“It’s just like, it’s just like you’re Jesus and we are the twelve disciples!”
I had just gotten done counting out my young charges and was getting ready to go on a rainy nature hike...
“...nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Plus me. Alright, let’s go! Everyone follow me!”
“Twelve of us and one of you! It’s just like, it’s just like you’re Jesus and we are the twelve disciples!”
I cocked my head to look at my excited 6th grade girl with her incredible revelation. My tired head. The sprinkling rain. The cold air. The long day. I was amused but not really following her. I shook my head with a wiry grin. “Umm...not so much. Only the numbers, actually...”
My faithful dozen and I hiked around camp, sang in the TP’s, jumped in some puddles, and ran back in the rain. I shared my newest camper quote with a couple appreciative staff members who joined me in a good chuckle and I intended to add it to my growing list of silly things my campers say.
That was Tuesday. The day came and the day went and Wednesday followed in a manner much the same. But something about that quote “It’s just like you’re Jesus and we’re the 12 disciples!” continued to circle through my head.
Thursday it struck me that perhaps I was the one mistaken.
At least on principle.
I was eager to write off the whimsical musings of a 12-year-old. I sat there thinking “actually, no. I am not Jesus and you are not disciples and I have no idea where that came from...”
But maybe I was the one needing a perspective change.
The fact of the matter remains...
She didn’t actually think I was Jesus. Nor did she actually think that she and her 11 brave friends willing to choose the only activity not indoors were truly disciples.
But what if she did?
Am I not called to imitate Christ? Ephesians 5:1 tells me, as one dearly loved, to be an imitator of Christ and to walk in the way of love. To boldly follow and to also boldly lead. Part of me wants brave followers. A group of excited individuals eager to learn and ready to go where no one else wants to be in order to be where I might be because where I am headed is where Jesus is already directing...
Paul was bold enough to tell the Corinthians to follow his example as he followed the example of Christ (1 Cor 11:1). [And the fact remains that people did. To the confusion of the early church, Paul starts his first letter to the Corinthians by breaking up the dispute of who follows who – instead reinforcing that all are on a journey to Christ, there was no division (1 Cor 12-13)].
But Paul also knew exactly what John the Baptist eagerly stated. It wasn’t about him. For John, the One who came after (Mark 1:7). For Paul it was about the One who came before and stayed. They were pointing to the One who was and is and is to come. But in the mean time people had to look twice. To second guess who they were talking to. At which point John and Paul and each like them were able to state “Not I but...” and finish their story with the Word that became Flesh...
I want my actions, my attitude, my love, my joy, my service, my story to send people into a tizzy. “I know you said your name is Anika but you remind me an awful lot of Jesus...” At one point, I think during my sophomore year of college, my “about me” section on my facebook profile simply read: “Someday I want to be confused with Jesus”. And I still do...
So on second thought, I hope a slew of people need to look at me with the same excited eyes, ready to follow me on a journey quite unknown and an adventure untold with the words “It is just like, it is just like you are Jesus!...” on their lips. But I hope it is because they are standing there confused at the life I live and the way I live it, stating simply but eagerly “I know you said your name is Anika, but you remind me an awful lot of Jesus...”
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Holding What Hurts...
The other day I watched as a two year old ran to her mom with the palms of her hands pressed to her head. “Mommy...I have a heady-ache!” she declared. Her mom moved her hands to feel her head and kiss it gently...only for the girl’s small hands to return to their place.
A camper yesterday bumped his elbow on a nearby tree (trees at camp, go figure!) while building a fire during Outdoor Living Skills. He proceeded to hold it for the remainder of the hour. Babying his hurt funny bone. Towards the end of class, his teacher came to take pictures. “Why are you holding your elbow?” “Because I bumped it and it hurts!” This particular teacher has been an excitable and enthusiastic addition...with just a touch of sarcasm...all week. “Really? Does holding it make it feel better?” He paused and thought for a moment. “No...” “Then put your hand down and go join your team to build a fire!” He walked away pouting.
Holding his elbow didn’t make his elbow feel better...
It made him feel better.
