, investments, the human race...bring it on. 

All of this typically means I expect more out of myself on others’ accounts than anyone actually expects out of me.  But I’ve set myself up for the kill...because I like being Superman. I like rushing in to save the day.  I like to be the servant and the encourager – I think God wired me this way and so it’s okay to like to act out of that wiring.  And, furthermore, I don’t know how I can hear or see a cry for help and not do what I can if at all I’m able.  I can’t just “sit there” if there is an opportunity to stand. A piece of me, for better or worse, is Super[wo]man. 

But with such come the questions.  And the problems...

If you’re Superman, don’t you have to do whatever you can if at all you are able?  [What about when I want to save the day...and can’t?] Do the people who know you best as most human forgive your absence and unusually distant tendencies?  [Those who only know me only as Anika shake their head and chuckle at my need to take off at a moment’s notice, to sleep less to accomplish more, to be all – all of the time.  They don’t understand.] Do those who only see you as their superman...if you were missing when they needed you most, would they ever forgive you for needing to be human?  [There are some who only know me as the Anika who comes in to save the day, whatever that might mean.  Whether they intend to or not – they make me their superhero.  And they are the most let down when my inability to actually do all and be all leaves them wondering where I’ve been...] Do those who see and understand the pull between the two sides...are they the ones most lost and most hurt by the fact you feel unable to be their hero – but also unable to be their human, their you, their friend?  [And perhaps this question hurts the greatest.  The people I want to be there for the most I often feel are caught in the crossfire...left behind my by inability to be their hero or their friend...]

And what about when I just can’t be Superman any more?  When working 15-hour days followed by more work is too much?  When I’m weeks behind on the correspondence that used to be consistent and intentional? When I can’t send all of the emails or make all of the calls?  When I can’t run the errands, schedule the plans, devise another idea, make one more stop or drive one more hour?  When I can’t check in, when I can’t counsel, when I can’t advise, when I can’t be simply the listening ear?  When I can’t finish the project or a book or remember if I have hobbies? When I’m not sleeping and I’m not eating and I’m not releasing and I’m still leaving the world disappointed by my inability to be the conqueror?  What about then?  Will I be allowed to be Anika?  Will I be allowed to step out and to step back?  To hole away in hiding where I read and write and sleep and run but talk to no one until I can handle life again? 

Because regardless of what I want to be and what I am some times convinced others expect me to be...I’m not actually Superman. 

What if I just want to be Anika?  The human.  The normal.  The kind of kid that has bad days occasionally where she doesn’t want to be around people or at work.  The kind of kid who wants to be selfish and take time for herself.  The kind of kid who actually only knows how to and feels like she should say ‘yes’ but says ‘no’ when she wants to.  The kind of kid who wants to just step back and step out and not feel guilty about whether she’s had time to be intentional and the initiator. What if...?

And what then?

Would the world, my world, be able to forgive superman?  Should they have to?    

The Reporter

Here at work, during schedules where we have full week campers, there is almost always a skit night.  Accompanied by a drama class during their day, each cabin learns and is in charge of performing a skit for the night.  One of these skits is entitled “The Reporter”.  The premise is built upon individuals who encounter each other on a bridge – all incapable of doing the things it makes the most sense to be able to do – and so they are going to jump.  It starts with the reporter who can’t get a big story. Next comes a basketball player who can’t dribble.  And then someone who works in an M&M factory and gets fired for throwing out all of the W’s.  Followed by any number of similar situations (this week I was amused by “I’m a chef and all I know how to make are ice cubes!” and “I’m a chicken and I don’t even know how to lay an egg!”)  One after another they join each other until finally; at last, they all jump.  Except for the reporter who declares “I’ve got it! This is my big story! Nine people jump off a bridge!”

“That’s nice, Anika...but so what?” you might be saying right now.  “Or...thanks a lot for ruining the punch line!  I was scheduled to watch that one next weekend!”  Sorry?

The thing is...it has been six weeks since I last blogged.  I have been back occasionally to stare at the screen and check the blogs I follow from my “So Noted” sidebar.  But I haven’t posted.  I haven’t really written much at all. 

