“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...
Friday, February 25, 2011
Joy is [.]
Last fall, when I moved home, I spent considerable time trying to lay claim on my bedroom – which before lay unclaimed. And I began decorating.
In the last year, I’ve fallen in quite a rich fondness with black and white décor. When this summer I put together a prayer mosaic consisting of dozens of black and white photos, it became the center piece for much of the redesigning I undertook. I completed the wall (which would become the central focus of my room) by purchasing black picture frames and placing abstract photo negatives...one reading “Faith, Hope, Love” and the other reading simply “Joy”.
I had just barely finished arranging them all on my wall – looking at the arrangement as a whole with a degree of satisfaction when “Joy” came crashing from its nail and onto the floor. The grueling task of trying to make sure every little piece of furniture had a perfect spot had taken its toll. It was late and I was tired. With frustration I moved the desk and retrieved the picture only to discover there was a clean crack in the new glass that extended from top to bottom and marred the presentation as a whole.
“Perfect!” I replied both sarcastically and more than slightly upset. I resolved myself to buying a new frame and put the picture back on the wall for the time being.
The next morning, when I woke up, the very small bars of light which make its way into my basement bedroom as the sun begins to rise settled across my newly decorated wall. One of those bars of light caught and accentuated the crack in my fallen ‘Joy’. I scowled again. And yet, as I went to brush my teeth, it occurred to me that the picture itself was fine. The crack – even with the sun scattering light across its surface – didn’t hide the word.
I decided to give up my scowl and ignore it. It was a clean break. The rest of my room was all but in order for a “as good as it gets” conclusion to my temporary placement and my parent’s permanent residence. I could get a new frame another day.
And so it remained.
Everyone who visited my room noticed it. They would always point it out like I probably didn’t know. “There is a crack in the glass of your picture!” Um, yup, thanks.
Weeks past. Months were flipped on the calendar. And I left it. Left it cracked. In fact, when I moved recently, it was placed in a box with the other essentials from my bedroom at home and the whole arrangement was placed on my new bedroom wall in a similar manner as before. Complete with the marred piece of glass covering the word ‘Joy’.
Not long afterwards one of my housemates saw it and stated “oh no! Your picture is broken!”
I chuckled and smirked. “Yep. It’s always been broken. I like it that way.”
Because I do.
Somewhere in the midst of a challenging fall – more challenging than the obvious states or I share; somewhere in the midst of a wrestling match with the God I knows loves me first, loves me most, loves me best; somewhere in the midst of a life I couldn’t quite process and a future I couldn’t anticipate...it clicked.
Even though I couldn’t and can’t always claim it, the word and profundity and inclusion of the word ‘Joy’ was truer inside of a broken frame.
Sometimes I, as a long term believer, would hear people talk about joy and want to smack them. When my faith lost its rose-colored glasses in the middle of cancer diagnosis, the word made me embittered. It wasn’t the essence of the word; it was the way people talked about it. Like it was a body cast sized band-aid...like if I applied it properly nothing would hurt. The realist in me said “God allows bad days! I’m not supposed to wallow in them but stop telling me to find the ‘joy of the Lord’ every time my life feels off! I don’t think that word means what you think it means...”
Maybe I was a little extra embittered, but I also think part of me was right. Joy is a fruit of the spirit. Which means it comes by mere simplicity as a supernatural gift. It doesn’t need to mask, cover, or perfect. It doesn’t need ideal conditions to be made apparent or known or real. It stands alone.
Joy is not the opposite of sad. It is not the antonym to pain. It is not the alternative to a bad day. It just is. Joy is. In the same way love and peace and patience and self control (when given from God in that ‘supernatural gift’ sort of way) don’t make sense in comparison to the rest of life...joy stands alone.
And, in fact, like one lighting bug in a night sky, joy is made most and best known not in spite but in midst of a world that seems off. Because true joy doesn’t make sense when up against the rest...but it still, is. Joy is.
Every time I look at my flawed art on the wall, I smile in satisfaction. Because joy exists behind brokenness...behind the cracks...behind the pieces people want fixed, replaced, and ignored.
Joy is a gift. And also a choice. Because my circumstances, surroundings, busy head or busy hands or busy life, don’t dictate its ability to exist...they also don’t get to dictate my response. Joy is a choice...and the choice to claim...always.