In the same way a little girl reaches for head in order to deal with her “heady-ache”...
In the same way I find myself wrapping my arms gently and expertly around my abdomen when my stomach is giving me fits...
In the same way a baby will pull at his ear when he’s in pain
Holding doesn’t solve anything...
It doesn’t make it intrinsically feel better...
It makes us feel better.
It is what comes as an almost innate response
Built in to who we are as people...
Is this natural tendency to hold what is hurting.
When something hurts, we hold it.
For whatever the reason – though if we stop to think about it, we know holding our head or our stomach or our foot doesn’t actually make it any better, we naturally reach to embrace whatever exists as the source of pain.
The more I thought about this, the more I saw it transcending the obvious stomachs and heads...
We reach for babies to cradle and cuddle when they begin to cry.
We pull in the friend with that tired, exhausted-by-life look in her eyes for a hug
We listen to guy tell his story and he leaves having trusted you to hold true pieces of who he is.
We hear of broken lives and broken homes and broken hearts across the world and we itch to touch it, to put our finger in it and on it, to hold a piece of hurting world...
And when we stop to think about it seems strange.
Holding doesn’t take away the cause of the pain.
Holding a baby won’t fix the fact a diaper is dirty or a tummy is hungry.
A hug can’t erase the weariness of the weight of life on shoulders.
A listening ear doesn’t restore a painful past.
A finger, a prayer, a few dollars towards an earthquake in Japan or human trafficking in Cambodia or the starving in Haiti or the education crisis in Africa or the homelessness in New York City won’t tear out the root of tragedy, of corruption, of sin, of self...
But the natural tendency,
The innate response,
Is to hold what is hurting.
Sometimes these actions don’t make anything better as much as it makes us feel better. Like we tried. Like we did something... Like maybe, just maybe, the little things will add up to something big.
And sometimes, I think, that it is our natural, innate, and without previous thought or even (necessarily) learned behavior, because it is supposed to be our reaction.
We are supposed to hold what is hurting.
We may not be able to “fix” anything,
But maybe we can solve something.
Maybe we can point to the Fixer and the Solver...
A baby can and will know he or she cared for and can learned to trust needs will be met (check out the studies of orphans who are deprived of touch in their first year, especially...)
A friend will know she is loved – that the weight of the world she feels she must carry is not one she must carry alone – in a simple embrace.
A practical stranger could be affirmed knowing his story isn’t “stupid” with a need to be forgotten but instead your time and your heart hold a piece of his own.
A broken life, a broken home, a broken heart look down to see finger after finger...with the realization that enough fingers supporting could hold the whole world.
And perhaps,
Just maybe.
If our natural tendency to reach to hold the things that hurt becomes a matter of thought-out concern, we will begin to more clearly point to knowledge we are able to hold others only because of the One who is already holding us...
The One who reached down in the way only God could to take hold of individuals, of nations, of a world that was hurting...
"That's right. Because I, your God, have a firm grip on you and I'm not letting go. I'm telling you, 'Don't panic. I'm right here to help you.'" Isaiah 41:13 (MSG)
['For I am the LORD your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.' ~Isaiah 41:13 (NIV)]
“My sheep recognize my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them real and eternal life. They are protected from the Destroyer for good. No one can steal them from out of my hand. “John 10:27-28 (MSG)
A camper yesterday bumped his elbow on a nearby tree (trees at camp, go figure!) while building a fire during Outdoor Living Skills. He proceeded to hold it for the remainder of the hour. Babying his hurt funny bone. Towards the end of class, his teacher came to take pictures. “Why are you holding your elbow?” “Because I bumped it and it hurts!” This particular teacher has been an excitable and enthusiastic addition...with just a touch of sarcasm...all week. “Really? Does holding it make it feel better?” He paused and thought for a moment. “No...” “Then put your hand down and go join your team to build a fire!” He walked away pouting.
Holding his elbow didn’t make his elbow feel better...
It made him feel better.
In the same way a little girl reaches for head in order to deal with her “heady-ache”...
In the same way I find myself wrapping my arms gently and expertly around my abdomen when my stomach is giving me fits...