I have a dozen excuses.  No consistent internet source for several weeks seems legitimate enough.  A crazy busy August could be added to the list...including being back to work.  The fact that my computer cable died leaving my computer unable to be turned on trumps them all.  Time, energy, and passion – or the lack there of – has been the underskirt to my many excuses. 

But in the end, I feel like part of the Reporter Skit (“oh! So here is the ‘so what?’!”  yep. Hold on a second...).  “I am a writer – and I never write!” I could add to the list before mock jumping off the carpet. In the reporter skit we encounter character after character because somehow they see themselves failing at a huge piece of their identity.  The irony of course being the discrepancy between what they claim and what they do.  Can you really be a chef if all you can make are ice cubes?  Can you really be a basketball player if you can’t even dribble?  Can you claim to be a writer...if you never write?

Part of me gets defensive at my own accusation.  “But I want to!  I want to write! It’s just that...” I look at the hours in my day...or the lack of them when everything comes to a close. I come up with excuses.  I contend that my days have been so busy with work and people and one thing and the next that something has to give.  Except that for me, writing is a very real part of who I am.  It is my escape, my release, my “me time”, the time I connect to Jesus best. So I suppose my claim is legitimate enough...but in the end, a label isn't created on good intentions. 

I guess not writing doesn’t make me feel very much like a writer at all.  It doesn’t make me look very much like a writer.  Who you are may dictate what you do...but in many ways what you do cycles back to who you are.  

And who am I really? 

Sometimes I focus too much on the “be” verb.  I want to be known not for what I do but who I am.  Who doesn't, right? Except who I am is known by what I do.  It confirms it. Maybe writing seems petty.  It kind of is.  But what about the other labels I have been given...or simply those I wish to claim?  Daughter. Sister. Friend. Leader. Employee. Coworker. Example. Mentor. Servant. Encourager. Disciple.  I can be all of those things (and more besides) but does what I do, the way I act, prove or disprove the things I claim? 

Who am I?  Do I know?  Does the world know?  Or should the juxtaposition of identity crisis be shoving me off a bridge...because what I do doesn’t match who and what I say I am?  What will I do to live up to the calling I’ve received?  And if I do it on purpose? If I live and act and respond on purpose?  What are the chances, I could change the whole world?

Hey reporter, I’ve got a story for you...

Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does.
 -- William James

Becoming a Man 101: (As taught to and in honor of Gabe Kasper)

I spent my month of July at my grandparent’s house. It was a solid and central home base for a change of scenery. Plus, grandpa needed help and was willing to pay me for the hours I put in... in the midst of a summer where my budget would have otherwise been exceedingly tight. It was a good set up. The last week, my youngest brother, Gabe, came to join me. Realizing he had never spent any significant time with them and he was only getting older and they weren’t getting any younger and I could drive him home at the end made it seem like a pretty good plan.


Now, if you know me AT ALL, you know I love my siblings. And I brag about them and talk them up. I feel as if my two sisters and two brothers make up some of the world’s most quality citizens. Of the truth. Even Gabe, who at 14 is still growing up into the person he will someday become. He’s doing a decent job at it. He is a solid kid who works hard when he wants to and loves Jesus and is strong in character and rich in compassion. But 14 he is still is and so he is wavering between that line of boyhood and dare I say, manhood. *Gasp* I may or may not have decided that it was high time, with ample opportunity...being it was just he and I at the g’rents...to teach him some lessons that would help him grow up well. I decided that all of these lessons translated into something greater and more. Some things that older sisters hope younger brothers will learn and know and take hold of as they go...

So, without further ado, some lessons Gabe and I worked on, as taught by his older sister (as opposed to my brother or father who are leading and directing well) in the best way she knew how. Becoming A Man 101: Small things every older sister hopes her little brother will gain as he grows...