2 Corinthians 7:4b “...I am greatly encouraged; in all our troubles my joy knows no bounds.”
1 Thessalonians 1:6 “You became imitators of us and of the Lord, for you welcomed the message in the midst of severe suffering with the joy given by the Holy Spirit”
Psalm 51:12 “Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me...”
In the last year, I’ve fallen in quite a rich fondness with black and white décor. When this summer I put together a prayer mosaic consisting of dozens of black and white photos, it became the center piece for much of the redesigning I undertook. I completed the wall (which would become the central focus of my room) by purchasing black picture frames and placing abstract photo negatives...one reading “Faith, Hope, Love” and the other reading simply “Joy”.
I had just barely finished arranging them all on my wall – looking at the arrangement as a whole with a degree of satisfaction when “Joy” came crashing from its nail and onto the floor. The grueling task of trying to make sure every little piece of furniture had a perfect spot had taken its toll. It was late and I was tired. With frustration I moved the desk and retrieved the picture only to discover there was a clean crack in the new glass that extended from top to bottom and marred the presentation as a whole.
“Perfect!” I replied both sarcastically and more than slightly upset. I resolved myself to buying a new frame and put the picture back on the wall for the time being.
The next morning, when I woke up, the very small bars of light which make its way into my basement bedroom as the sun begins to rise settled across my newly decorated wall. One of those bars of light caught and accentuated the crack in my fallen ‘Joy’. I scowled again. And yet, as I went to brush my teeth, it occurred to me that the picture itself was fine. The crack – even with the sun scattering light across its surface – didn’t hide the word.
I decided to give up my scowl and ignore it. It was a clean break. The rest of my room was all but in order for a “as good as it gets” conclusion to my temporary placement and my parent’s permanent residence. I could get a new frame another day.
And so it remained.
Everyone who visited my room noticed it. They would always point it out like I probably didn’t know. “There is a crack in the glass of your picture!” Um, yup, thanks.
Weeks past. Months were flipped on the calendar. And I left it. Left it cracked. In fact, when I moved recently, it was placed in a box with the other essentials from my bedroom at home and the whole arrangement was placed on my new bedroom wall in a similar manner as before. Complete with the marred piece of glass covering the word ‘Joy’.
Not long afterwards one of my housemates saw it and stated “oh no! Your picture is broken!”
I chuckled and smirked. “Yep. It’s always been broken. I like it that way.”
Because I do.
Somewhere in the midst of a challenging fall – more challenging than the obvious states or I share; somewhere in the midst of a wrestling match with the God I knows loves me first, loves me most, loves me best; somewhere in the midst of a life I couldn’t quite process and a future I couldn’t anticipate...it clicked.
Even though I couldn’t and can’t always claim it, the word and profundity and inclusion of the word ‘Joy’ was truer inside of a broken frame.
Sometimes I, as a long term believer, would hear people talk about joy and want to smack them. When my faith lost its rose-colored glasses in the middle of cancer diagnosis, the word made me embittered. It wasn’t the essence of the word; it was the way people talked about it. Like it was a body cast sized band-aid...like if I applied it properly nothing would hurt. The realist in me said “God allows bad days! I’m not supposed to wallow in them but stop telling me to find the ‘joy of the Lord’ every time my life feels off! I don’t think that word means what you think it means...”
Maybe I was a little extra embittered, but I also think part of me was right. Joy is a fruit of the spirit. Which means it comes by mere simplicity as a supernatural gift. It doesn’t need to mask, cover, or perfect. It doesn’t need ideal conditions to be made apparent or known or real. It stands alone.
Joy is not the opposite of sad. It is not the antonym to pain. It is not the alternative to a bad day. It just is. Joy is. In the same way love and peace and patience and self control (when given from God in that ‘supernatural gift’ sort of way) don’t make sense in comparison to the rest of life...joy stands alone.
And, in fact, like one lighting bug in a night sky, joy is made most and best known not in spite but in midst of a world that seems off. Because true joy doesn’t make sense when up against the rest...but it still, is. Joy is.
Every time I look at my flawed art on the wall, I smile in satisfaction. Because joy exists behind brokenness...behind the cracks...behind the pieces people want fixed, replaced, and ignored.
