"I Ate This Pickle For You!"

We had narrowly made it through an incredibly demanding week of camp; escaping within an inch of our lives – or so it felt!  With enough collective sleep on board to almost spell our names (a very mild exaggeration), I suggested lunch in town.  With a shrug and a collective “why not?”... we drove into a tourist town on a holiday weekend to eat lunch at a trademark restaurant. (We were tired and our judgment was perhaps a little...flawed...don’t judge us).

As we sat down at our table I turned to the two individuals who had kept me sane and alive all week (not even a mild exaggeration) and said “I have a very important question!”  I don’t know if my face was serious or if they were still in camp mode but both responded with a very direct “what do you need?” kind of answer. 

“Pickles. Fried pickles.  Do you like them? Do you eat them?  I really enjoy them and they are good here but they only come in like a million of them so if I am going to justify getting them then people have to eat them with me...”

Keli sort of chuckled and said she would commit to one or two. 

Laura’s responded with “Umm...We sell them at work but I’ve never tried them. I don’t really like pickles very much.  So I’m only good for one.”

It was all I needed to confirm my appetizer order.  It wasn’t until later that I realized the absurdity of this conversation.  I don’t remember the exact context in which it arose – large parts of the day, including the drive home, are rather a blur – but somehow it occurred to me/us that I had purchased fried pickles because Laura agreed to eat one – even though she doesn’t enjoy pickles.  Though she said it wasn’t too bad – she intentionally ate a pickle, when she knew she normally wouldn’t – because I said I need people to commit to eating them with me. 

“I ate this pickle for you!” became the humorously stated reality.  We laughed.  A lot actually. Small things seem very funny in the context of sleep deprivation.  “It’ll be the name of the book you write about this week” I proclaimed through chuckles. “I Ate This Pickle for You! Subtitle: And other things I did against my better judgment for Anika Kasper, A Memoir”.  We laughed more I’m pretty sure.

It was honest.  There was more than a little bit of truth in the reality of the absolute absurdity. “I don’t like pickles – so of course I’ll eat a pickle for you!”  She did it for me. 

Not that such a fact was surprising.  A week of camp planned on the fly while serving at another camp, accomplished by a very small team on very little sleep...Laura was a God send.  I asked how comfortable she would be as my left-hand woman*. And she ended up saying “yes” every time I asked if she’d be willing to do something...leading crafts everyday for all of our campers, even when we had already discussed the fact she really really didn’t want to and I wouldn’t make her (being a character in the skit), and before I could really ask and/or with little to no warning (entertaining with silly camp songs while I looked for a misplaced cabin).  It was a thing. 

Laura loves Jesus, loves kids, and loves camp – but she ate proverbial pickles for me all week.      

I realized I had been too.  But, though this will sound a little terrible, I did it for God. I did it for the things I felt like He was asking me to do...

I was asked to organize, program, and lead a week of camp on 72 hours notice.  I didn’t want to.  But I am too passionate about the power of camp and in the end that’s why I agreed.  I couldn’t stand the idea of 25 kids showing up at camp and having an experience where they couldn’t see Jesus on the mountaintop, let alone not be able to go to camp at all.  I ate a pickle.

We didn’t hardly have a staff.  Let alone a nurse (until Keli came in and saved the day!).  It was up to me.  I didn’t want to.  I especially didn’t want to get up at 2am (and sometimes also 4 or 5am...) to do a glucose check on one of our campers.  A first-time medically needy camper who repeated daily how this was the “best week of his life!” and on Friday night, when we all but ready to collapse, declared he “never wanted to leave”.  So I ate a pickle.

A group of boys insisted on pranking.  It was severely affecting a cabin of little girls. I didn’t want to have to routinely discipline a whole cabin...but it is important to me that camp is a place of safety – even felt safety.  So I ate a pickle.

Firebowl was delayed 30 minutes one night because of a conversation which needed to happen with boy with a heck of story.  His answers made me think, I felt a nudge.  I audibly told God “no” five times as I walked to light the fire.  I didn’t want to share any part of my story – not this week.  But with the conversation still burning and the nudge still nudging, I shared just a piece.  A very small piece.  And I was so mad at God for that one – but I ate a pickle anyway. 

The list could go on – don’t worry, it won’t.  If you look at it, however, this whole week was nearly as absurd as Laura eating a fried pickle so I could.  But I did...  I wanted to look God dead in the eye as I drove home and state “I ate this pickle for You!”  He didn’t apologize.  Instead there was this sense in which the answer was “Good.”

When working with children my most oft stated phrase is “Safety first is my number two rule!”  It’s typically yelled after children running with their shoes untied or attempting some group lift into a tree or something.  Sometimes the kids catch that the phrase doesn’t necessarily make sense.  “So then what’s your number one rule?”  “Jesus” I say. “Jesus is my number one rule.  Jesus doesn’t always ask you to do safe things.  But once it checks out through Jesus...then safety first should be your next agenda”.

Eating pickles is making safety first my number two rule. 

I, me, what I want, what I think I need – the thing which is otherwise first on my agenda – it should always come second to whatever it looks like, whatever it means, to be found in obedience to what God’s asked me to do.