Common Courtesy. Looking out for the general interest and common good of others. Just because it is the right thing to do. Manners. Politeness. The lesson to teach it...Putting the toilet seat down! We’re still working on it...
Common Sense. Evaluating a situation and making logical, thought through, and meaningful decisions. Doing things that might not always be the quickest or the most fun – but the best. Acting both on instinct and some for-thought. The lesson to teach it...chopping and moving wood (don’t stand there to get hit when I’m rolling logs down the hill!)
Tenderness. Good guys are tender guys. They can be sensitive and understanding. Physically, they know the difference between good touch and bad touch. Harsh touch and healing touch. The lesson to teach it...I taught him how to how to massage my shoulders (I needed it!). :0)
Work Ethic – Doing what’s got to be done because it’s got to be done. Without complaining. Just doing it. Seeing it to finish. And feeling good about a job well done. (Connected: Responsibility and Hutzpah – I don’t know if that is a real word and if it is, how you spell it, but I’ve always known it to mean gumption, drive, and an internal firmness) The lesson to teach it...Hauling bird manure. 100’s of gallons. Awesome.
Self Control. Holding yourself together when you’d rather be and do otherwise. Whether it is choosing not to say something or making the decision not to act. Controlling the impulse for the good of the cause. The lesson to learn it...simply dealing with grandpa’s quick criticism

Others with nonspecific lesson but part of life in general...
Leadership. Stepping into a situation and stepping up. Making decisions worth following – whether working alone or in a group. Being accountable and keeping accountable any around. Character. Trustworthiness.
Foresightedness. Connected to common sense. The ability to think ahead of a situation and prepare accordingly. In Dutch there is a word for it – voorzighteg – and I get the impression it is more than just that, however. It has to do with being intentional as well as prepared. To be a visionary but then to act on that vision. Not just something you have the ability to do, but something that comes out of the character of who you are.


The week ended and he didn’t kill me. Despite my continual joking about all of my “becoming a man” lessons. He didn’t totally master everything on my learning curve (especially when it came to putting the seat down!) but the fact he dealt so gracefully and patiently with me gives me hope that he’ll grow into a quality guy yet. :O) 

Love ya, Gabe.

80 Years in the Desert

My summer has been an adventure of epic proportions. When I decided not to have a “formal” job with my chosen time away from Michindoh, I decided to say ‘yes’ – to everything - if I wasn’t already committed to something else. My summer has been busy, but also full. Full in a “live life richly” sort of way. Though the down time has allowed me extended visits in my head and some wrestling with God that might make it to another blog sometime with the rest of my summer’s ends, it has been healthy and restorative for me thus far. Especially as I go into the next 10 months with a defined sense of purpose about what I’ll be doing and where and why and how. Not having to still and forever be creating a plan and worrying about where to “go next” for a couple months and to just live in moments? Good. Just good. And as I look to the fall and another season at Michindoh? I feel...good. There’s peace. And I feel like God’s blessing my decision to remain faithful where I was first hesitant to be. Good.

But it’s not it. And it’s not forever. I continue to maintain this stance – having spoken of it a few times in catching up with friends this weekend – but I was reminded of it today. You see, I have grown to allow Michindoh into the place of my heart reserved for “camp” and I’ve found my niche inside of the Outdoor Education program, and I have developed meaningful relationships with the people I work with...but it’s not “it”. I went into the job initially knowing it would be temporary, with God telling me I was allowed to move forward but not to get too comfortable because He still had other plans. This I know. But it’s been easy to just live in “I’ll be at the ‘Doh’ in the fall” and stop there. Today I was asked to think forward...

I stopped to visit my new familiarity this weekend on my way back from my latest summer gallivanting in Ohio. It was, again, good. People made me smile a great deal. The comfortable familiarity made me feel ready to embrace camp again in a few weeks. And I was explaining this meaningful stop to my grandparents upon my return today. They have a hard time wrapping their minds around my job and my chosen degree and sometimes it feels as if most things in my life. I am constantly trying to find a better way to describe what I am doing and I am endlessly hoping it is meeting their approval.

So today as I was talking about visiting and then going back in the fall (we’d been over the latter) my grandmother looked surprised. “Oh! So you ARE going back in the fall?”

“Yes. I am giving them another year. I anticipate being there until June before knowing that regardless, it will be time for me to move on...”

“So are you looking for where to be next? Do you have that figured out?”

“Well, no. Not formally. I mean, I am committed to working with Outdoor Education. I will begin the job search again in the spring when I am actually going to be back on the job market...”

“Oh, well, what are you going to do?”