Joy is a gift. And also a choice. Because my circumstances, surroundings, busy head or busy hands or busy life, don’t dictate its ability to exist...they also don’t get to dictate my response. Joy is a choice...and the choice to claim...always.
2 Corinthians 7:4b “...I am greatly encouraged; in all our troubles my joy knows no bounds.”
1 Thessalonians 1:6 “You became imitators of us and of the Lord, for you welcomed the message in the midst of severe suffering with the joy given by the Holy Spirit”
Psalm 51:12 “Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me...”
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Known and Loved?
Do you feel like you are known? Do you feel loved?
This has been a recurring question in my head (in the most interesting of ways) as I look into eyes of those around me (sometimes my own) for some time and especially over the last week or so...
About a month ago a friend and I talked about being “known and loved” as one of the greatest and truest needs. We were discussing teenagers but watching as our words translated to the human population as a whole.
Do you feel like you are known? Do you feel loved?
Not just known in that people can tell you your name and the fact that you are “nice” and maybe even the fact that your favorite color is green...but do they know you? Do they know real things? True things? Do they know what you love? What you hate? What makes your blood flow? What you’re passionate about? Places that hurt? Anything below the surface at all?
Not just loved in that they smile when they see you. Not just that they can tell you that they think “you’re great”. Not even that they might come to wrap you in an embrace from time to time. Are they intentional with you? Do they stick around for the good days and the bad? Do they listen selflessly and give sacrificially? Do you see an unconditional regard and acceptance?
Is there even an endeavor towards those things?
What about being known AND loved? Do people who know you still love you in and despite and because of what they know? Do people who claim to love you actually know real things?
Do you have people in your life who know and love you?
I hope so.
I pray so.
Those in my life who meet (or have been in my life for times and purposes and have met) those pieces of criteria have helped me glimpse at things bigger and greater. They’ve had the power to speak to my soul; to help me see something more; to encourage; to rebuke; to uplift; to challenge. To help me seek more fully the face of Christ...
Others agree.
Out-of-the-woodwork conversations (aka: “why are you bringing up the topic in my head that I haven’t told you about?”) this week have gone back to the original – that this is a need. A need that, with a healthily fulfilled end, would change the world. Would establish a sense of solidarity, community, accountability, and brother/sisterhood with one-another deep enough to impact in ways far beyond comprehension and intention.
This need finds itself linked to a profound desire. We want because we need and we need because we want. There is a longing inside of us to be loved and known like that. And yes, absolutely, we have it in Jesus. Without a doubt, without a question. If we forget this, we are not well off. And yet (yes, perhaps this is surprising to you) I have no intention to focus on that.
Why?
Because sometimes I get freaking frustrated with the people that say “yes, I have that in Jesus and that is all I need” and walk away.
No.
I mean, yes, true, but NO!
Paul says “Now, YOU are the body of Christ and EACH ONE of YOU are a part of it.” YOU are the hands. YOU are the feet. YOU are those still small touches. Jesus, yes...but YOU are a part of that body, HIS body. YOU are a part of that outsourcing. We can not claim a promise of God and then refuse to be the one to deliver it should we be so asked or instructed.
There is no reason people should not be able to look to other people to be known and loved. People need people to be known and loved. To be reminded of the ONE who knows and loves perfectly and without err.
We need to be that for each other. We need to be intentional. On purpose. Invested. Empowered. Deliberate. We have to be willing to get under people’s skin from time to time. We have to get out of our comfort zones, challenge others out of theirs. Live deeper and more meaningfully.
Because the longer we go without it, the more we pretend it doesn’t exist. You laugh, but I’m not kidding. Talk to people who have always heard but never seen or experienced snow. They honestly think it is a Michigan (for example as we see a lot of it) conspiracy – that we’ve made it up. The first time they encounter it, it blows their mind. We do the same thing. Being known and loved sounds legit enough and one can know they need it, know they desire it, but when you don’t see it – it’s easy to think it is a conspiracy of the cruel. Propaganda at best.
[Why aren’t we blowing people’s minds with the reality of it??]
We begin to compensate for it. Either the pain of its absence is too hard and so we bury attempts to know and love, the hopes for the same: assume it doesn’t exist or act like it never will. Or, we substitute. It occurred to me in a couple different situations this week where, with people I thought I was known and loved, I was merely "recognized and appreciated". How often is this true of most? How often do we allow it to mask and replace what we really need, truly desire?