Part of me thinks every believer ought to be able to have a book entitled “I Ate This Pickle for You! And other things I did because God asked me to...”  It can’t and shouldn’t be a hubris book of personal accolades but instead a testimony of faithfulness. God’s faithfulness to you and God’s faithfulness through you.  Your faithfulness in service to God in places where it was asked of you whether it was a choice you would have made or not. Places where God said “whom shall I send?” And though maybe you knew you’re the last person you wanted to volunteer...you say “here I am, send me”. 

“I ate this pickle for You!” ... it’s the statement screamed at God when it feels as if you are eating the pickle which seems far too big for you and you’re in over your head.

“I ate this pickle for You...” It’s the whimpered words of desperation when you’re eating the pickle feeling all alone and wishing God would just show up, seeing as it was something He asked you to do...

“I ate this pickle for You.”  It’s a declaration of offering when you successfully finish something far beyond your power or your control or energy or strength or ability – when people want to congratulate you and exalt you for everything you’ve accomplished.  When you know it had nothing to do with you and so you give it back. “This I did for You alone, take it and use it for Your glory and honor, that Your will may be accomplished in me and through me...”

John 3:30 finds itself in the midst of a testimony by John the Baptist.  His followers are worried because, (I find this terribly funny), people are going to Jesus to be baptized instead of to John.  He responds that his job, the work he does, it is only to make way for Jesus.  He was eating pickles so Christ could be known.  And his attitude ends the conversation as to why “He must increase and I must decrease”.  It has to be more about making God known than his own popularity, ego, or aspiration. 

In the end... “I ate this pickle for you” was an act of humility and service and friendship on Laura’s part.  Though goofy, she was willing to leave her place of comfort and desire so the goals of another could be accomplished. It’s the same with us and God.  God calls us to respond not necessarily out of our comfort or desire but out our service and love for Him.  We need to be willing to risk ourselves for the sake of the one who put the entirety of Himself on the line for us. 

If Jesus really is my “number one rule” then more often than I do I need to be able to respond with a life which proclaims “I ate this pickle for you”...

*I’m left handed and routinely automatically turn to the left, when making a reference, looking for a volunteer, etc.  It’s a thing.

To avoid inevitable confusion...the pickle is a metaphor and I would dare say there will be very few circumstances in which the literal consumption of a pickle will be an act of bold, self-sacrificing obedience for God.  Unless of course you’re my brother-in-law...for if he ever eats a pickle, that’s exactly what it will be!

Lent: Not Forfeit but Formation...

As a pastor’s kid, I was acutely aware of the church calendar...especially as it related to Advent and Lent. (aka: the times of the year I was going to see my dad the least...) But it’s never left.  So, its one of those things I anticipate still to this day.  I’ve been gearing up for Lent, in some ways, since Christmas. 

Lent officially begins today (Ash Wednesday) in protestant churches and it’s been an extra piece of contemplation for me in the last few weeks.  Much like Advent, is a time of reflection and preparation and so I’ve been preparing to prepare (the idea of “preparing to prepare” makes me giggle a little) for a while now.  Preparing in the last few years have including thinking considerably more about the root and purpose of Lent. 

With an opinion from just about anybody and everybody...I realized that sometimes the most important part of learning about something (or someone for that matter!) includes learning about what it isn’t...

So, what isn’t Lent?  Lent isn’t self mutilation.  It’s not about personal flogging until you are spiritually ready. It isn’t about self deprivation or abuse.  And that gets confusing...because isn’t self deprivation and abuse the point of a Lenten fast or sacrifice? Culture certainly says so!

But it’s not.  Lent isn’t a sacrifice.

I had several conversations during Lent last year (and especially the year before...it’s what got me contemplating to begin with) which caught me by surprise.  Some more than others... 

As a believer, it makes sense that Lent would mean something to me but most have friends and family members and acquaintances without a faith to speak of who will declare their Lenten sacrifices. I will undoubtedly have multiple notifications of facebook status updates reading things like “won’t be back for 40 days! PM for my number to text or call instead” or “don’t know what I’ll do with Mt. Dew ‘til Easter but here it goes!”  A conversation with a Lent-practicing but non-believing friend included the insightful and profound explanation “it’s just what you do”. 

Cultural fasting...interesting but not totally surprising. 

What was surprising were the multiple convos with believers – including a pastor and another who talked to their pastor and another who had the message preached from the pulpit from their pastor...who believed Lenten fasting wasn’t biblical.  Their responses were almost identical: “It’s misguided!  To believe you could sacrifice for 40 days as a part of sharing in Christ’s sacrifice is ludicrous!  I don’t fast because such a mindset is to grossly undercut the sacrifice Christ made.” 

The basic tenants I don’t disagree with...but it does show a gross misunderstanding of Lent.  We are told by Paul several times to share in the sufferings of Christ...most often connected to persecution for the sake of the gospel...but even those he personally cast aside as being meaningless in light of Jesus.  It seems entirely unlikely that Early Church Fathers would have supported a “40 day trial run” of sharing in Christ’s suffering.  And in fact they didn’t.  Why? Because Lent isn’t a sacrifice.  Sacrifice, or rather, fasting is a part of Lent... But it is also not the purpose.   