“I. Don’t. Know.” The conversation was getting confusing and my grandmother wanted answers I didn’t have. I wanted her approval but I am just me, for better or worse. “I love Jesus. And I love teenagers. And I want to see those worlds collide. I want to be part of the collision. But God is continually pulling me away from church settings to do that...and I just don’t know yet where He’s pulling me to...”

“Well what are your options? Do you know where you want to get involved and you can start making connections now so you’ll have an in later?” I love Grandma dearly but she’s was missing the point...

“No... I know they are out there but I haven’t found one yet that fits. I don’t know what I’m looking for. That’s part of the problem...”

Grandma continued to ask very specific questions about what I intended to do with my life and my grandfather sat quietly. I didn’t know if he cared one way or the other about our conversation. Until finally he spoke with words I couldn’t have begun to anticipate...

“You know Anika, the Lord must have something incredible for you if you’ve had to wait so long to figure out just what it is. Moses, Moses spent 80 years in the desert so God could work him into the man he had to be to lead the people God wanted him to lead, to do the work he had. Moses probably thought he was going to heard sheep forever. Moses had to be patient. You just need to be patient.”

“80 years in the desert...” The words have been going through my head all day. Moses spent 40 years in Egypt and 40 years in Midian before he ever began to lead the Israelites to the Promised Land. The account in account in Exodus 2 doesn’t have Moses complaining. He just works in Midian. Taking care of the flocks.

Amidst many a conversation with God this summer has been the idea of how each experience is shaping me for what is next. “Father, would you like to explain to me why I hated and loved that experience at the same time? Would you like to clarify why if I’m constantly being affirmed in my call to ministry I can’t figure out where to head? Would you be willing to give me a hint to why [fill in the blank]?? How long will I be tending sheep...”

Some times my deserts are indeed as dry as Egypt and God and His purposes feel distant. Other times I feel as if I’m content (like this summer) tending the flocks. And yet, in the midst of long days with busy heads and heavy hearts; in the midst of hard work and great convos with good friends and endless drives; in the midst of the summer of the fall or the spring; in the midst of all of this life I live but don’t quite understand...what is God asking me to be patient for?

In one particular honest rambling with God a month ago I hand journalled the phrase “So this fits because it is what I am called to....But how do I live out of my calling?” But when I wrote live, I wrote with an “o” instead of an “i” and I considered next in my journal that maybe that was the only question I could answer. “How do I love out of my calling?”

How am I loving out of my calling? What is God getting me ready for? And am I being patiently faithful during my own “80 years in the desert”?

The Questions of Enough

The Questions of Enough
AK July 2011

Why can’t I hold the world together?
Why can’t I fix all of the things that hurt?
I embrace and I cry,
I give and I try,
But will that be enough?

My feeble attempts to make a difference...
To somehow stand in the gap.
To rescue the lost.
To forget the cost.
To leave a legacy and
To be used in spite of “me”...
But will that legacy be enough?

A week,
A day,
An hour...
Whether the time be for good or for bad...
The questions remain
Lest the time be in vain
Was that time I spent enough?

Did I leave a mark on their world?
Did it touch the brokenness they hold?
Was it more than just surface deep?
The love I show...
Was it real?
Was it bold?
Was it deeper than the wounds they keep?
And was that love enough?

Could I have done more?
Should I have done less?
Could I have said more?
Should I have said less?
Was I faithful?
Was I true?
Did my life point to You?
And will that life I give be enough?

Valentine Cards

I have never thrown away a Valentine Card.

Ever.

Every heart day card I have received since Kindergarten is in a shiny, silver, cardboard gift box on the shelf of my closet.

[Alright, that is a little bit of an exaggeration...The ones I received in college are in my scrapbooks. But yes, still kept.]

But there they are. Literally there are 13+ years of Valentine Cards sitting in a remarkably small box considering the years which it represents.

I was moving back into my parents’ house, back into my old basement bedroom, moving my clothes back into my closet when I noticed the silver cardboard glistening from the shelf. This whole box struck me as hilarious and odd.

Why in the world would one save 13 years of Valentine Cards? And furthermore, why didn’t this strike me as strange sooner?