It is similar, isn’t it? To be recognized and appreciated makes one think they are known and loved. “I’m like a celebrity! Everyone is familiar with my face when they see it and their own face lights up and they are even going to come talk to me for a minute or two. And then, as I talk to them and ask them about their life...they are going to thank me for that note I sent a month ago. They are going to tell me I’m wonderful. Maybe even use the words ‘I just love you’ and then the conversation ends and I smile thinking about how much I like people!” And then I walk away trying to understand why there is an empty space screaming inside. Like going for a glass of soda and realizing the bottle went flat. Because being recognized and appreciated plays like being known and loved – but it’s not the same thing. It’s not. And it leaves you wanting the real thing or pretending it’s enough.
I feel like the longer we allow ‘recognized and appreciated’ to be our most satisfactory replacement for what it means to be known and loved, the further we’ll be from ever making a difference. I feel like this is the answer, the open door, the step to the next step. And I feel like probably, in the end “yeah, but do you know what you’re asking?” will probably win. Convenience and ease have a way of beating things that have a tendency to echo true.
I feel like this is the point where I should be reaching some profound conclusion or offering some compelling challenge. But all I’ve got is all I’ve said. My concern is that if we don’t start to do something soon, if nothing changes...then nothing will change.
This has been a recurring question in my head (in the most interesting of ways) as I look into eyes of those around me (sometimes my own) for some time and especially over the last week or so...
About a month ago a friend and I talked about being “known and loved” as one of the greatest and truest needs. We were discussing teenagers but watching as our words translated to the human population as a whole.
Do you feel like you are known? Do you feel loved?
Not just known in that people can tell you your name and the fact that you are “nice” and maybe even the fact that your favorite color is green...but do they know you? Do they know real things? True things? Do they know what you love? What you hate? What makes your blood flow? What you’re passionate about? Places that hurt? Anything below the surface at all?
Not just loved in that they smile when they see you. Not just that they can tell you that they think “you’re great”. Not even that they might come to wrap you in an embrace from time to time. Are they intentional with you? Do they stick around for the good days and the bad? Do they listen selflessly and give sacrificially? Do you see an unconditional regard and acceptance?
Is there even an endeavor towards those things?
What about being known AND loved? Do people who know you still love you in and despite and because of what they know? Do people who claim to love you actually know real things?
Do you have people in your life who know and love you?
I hope so.
I pray so.
Those in my life who meet (or have been in my life for times and purposes and have met) those pieces of criteria have helped me glimpse at things bigger and greater. They’ve had the power to speak to my soul; to help me see something more; to encourage; to rebuke; to uplift; to challenge. To help me seek more fully the face of Christ...
Others agree.
Out-of-the-woodwork conversations (aka: “why are you bringing up the topic in my head that I haven’t told you about?”) this week have gone back to the original – that this is a need. A need that, with a healthily fulfilled end, would change the world. Would establish a sense of solidarity, community, accountability, and brother/sisterhood with one-another deep enough to impact in ways far beyond comprehension and intention.
This need finds itself linked to a profound desire. We want because we need and we need because we want. There is a longing inside of us to be loved and known like that. And yes, absolutely, we have it in Jesus. Without a doubt, without a question. If we forget this, we are not well off. And yet (yes, perhaps this is surprising to you) I have no intention to focus on that.
Why?
Because sometimes I get freaking frustrated with the people that say “yes, I have that in Jesus and that is all I need” and walk away.
No.
I mean, yes, true, but NO!
Paul says “Now, YOU are the body of Christ and EACH ONE of YOU are a part of it.” YOU are the hands. YOU are the feet. YOU are those still small touches. Jesus, yes...but YOU are a part of that body, HIS body. YOU are a part of that outsourcing. We can not claim a promise of God and then refuse to be the one to deliver it should we be so asked or instructed.
There is no reason people should not be able to look to other people to be known and loved. People need people to be known and loved. To be reminded of the ONE who knows and loves perfectly and without err.
We need to be that for each other. We need to be intentional. On purpose. Invested. Empowered. Deliberate. We have to be willing to get under people’s skin from time to time. We have to get out of our comfort zones, challenge others out of theirs. Live deeper and more meaningfully.