In the same way a baby will pull at his ear when he’s in pain
Holding doesn’t solve anything...
It doesn’t make it intrinsically feel better...
It makes us feel better.
It is what comes as an almost innate response
Built in to who we are as people...
Is this natural tendency to hold what is hurting.
When something hurts, we hold it.
For whatever the reason – though if we stop to think about it, we know holding our head or our stomach or our foot doesn’t actually make it any better, we naturally reach to embrace whatever exists as the source of pain.
The more I thought about this, the more I saw it transcending the obvious stomachs and heads...
We reach for babies to cradle and cuddle when they begin to cry.
We pull in the friend with that tired, exhausted-by-life look in her eyes for a hug
We listen to guy tell his story and he leaves having trusted you to hold true pieces of who he is.
We hear of broken lives and broken homes and broken hearts across the world and we itch to touch it, to put our finger in it and on it, to hold a piece of hurting world...
And when we stop to think about it seems strange.
Holding doesn’t take away the cause of the pain.
Holding a baby won’t fix the fact a diaper is dirty or a tummy is hungry.
A hug can’t erase the weariness of the weight of life on shoulders.
A listening ear doesn’t restore a painful past.
A finger, a prayer, a few dollars towards an earthquake in Japan or human trafficking in Cambodia or the starving in Haiti or the education crisis in Africa or the homelessness in New York City won’t tear out the root of tragedy, of corruption, of sin, of self...
But the natural tendency,
The innate response,
Is to hold what is hurting.
Sometimes these actions don’t make anything better as much as it makes us feel better. Like we tried. Like we did something... Like maybe, just maybe, the little things will add up to something big.
And sometimes, I think, that it is our natural, innate, and without previous thought or even (necessarily) learned behavior, because it is supposed to be our reaction.
We are supposed to hold what is hurting.
We may not be able to “fix” anything,
But maybe we can solve something.
Maybe we can point to the Fixer and the Solver...
A baby can and will know he or she cared for and can learned to trust needs will be met (check out the studies of orphans who are deprived of touch in their first year, especially...)
A friend will know she is loved – that the weight of the world she feels she must carry is not one she must carry alone – in a simple embrace.
A practical stranger could be affirmed knowing his story isn’t “stupid” with a need to be forgotten but instead your time and your heart hold a piece of his own.
A broken life, a broken home, a broken heart look down to see finger after finger...with the realization that enough fingers supporting could hold the whole world.
And perhaps,
Just maybe.
If our natural tendency to reach to hold the things that hurt becomes a matter of thought-out concern, we will begin to more clearly point to knowledge we are able to hold others only because of the One who is already holding us...
The One who reached down in the way only God could to take hold of individuals, of nations, of a world that was hurting...
"That's right. Because I, your God, have a firm grip on you and I'm not letting go. I'm telling you, 'Don't panic. I'm right here to help you.'" Isaiah 41:13 (MSG)
['For I am the LORD your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.' ~Isaiah 41:13 (NIV)]
“My sheep recognize my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them real and eternal life. They are protected from the Destroyer for good. No one can steal them from out of my hand. “John 10:27-28 (MSG)
Monday, March 14, 2011
Basketball, Prayers, and Not Finished Yet...
“It took Him just a day to make the moon and stars, the sun and the earth and Jupiter and Mars. How loving and patient He must be, if He is still working on me...”
Today I played basketball with five 6th graders.
Every afternoon the kids have “free time”. Or sort of free time. Each staff member pre-chooses an activity to lead during scheduling the week before and then the kids can choose from the ones we offer on that day.
And today, today I took who ever wished to join me outside to shoot some hoops. Granted, B-ball couldn’t compete with archery or dodgeball, but my faithful few followed me outside where it proved to be a beautiful afternoon.
For about a half an hour, we had a rocking game of guys vs. girls. This turned out to be a two vs. four adventure...I myself on the side of the four, seeing as I was a girl and all. The arbitrary point goal was declared to be 30 with each basket counting as two points. [It goes only as a side note that the boys put in their winning basket with the girls struggling behind at 18 points.]