“You fly high, Valentine!” ... to: Anika / from: Aaron. I no longer know who Aaron is or what he is doing with his life but I’m assuming from his inclination to write letters backwards, plenty of life has happened since the first grade.

“Valentine, you make the world sparkle!” complete with a fairy. Thank you Vanessa for those gripping sentiments. Did you choose them just for me...or did you arbitrarily rip and sign your V-Day cards? (Not me... I had to sort through the box for just the right message to give to every classmate.)

A CareBear folded card: “A secret message for: Anika from: [blank]” Inside: “You make me smile! (Ssshh! Don’t tell! It’s a secret!)” Who am I going to tell? And even then...some secret! “Hey world I make an anonymous person smile! Broke their trust by telling you that, whoever they are!” You didn’t even sign the card!!

Oh, here is one worth noting. A teddy bear holding a heart that says “love”. On the back? “To Anika, From: Your Secret Admirer”. His name was Billy and he apparently forgot to tell the rest of our class that he was keeping it a secret. I showed up to school late after a doctor’s appointment and my decorated Valentine’s Day bag was tipping over due to the weight of a red carnation with the before stated card attached. “It’s Billy! Billy!” the class proclaimed under their breath during math as Billy sunk further into his chair and my face turned as red as the carnation. Poor kid was informed by his wise older brother who was trying to raise money for his band booster that you HAD to pick a girl to give a flower to on Valentine’s Day. Granted, scammed into it or not, of all the girls in our class, he still picked me. You always remember the first, last, and only time a boy shows interest in you. Gotta love the third grade...

But still...
So what?

Why exactly have I felt it necessary to keep a box of mostly punny and extremely cheesy cards... with ‘nice’ words of endearment, signed haphazardly by some kid and addressed to me because my name was on the list that was sent home by the teacher in my Friday folder?

Sentiments that are hardly true and hardly worthwhile sent by kids who no longer mean anything to me. And I’ve kept them all. And even as I sit laughing about it, I’ve made no effort to throw the box away. Why would I do THAT?

But why do I keep them?

Why have I stored up treasures found in meaningless words cliché-ly placed on a card on the day where that is what you’re supposed to say and do? That day of “love” where mostly we just worship the gods of consumerism, lust, and self-pity. In all actuality, these cards mean nothing to me. They don’t represent friendship or memories. They don’t represent care or meaning. They don’t consist of the real or the true. It’s a box full of hundreds of nothing words. If I were to “count” on those cards it would be like feasting on donuts...trying to make a meal out of empty calories, a quick buzz, and a crash that will make me sick.

And yet, is that not what I do? Maybe not with this box of Valentine Cards...but in general. I feast on kind words, quick fixes, easy doses of affirmation. We store up meaningless praise and invest in worthless activities and get to the end of the day, lying in bed, staring into the dark wondering why our “love tank” is running so close to the red line.

The worst part of all? Too often, that’s not only what we realize is true for us...but it is also what we give each other. I claim to strive to love the world and the people in it. (Least of all MY world and the people in it.) Yet how often is my love consistent of mostly some cheap rip-off-a-square Valentine Cards? I say something rote and hope they know I thought enough to care as I cross a name off my list. Do I even stop to think about who I am giving which line to or do I know that everything in the box said something ‘nice’ and just go with it? Perhaps, at my very best, I’ve been half scammed into showing a little extra affection to someone I think is extra special...they should feel honored, I chose them above all of the rest for something almost real(but I wouldn’t have chosen anyone if my brother didn’t want my dollar...) Do I give REAL love...or do I love like it is Valentine’s Day? With enough little cards to add up to, well, not much of anything even after many years...

When Paul wrote the infamous love chapter...1 Corinthians 13...he was trying to give the people of Corinth a stern talking-to. He wasn’t writing flowery words for an upcoming wedding, he was slapping them over the head saying “You fight, you quarrel, you’re not even trying! At the best you’re passing out some cheap and cheesy Valentine’s Cards and you tell them to store up those nuggets for a rainy day! NO! Now I will show you the most excellent way (1 Cor. 12:31b)... This is how you love; this is what it looks like...”

The Valentine Cards will be sorted for any nuggets of laughter worth preserving and then tossed. And the Valentine Card way of loving? Gonna work to toss that too. Life is too short to feed people on anything less than the love that sustains.