Because the longer we go without it, the more we pretend it doesn’t exist. You laugh, but I’m not kidding. Talk to people who have always heard but never seen or experienced snow. They honestly think it is a Michigan (for example as we see a lot of it) conspiracy – that we’ve made it up. The first time they encounter it, it blows their mind. We do the same thing. Being known and loved sounds legit enough and one can know they need it, know they desire it, but when you don’t see it – it’s easy to think it is a conspiracy of the cruel. Propaganda at best.
[Why aren’t we blowing people’s minds with the reality of it??]
We begin to compensate for it. Either the pain of its absence is too hard and so we bury attempts to know and love, the hopes for the same: assume it doesn’t exist or act like it never will. Or, we substitute. It occurred to me in a couple different situations this week where, with people I thought I was known and loved, I was merely "recognized and appreciated". How often is this true of most? How often do we allow it to mask and replace what we really need, truly desire?
It is similar, isn’t it? To be recognized and appreciated makes one think they are known and loved. “I’m like a celebrity! Everyone is familiar with my face when they see it and their own face lights up and they are even going to come talk to me for a minute or two. And then, as I talk to them and ask them about their life...they are going to thank me for that note I sent a month ago. They are going to tell me I’m wonderful. Maybe even use the words ‘I just love you’ and then the conversation ends and I smile thinking about how much I like people!” And then I walk away trying to understand why there is an empty space screaming inside. Like going for a glass of soda and realizing the bottle went flat. Because being recognized and appreciated plays like being known and loved – but it’s not the same thing. It’s not. And it leaves you wanting the real thing or pretending it’s enough.
I feel like the longer we allow ‘recognized and appreciated’ to be our most satisfactory replacement for what it means to be known and loved, the further we’ll be from ever making a difference. I feel like this is the answer, the open door, the step to the next step. And I feel like probably, in the end “yeah, but do you know what you’re asking?” will probably win. Convenience and ease have a way of beating things that have a tendency to echo true.
I feel like this is the point where I should be reaching some profound conclusion or offering some compelling challenge. But all I’ve got is all I’ve said. My concern is that if we don’t start to do something soon, if nothing changes...then nothing will change.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Passion, Desire, and Capabilities...
Passion, Desire, and Capabilities...
Passion is always about something external – outside of person, outside of self, about something else.
Desire is always about something internal – inside person, emotional and so changing, about self
Passion can fuel desire and desire can fuel passion but one must be careful of the foundation and/or motives as desire may fuel a selfish passion or passion may produce an unhealthy desire.
Capabilities without desire boils down to obligation and duty.
Capabilities without passion is self-sufficiency.
Desire without passion is often a prideful power trip...because desire is brought back to self.
Passion without desire is merely ideals and good intentions...because passion is about something external.
Capabilities without desire or passion is apathy.
Hmm...I haven’t done much blogging lately. I have quite a few things started as the beginning of a traditional Anika-style blog, but they go little further than a line or two. Those thoughts remain unaccounted. I have officially missed at least two, if not three weeks, of my self-proclaimed Blogging Challenge. Nothing like the onset of February for a New Year’s fail! I want to try and pick it up, but I make no promises. Somehow, despite the fact I enjoy compiling specific things to put on my blog in some version of coherent...I feel as if it is somewhat of an unfortunate trade off for my blog to get more action than my journal. Seeing as there is a single post for February and a single journal entry for February, I’d dare say they are about – although unfairly – even.
I think when it comes to my empty journal, I miss the freedom of the spill...the ability to place word after word on a screen that is soon filled in no matter of organization...as a means of simple release or detailing something meaningful or profound or maybe just to communicate thoughts without regards to audience or reason or whether either cares to listen.
When it comes to my blog, the writer in me misses intentionality. Blogging has this sense of putting words in some fashion acceptable for the other, I don’t know, two people in my cyber world to read. There is a flow and a connect and a desire to not just put myself out into cyberspace but to share part of my world.
Life being busy seems like an obvious but poor excuse for missing both of them. You should make time for the things you love. Or think you love. Yet, regardless of the fact I know I have passion for things as simple as writing, my desire as I sit exhausted at the end of the day wanes and my ability lacks as my days are full and my moments accounted for.