As the game came to an end, the kids decided to free shoot. My two guys took one ball and chose one of our four outdoor baskets and my three girls headed to another. And well, let’s face it, I was cool to hang out with when we were playing a real game but as one of the girls tossed me the third ball, I caught the quizzical eyes. The ones that said “you didn’t save us from being slaughtered by two boys, you can play by yourself.” Okay, it wasn’t that bad; they were friendly enough. But sometimes you get when sixth graders need their space. So I took the ball and headed to a hoop between the two...where I could effectively monitor both teams.
And I began to shoot.
I shot baskets for a couple minutes with a mixed degree of success. I played basketball in elementary school. Fourth and fifth grade mostly. I was stoked to receive “best left-handed shot” when awards were handed out at the end of the season until I realized I was the only one on the team that shot left handed. And this might be the first time I publicly admit that the three-point shot during that 5th grade basketball game that saved my reputation for another semester was actually a really bad pass. I was hoping to get it to the girl NEXT to the basket so she could go in for a lay-up. Oops. Needless, when 6th grade sign-ups went around, I decided it was time for me to sit out...
However, I’m not the world’s worst player (bottom 25 maybe, but not worst) and do enjoy shooting baskets especially on days where I need something to release stress and block out the world. I couldn’t exactly block out the world...the safety and well-being of five campers was up to me...but shooting some baskets ‘just because’ was an option. And I took it.
I made myself a goal. 10 baskets and then I would check the time.
Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. In. Shoot. Miss. Repeat.
It was a slow go. My campers contentedly played at their hoops...one girl eagerly giving another a shooting lesson.
“My thoughts are mine for the next 10 minutes” I considered as another one of my misaimed shots ricocheted off the backboard.
So I changed the rules. So that I could pseudo-spend some moments with Jesus.
For every miss I could offer a petition. For every basket a praise.
Shoot. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Dribble. Miss. In.
I could have come up with enough petitions to keep my rules closely adhered to...but it bothered me. Bothered me that I would praise less simply because I am not very good at basketball. So I switched. A praise for every miss. A petition for every basket.
At first my praises started very practical.
Miss...I praise You because there is sunshine today...
Miss...because the ball didn’t just roll all the way into the pond again
Miss...because my legs work to go catch the ball rolling down the hill
In...Please be with the missions teams from SAU that are across the country and even the world this week serving you. My heart is in PR...
Miss...because it is trying to be spring time. I love spring time.
Miss...because You are good
Miss...because it is almost dinner and I don’t want to eat but I can. My needs are met far beyond
In...for the friends I miss so dearly. For their needs – whatever they may be at this moment. Please meet them. Let them know I love them. That You love them.
And on I went. Interchanging my constant misses and their accompanying praises with an occasional “swish” and a heartfelt petition to the throne.
Eventually I made to basket ten. My before-stated goal. I changed the rules again. I decided basket ten had to be made from behind the free throw line. I shot and missed a dozen times.
Finally I squinted into the sun as my basketball made it through the net. “...Because I’m not finished yet.” I declared as an end to my basketball prayers. I stopped and laughed and then paused.
“Where did that come from? And furthermore... ‘because’? That was a basket. Was that supposed to be a praise or a petition, Anika?” For whatever reason I decided the distinction of following my “rules” mattered.
I stood holding the ball. “Both.” I declared decidedly.
“I look at myself right now, Father, and I know I have so much further to go. Immeasurably further. I am not finished. I want to be finished. I want to be more finished than I am if I can’t be finished all together. So it’s a petition.”
I paused. “And a praise. If this is all I would ever be, what a hopeless life indeed. Daddy, thank you for the fact that I’m not finished yet.”
For all that I am and all that I will be...
How loving and patient He must be, if He is still working on me...
Today I played basketball with five 6th graders.
Every afternoon the kids have “free time”. Or sort of free time. Each staff member pre-chooses an activity to lead during scheduling the week before and then the kids can choose from the ones we offer on that day.
And today, today I took who ever wished to join me outside to shoot some hoops. Granted, B-ball couldn’t compete with archery or dodgeball, but my faithful few followed me outside where it proved to be a beautiful afternoon.