Father God, teach me to love like you do...

A Final Fairwell to the Jeans...

These were my “adventure” jeans.

My last remaining pair of oversized man jeans. (All during high school and into my first year and a half of college, I only bought pants from the men’s department)

I had my senior pictures taken in them. I moved into college in them. In them I’ve painted Arbor Games flags and stained decks. I’ve primed house trim and planted flowers and raked leaves. I’ve shoveled everything from dirt to manure to cement. They have been ripped and patched and, on more than one occasion, fallen directly to the ground while I was still in them. They’ve been costume pants and work pants and lounge pants. And most of all, they have been faithful.

To answer the question of “you wore those???” Yes. Yes I did. I somewhat embarrassedly admit that they were a bit snug when I bought them and four sizes to big on this the night that I burned them. And yes, I did wear them four sizes too big in much of their pictured condition. For as ridiculous as they now appear, please take heart in knowing they haven’t made a public appearance since spring of 2010 (and I think I was trying to be rebellious)...and it was in fact before the awkwardly placed new and un-patched hole.

However, after two years of people trying to convince me to ditch them, I finally bid them a sad farewell. I can’t say what took me so long – except that they were still wearable (in the loosest...and I do mean ‘loosest’...of terms). And, emotionally I was connected...they pointed to who I once was. In many ways the one whom I still believed myself to be. For better or worse (and yes, I do rotate between the two), it’s not who I am. On any account, they are no longer needed. It was time to say goodbye.

So dearest jeans – we’ve been through a lot together. It’s been a great 6 years. Thank you for your service...

So...

I decided such jeans needed to be ceremonially burned. Like a flag. On Memorial Day. It seemed appropriate enough. So I looked up flag burning guidelines and followed suit.

1. One flag should be selected as a representation of all flags (These pants as a representation of many things in my life? Perfect!)

2. Ceremony should be conducted out of doors (Check!)

3. Just before sunset, the flag flying all day is retired (at dusk, I brought my pants down to the fire circle)

4. Leader presents flag for destruction (you are supposed to have color guards, I skipped this part)

5. Leader comments about loyalty of flag (my words “these [flag] pants have served me well and long. They have worn to a condition in which they should no longer be used to represent...)


For the burning:

1. Assemble by fire (check)

2. Salute (check)

3. [Enter Amanda who is present as I light the hem of my pants, lying on the fire]

4. Sing National Anthem/God Bless America (Amanda, without prior knowledge, appropriately leads a rendition of “As we go on, we remember, all those times we, had together...)

5. [More words – just for affect and final goodbyes]

6. When flag is basically consumed, depart in silence one at a time (Amanda left)

7. Leader remains till the end (I stayed until I was bit 57 times and the jeans were no longer in flames)

8. Fire safely extinguished and ashes buried. (Bucket of water – check. I’ll bury ashes tomorrow!)

Come and Dance

He stood there.

Waiting.

Would she come? Would tonight be the night?

The music played and played. Ever so gently in the background the melody continued. And he merely stood. Part of him wanted to sway slowly to rhythm. But he resisted. Not without her. He would wait. With his hands rested in front of him, one on top of the other, he stood straight with his eyes glued on the door.

The music came to an end and the lights dimmed. She hadn’t come.

* * *

She peered through the window. He was there. Waiting. Waiting for her.

She was invited, of course. She was invited every night.

Every night was the invitation to come and dance. And every night she declined. Some nights she found herself busy or distracted. Other nights, most nights, she found herself coming as far as the window, peering in, watching...too afraid to dance.

~*~*~*~

And this persisted on. Night after night.

He waited. She feared.

But the more he waited, the more drawn she was to find her way to the window, to peer in and watch. Watch the one who patiently waited every night for her to accept an invitation to dance.

She crept nearer to the windowsill. She wanted a closer look of the face of the one who every night stood in the hopes she would come. In doing so, her face came out of the shadows and into the light casting its rays through the glassy pane.

He saw her. She knew he did. She turned to run away but he was quicker than she.

“Come back!” he called. “Please come back! Won’t you come and dance?” The desperation in his voice stated that he would wait a thousand more nights but he couldn’t risk the agony of knowing he missed out on this one moment.