This, in combination with life in general, (honestly, my desire to journal as I got ready for bed one night last night was the trigger for quite an unrelated trajectory as I began to process many things through my muddled head), made me consider a few things. (That conversation would be an excessively long one...we won’t go there today.) I’ll simply note that I pondered the connection between passion, desire, and capabilities (listed above and again below)...feeling like things can happen in any one of the areas but somehow the combination was essential. I decided not to pre explain or justify my conclusions. Instead, I just list them as I pondered them. For whatever they are worth. And then I’ll post the whole of this to my blog...with thoughts that maybe my journal and my blog don’t need to fight for my quality time this round...
Passion, Desire, and Capabilities...
Passion is always about something external – outside of person, outside of self, about something else.
Desire is always about something internal – inside person, emotional and so changing, about self
Passion can fuel desire and desire can fuel passion but one must be careful of the foundation and/or motives as desire may fuel a selfish passion or passion may produce an unhealthy desire.
Capabilities without desire boils down to obligation and duty.
Capabilities without passion is self-sufficiency.
Desire without passion is often a prideful power trip...because desire is brought back to self.
Passion without desire is merely ideals and good intentions...because passion is about something external.
Capabilities without desire or passion is apathy.
Passion is always about something external – outside of person, outside of self, about something else.
Desire is always about something internal – inside person, emotional and so changing, about self
Passion can fuel desire and desire can fuel passion but one must be careful of the foundation and/or motives as desire may fuel a selfish passion or passion may produce an unhealthy desire.
Capabilities without desire boils down to obligation and duty.
Capabilities without passion is self-sufficiency.
Desire without passion is often a prideful power trip...because desire is brought back to self.
Passion without desire is merely ideals and good intentions...because passion is about something external.
Capabilities without desire or passion is apathy.
Hmm...I haven’t done much blogging lately. I have quite a few things started as the beginning of a traditional Anika-style blog, but they go little further than a line or two. Those thoughts remain unaccounted. I have officially missed at least two, if not three weeks, of my self-proclaimed Blogging Challenge. Nothing like the onset of February for a New Year’s fail! I want to try and pick it up, but I make no promises. Somehow, despite the fact I enjoy compiling specific things to put on my blog in some version of coherent...I feel as if it is somewhat of an unfortunate trade off for my blog to get more action than my journal. Seeing as there is a single post for February and a single journal entry for February, I’d dare say they are about – although unfairly – even.
I think when it comes to my empty journal, I miss the freedom of the spill...the ability to place word after word on a screen that is soon filled in no matter of organization...as a means of simple release or detailing something meaningful or profound or maybe just to communicate thoughts without regards to audience or reason or whether either cares to listen.
When it comes to my blog, the writer in me misses intentionality. Blogging has this sense of putting words in some fashion acceptable for the other, I don’t know, two people in my cyber world to read. There is a flow and a connect and a desire to not just put myself out into cyberspace but to share part of my world.
Life being busy seems like an obvious but poor excuse for missing both of them. You should make time for the things you love. Or think you love. Yet, regardless of the fact I know I have passion for things as simple as writing, my desire as I sit exhausted at the end of the day wanes and my ability lacks as my days are full and my moments accounted for.
This, in combination with life in general, (honestly, my desire to journal as I got ready for bed one night last night was the trigger for quite an unrelated trajectory as I began to process many things through my muddled head), made me consider a few things. (That conversation would be an excessively long one...we won’t go there today.) I’ll simply note that I pondered the connection between passion, desire, and capabilities (listed above and again below)...feeling like things can happen in any one of the areas but somehow the combination was essential. I decided not to pre explain or justify my conclusions. Instead, I just list them as I pondered them. For whatever they are worth. And then I’ll post the whole of this to my blog...with thoughts that maybe my journal and my blog don’t need to fight for my quality time this round...
Passion, Desire, and Capabilities...
Passion is always about something external – outside of person, outside of self, about something else.
Desire is always about something internal – inside person, emotional and so changing, about self
Passion can fuel desire and desire can fuel passion but one must be careful of the foundation and/or motives as desire may fuel a selfish passion or passion may produce an unhealthy desire.
Capabilities without desire boils down to obligation and duty.