For about a half an hour, we had a rocking game of guys vs. girls. This turned out to be a two vs. four adventure...I myself on the side of the four, seeing as I was a girl and all. The arbitrary point goal was declared to be 30 with each basket counting as two points. [It goes only as a side note that the boys put in their winning basket with the girls struggling behind at 18 points.]
As the game came to an end, the kids decided to free shoot. My two guys took one ball and chose one of our four outdoor baskets and my three girls headed to another. And well, let’s face it, I was cool to hang out with when we were playing a real game but as one of the girls tossed me the third ball, I caught the quizzical eyes. The ones that said “you didn’t save us from being slaughtered by two boys, you can play by yourself.” Okay, it wasn’t that bad; they were friendly enough. But sometimes you get when sixth graders need their space. So I took the ball and headed to a hoop between the two...where I could effectively monitor both teams.
And I began to shoot.
I shot baskets for a couple minutes with a mixed degree of success. I played basketball in elementary school. Fourth and fifth grade mostly. I was stoked to receive “best left-handed shot” when awards were handed out at the end of the season until I realized I was the only one on the team that shot left handed. And this might be the first time I publicly admit that the three-point shot during that 5th grade basketball game that saved my reputation for another semester was actually a really bad pass. I was hoping to get it to the girl NEXT to the basket so she could go in for a lay-up. Oops. Needless, when 6th grade sign-ups went around, I decided it was time for me to sit out...
However, I’m not the world’s worst player (bottom 25 maybe, but not worst) and do enjoy shooting baskets especially on days where I need something to release stress and block out the world. I couldn’t exactly block out the world...the safety and well-being of five campers was up to me...but shooting some baskets ‘just because’ was an option. And I took it.
I made myself a goal. 10 baskets and then I would check the time.
Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. In. Shoot. Miss. Repeat.
It was a slow go. My campers contentedly played at their hoops...one girl eagerly giving another a shooting lesson.
“My thoughts are mine for the next 10 minutes” I considered as another one of my misaimed shots ricocheted off the backboard.
So I changed the rules. So that I could pseudo-spend some moments with Jesus.
For every miss I could offer a petition. For every basket a praise.
Shoot. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss. Dribble. Miss. In.
I could have come up with enough petitions to keep my rules closely adhered to...but it bothered me. Bothered me that I would praise less simply because I am not very good at basketball. So I switched. A praise for every miss. A petition for every basket.
At first my praises started very practical.
Miss...I praise You because there is sunshine today...
Miss...because the ball didn’t just roll all the way into the pond again
Miss...because my legs work to go catch the ball rolling down the hill
In...Please be with the missions teams from SAU that are across the country and even the world this week serving you. My heart is in PR...
Miss...because it is trying to be spring time. I love spring time.
Miss...because You are good
Miss...because it is almost dinner and I don’t want to eat but I can. My needs are met far beyond
In...for the friends I miss so dearly. For their needs – whatever they may be at this moment. Please meet them. Let them know I love them. That You love them.
And on I went. Interchanging my constant misses and their accompanying praises with an occasional “swish” and a heartfelt petition to the throne.
Eventually I made to basket ten. My before-stated goal. I changed the rules again. I decided basket ten had to be made from behind the free throw line. I shot and missed a dozen times.
Finally I squinted into the sun as my basketball made it through the net. “...Because I’m not finished yet.” I declared as an end to my basketball prayers. I stopped and laughed and then paused.
“Where did that come from? And furthermore... ‘because’? That was a basket. Was that supposed to be a praise or a petition, Anika?” For whatever reason I decided the distinction of following my “rules” mattered.
I stood holding the ball. “Both.” I declared decidedly.
“I look at myself right now, Father, and I know I have so much further to go. Immeasurably further. I am not finished. I want to be finished. I want to be more finished than I am if I can’t be finished all together. So it’s a petition.”
I paused. “And a praise. If this is all I would ever be, what a hopeless life indeed. Daddy, thank you for the fact that I’m not finished yet.”
For all that I am and all that I will be...
How loving and patient He must be, if He is still working on me...
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