She stared with wonder and fear. She was shocked by the compassion and patience on his face and for an instant she felt compelled to stay. But as she looked into his eyes, he peered into her own and it was as if he were staring into her very soul. Her jeans and t-shirt were suddenly insufficient. In an instant she felt naked and exposed. She cast her eyes down in shame, turned, and ran away.

And he stood there, watching after her. And he stood until the black cloak of night covered both earth and sky. And he waited; waited and hoped she would return.

~*~*~*~

He met the next night with an increased anticipation. She had turn and ran the night before but first she had been caught in and by his eyes. He hoped she would return having seen the love and the desire radiating from his core.

And he stood at the door waiting, hoping. He gazed out into the dusk and watched as a figure moved forward out of the trees. Could it be? Was it her? Would she stay?

* * *

She approached slowly and cautiously. Wishing to turn back with every step which brought her closer. Closer to the eyes which spoke of such honesty, such longing. The eyes which had peered into her dirty, broken soul...and begged her not to leave.

She had fixed the dirt tonight. Her face was painted to cover her blemishes. Her hair done up tight and high on her head, pulling at the muscles in her neck. Her dress was ornate; flowing to the floor and lacing in the back in such a way as to draw in her breath and hide the extra roll around her middle. Her shoes held a tall heel and she walked carefully to avoid stumbling. If he wanted to dance, he would need a suitable partner. One more of his kind. His liking. Perhaps she could find the courage to stay if she was made to be good enough for the likes of him.

* * *

His face fell as she approached. It was her – but it wasn’t. It was not the reality of the girl for whom he so longed. How would he prove to her that she was the one he desired?

She approached and her head cast down. Even with her replaced attire, she was afraid of the eyes which had peered through her the night before. She glanced up quickly. His eyes looked both sad and expectant. Disappointed but not thwarted. Still he waited in the place he stood. And his cool, crisp voice melted with emotion as he gently and softly greeted her presence.

“You came...”

She blushed knowing his eyes had not left her though she struggled to meet his gaze. “I, I...” She stuttered looking for the right word, the word to impress and to charm and as she looked up she lost her balance and came crashing to the ground.

“It’s my heels!” She tried to explain while fumbling to find her way up. “It’s just, I thought...”

“What were you thinking, my love? So long I have waited for you. So many nights I stood here hoping you would meet me. And here you stand and who is this before me? Where is the girl I love?”

“That girl is not here! And you could not love her. She is not good enough for you. If I am to come and dance, I shall come as the one you deserve...”

“But is she I invited to dance. Not the imposter before me. You forget that I have already seen into your soul. I know who you are. Why do you hide from me the pieces of you I most wish to hold, to love?”

She shuddered to hear him state the same truth which drove her to her disguise. She tried to hide behind perfection – for the same one who had left her feeling exposed and revealed just a night before. The intentionality in his eyes, the desire which had not left...who could love like that? The fear returned and she scrambled to her feet before turning and running away.

And still he remained. As she fled a single tear made its way down his cheek...

~*~*~*~

Each night was much the same.

Each night he waited. And each night she came despite the fear which wished her away. And each night she left in that fear...which gripped her before the music finished its sweet melody.

But each night he spoke to her as if she were the only one in the world. Each night she shed layers of her imposter’s garb. Each time he assured her she didn’t need it. Each night she told him more and more of the same grime he already knew and had already seen. Each night, with her past came her hopes and dreams. And each night he listened, holding her secrets as close he wished to hold her. And each night, with the music softly playing, he beckoned her to join him.

And each night before she left, she came closer. Just a little bit closer. Close enough to see but never close enough to dance. Close enough to touch, but never to be held.

He looked at her with the same compassionate longing and desire which had yet to change since the first night he waited, and he smiled... His invitation stayed the same: “My love, won’t you dance?”

She looked at him with wonder. After all he knew? After all these nights? How is it he still wished to dance? “I, I, I can’t...”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you...” She was surprised by her own admittance. Relieved by the trust she recognized, terrified by the intimacy it created. She resisted the urge to turn and run...

“Then why won’t you dance?”