Capabilities without passion is self-sufficiency.
Desire without passion is often a prideful power trip...because desire is brought back to self.
Passion without desire is merely ideals and good intentions...because passion is about something external.
Capabilities without desire or passion is apathy.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
When My Life Runs Purple
My computer rebooted itself and my Microsoft Word recovered a document I didn’t realize I lost. It held just two lines: “When My Life Runs Purple. Thoughts on everything that is wrong with the world and how knowing that God loves me has to be enough...”
I sighed. It was the beginning of something I didn’t have time to expound on. But the words still rang true. Perhaps even truer... Even if to you they don’t seem to make a lot of sense...
A couple weeks ago, I had a new but dear friend over at my house for a few days. Our time together was a fantastic blend of relaxed, chill, “we happen to be reading a book in the same room” time and intentional “off to do something” time...which meant there was any degree of conversation ranging from silly laughter to deep theological discussion. Talking about big things as well as the little things was pretty natural. But when we went to watch a movie, I think we were both expecting something laid back. At least in terms of experience. That was until we picked out the movie “Precious” from my family’s DVD collection – one still in its plastic and neither of us had watched. It was...intense.
We were speechless for quite some time and then began discussing this based-on-a-true-story, so-real-and-yet-so-unlike-our-lives film that had us both in shambles. And then, after praying together for the lives we couldn’t save and the world we couldn’t fix for a time which seemed too short for the length we were on our knees, we began to paint. Taking wooden lizards and primary colors out of a craft-store kit, we declared “Art Therapy”. It was an adventure for sure our hands were covered in the attempts of our art. With minds busy, I wished my hands were as covered in humanity.
As I went to wash off the paint, hot water spilled across my blue and red stained hands and the water ran out a deep shade of purple. The pain of humanity was spilling from my soul into my sink. It was a reflection of all that was wrong in the world.
And everything is wrong with the world. If you haven’t seen the movie “Precious”...take several deep breaths and consider it. (It will give you an idea of why people are driven to drink. I wanted a bottle of something hard though I don’t drink at all). It alone will give several good pictures. There are hundreds of things to care about because there are hundreds of things wrong. Listing them one by one would exceed my longest blog. The list would go on and on and on...
Those were my thoughts: Everything is wrong. And it sucks. It sucks because I’m just one person. It sucks because I care but trying to decipher what and how to do something about it in relationship to where I’ve been gifted and graced in both passions and abilities are entirely different matters. It sucks because I feel like for how obvious hurt and pain and the absolute digression of morality and the dilapidated state of existence...too many people (I included) just stand to the side...especially those who claim Jesus and should be doing the most, be the most covered in the red, blues, and purple of humanity. The economic divide, the educational divide, the location divide, the religion divide, the divide divide...and we stay divided. We never get close enough to do anything.
So what if my life runs purple...
The last couple of weeks we’ve had 5th graders from the urban Detroit (at camp). You can tell when you talk to a few of them – even over the course of just a couple of days – that they’ve seen a lot of life (we’ll leave the story there for now). My hands, and my heart, have been bleeding purple a lot over the last week. I want to reach in and touch something and I try, but I have just two and a half days to make a difference that will impact them for a lifetime.
Yeah right.
Which is why I must come to the same conclusion I did when I first jotted down arbitrary thoughts three weeks ago when my hands ran purple into my bathroom sink. I have to know the fact that God loves me is enough.
It has to be.
It has to be because if He loves me (of all people), then I know He loves them. If He loves them, then they are worth loving. I know that if He loves me then even if all I get are 48 hours...then I get 48 hours to show kids something different. If He loves them, then He holds the worlds I don’t and can’t. If He loves me, then I have forgiveness for the times I don’t live up to that love, don’t live up to the call to love them, for when I stand to the side and perpetuate the divide.
I can’t save the world – not from any job I find myself in – no more or less this one than the next. I will never be able to. It’s not my responsibility to save the world. I might not even, really, make much of an impact. But every day I find myself with an opportunity to look humanity square in the face (wherever in life or the world I may be) and watch as my life runs purple and know that I can’t save but I have the responsibility to point towards the Savior. If I can know that God loves me and loves that world that so desperately needs love, then, for tonight...it will have to be enough.
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