“I, I, I can’t...” she repeated, stumbling. “I don’t know how...”

There was an intensity, a desperation in his voice. “Please. I long for you to join me. I will teach you. I will lead. Just follow. Take my hand. Join me in this dance.”

He reached for her but she pulled away.

“No!” She cried out in a sob as a tear made its way down her face. Followed by another and another. “No! Look at me. You see who I am. You know who I’ve become. No. I am uncoordinated and clumsy. I am not thin or pretty. I am covered in life’s bruises and tattered in its scars. You cannot love me. You can’t. I am not good enough. I’m not enough...” She stood and began to leave as hot tears stained her face.

He stepped towards her and his voice rattled with passion as it quieted and slowed. He could not, would not let her go. He wanted only for her to join him in the dance. “Stop. Please...”

She turned to see his arm outstretched. She could neither run away nor move forward. She was trapped by her inability to dance...

Still he waited. “Please... Come closer.”

Why wouldn’t he let her go? Her mind was in upheaval over his relentless pursuit.

“Come closer. So you are imperfect. I know. That’s why I’m here.”

He wouldn’t stop.

“Come closer. I love you. I want to take you to places you’ve never been or dreamed of...”

She took a step in, though she couldn’t understand why...

“Come closer. Draw near to me and I’ll draw near to you. I love you like you can’t even imagine.”

“Come closer. Following me isn’t easy but the closer you come the easier it is to see where I lead.”

His voice deepened and his words became frantic.

“Come closer. I have mercy and forgiveness, hope and grace like you wouldn’t believe. And it’s for you.”

“Come closer. Life is going to be scary. It’s going to be tough. I’m going to challenge you – but I’m not going to leave. I promise not to go anywhere. I will be with you always. Always.”
A tear began to make its way down his cheek... Her body convulsed as tears continued to stream down her face; as she listened, unable to run. Unable to move.

“Come closer. You’re right, you’re not enough. I came to earth because you could never be enough. I died because you were never going to make it to me on your own. I spent time in Hell because I never wanted you to have to experience it. I live because I want you to know me. I am here so there will never be a day without my presence. I pursue you because you’re still too far away...”

His tear had turned into a quiet weep...

“Come closer, beloved. Come closer...”

With an abandon she could not know nor understand; she began to run. Towards him she ran until she found herself falling onto his chest, into his arms.

He pulled her in and slowly took her face into his hands. He leaned down and kissed her forehead tenderly before pulling her into a dancer’s embrace. “Beloved,” he said softly, his eyes locked into hers “I have loved you with an everlasting love...” Clasping her hand into his, they began to dance...


Zephaniah 3:[14-]17
Song of Solomon 6:3(a)



At each notable mark in my life, God reveals an additional piece of his identity, his character. Each making Him more real than before. In high school, I began to see Him as a friend. Someone who stood by my side; someone worth spending time with, who wanted to be with me; someone to whom I could talk – who was going to listen, to understand. Towards the end of cancer (take one), this was expanded to include “protector” and “fighter”. Almost like a big brother, I fought Him at times but He continuously stepped up to the plate to take on my life’s bad guys, to wipe my tears, to put me on His shoulder and carry me the rest of the way when I was too tired. By cancer take two (the ongoing story), God became a Father figure. Gentle, compassionate. Instructive and disciplinary, but loving. My sustenance, my provider. The one I knew I could always go to; the one I knew would hold me.

And yet...something has been missing. An identity flitting in the background I knew...but could not grasp. The idea of Jesus as a Lover. This I’ve struggled with the most. I could see God as love in all of His other roles in my life, but somehow I attached to each an obligation. Friends, Fathers, Brothers...they are supposed to love. Of course it is still a choice: our world is full of examples of dads (for example) who choose not to... But good fathers love their children. They’re supposed to... Jesus as a Lover...a love free from obligation. A love that can only be chosen. A love that comes from desire. I think I had to be willing to admit that if Jesus was a Lover and He was passionately pursuing me... I was worth pursuing.

Some days it is easier than others to hear the beckoning of the One who calls me His beloved. Noise drowns out the call to be held in His intimate embrace. And yet, some days, I merely wait. Wait to hear the invitation to come and dance...