The purpose of lent isn’t forfeiting things...it’s about spiritual formation.

But, Lent also isn’t about a purge which makes one somehow holier and therefore “good-enough” for Easter...(which is another thing I’ve heard about Lent).  As if yesterday, happily known by believer and unbeliever alike as “Fat Tuesday” could empty us of all of our wrong and forty days of holiness could some how win us God’s favor.  This makes God out to be a domineering vending machine...Like if we push the right buttons, God’s favor will be unleashed instead of the gift given out of pure grace.  Romans 5:8 tells us that while we were yet sinners, Christ died...meaning at the height of humanity’s shortcomings, we were offered redemption.  Forty days is never going to be long enough to repay or earn salvation...because a lifetime won’t be.  It’s the height of the beauty of grace.

So what is lent?  Well “Lent” oft refers to “40” in its root in many languages but literally is an anglo saxon word meaning “spring”.  Lent is about life.  And furthermore true life that is available through Christ. 

Officially? The “encyclopedia” version would say something like:

Traditionally, in the protestant church (I make this distinction because Catholic and Orthodox traditions have some different practices), Lent is the 40 days - sans Sundays - leading up to Easter.  Sundays are left out as each is supposed to represent a mini Easter and therefore be a day of celebration.  The 40 days are symbolic to the 40 days Jesus spent being tempted in the wilderness before he was made ready for ministry.  In the same way Lent is supposed to represent our own temptation in a spiritual wilderness, a state of fasting and simplicity in preparation. 

As it has been since the beginning...original Lenten practices dating back to the time of the Nicean creed so 300’s AD...the overall purpose is literally spiritual formation.  In that we allow ourselves to be formed by the Spirit for His purposes.  Every part of Lent, including fasting, is in hopes of taking our attention off of ourselves and our desires and putting them on Christ.  I don’t know if there is a better verse than Hebrews 12:2  “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus...the maker and perfector of our faith”.

Furthermore, while we think of Lent as being a time of fasting (which we’ve already discussed – it’s not in and of itself)...it is actually six things: fasting, praying, almsgiving, thankfulness, service, and scriptural reflection.  Fasting, praying, and almsgiving were considered noncompromiseable in the early church and the fasts, especially, were very strict. 

While I didn’t find any research on it, my guess is that fasting stuck out as the height of Lenten practices because it is most unlike the other five and most unlike day to day.  Many see Lenten fasting as an act of penitence...an act of repentance.  And in many ways it is. 

True fasting isn’t about what or how the sacrifice is made but what takes its spot.  Not forfeit but formation.  Fix your eyes on Jesus... 

Choosing to fast should not be based on what others decide or don’t decide to do or their motives behind it.  It shouldn’t be a whim, a diet plan, or easy.  Me giving up dairy for Lent because I’m lactose intolerant is like my mother giving up peppermint...because she hates it and therefore will never have to worry about failing.  I think choosing to fast should come with the fear of failing. Fasting should be hard...in such a way that it will force us to place dependence in some area of our lives back where it already belongs – on Christ.  The act of “missing it” will force thought to go to the commitment, force one to think of Lent, cause one to think of the preparation to acknowledge Christ’s gift to us and accept that grace fresh and anew day after day after day.  Fasting isn’t suffering – it’s finding ourselves empty and so able to be filled by Christ. 

I have been challenged (and would also challenge you) to also look at the other five tenants of Lent: praying, almsgiving, thankfulness, service, and scriptural reflection.  I think it gives us room and opportunity to be creative. I once read a quick post which split each of the six into weeks: one a week for each of the six weeks of Lent.  Maybe this is worth emulating and so finding ways to incorporate them all little bits at a time.  Or perhaps a couple could be chosen to focus on for forty days.  After all, studies show it takes between 21 and 30 days to create a habit.  Make Lent about thankfulness and service (fore example) and it might be enough to make a life about them...

So make Lent about fasting and finding yourself with palms up looking to receive what God puts in to empty hands. 

Make Lent also about prayer: make time in your days to pray, incorporate it into the things you do and the thoughts you conjure as you go about the day. 

Make Lent about scripture...be intentional in seeking God through His word, allow His word to challenge and convict and to comfort and to guide. 

Make Lent about giving...use the unique gifts God has given you to serve others and therefore to honor him...giving doesn’t always have to be monetary. 

Make Lent about service...think critically about how your actions value others and follow a Philippians 2 model of humility and service to make that value known and true. 

And make Lent about thanksgiving...thank God for his grace and his goodness...intentionally seek out and thank someone who has expressed God’s goodness to you.   

(Check out what Jesus has to say about how to go about practicing these tenants years before Lent would be considered in Matthew 6:1-21...)

 

And in all...put God first.  Make it about Him and not about you or about what others think.  And if you fail or miss a day or forget...start again.  My experience tells me God’s grace often waits at about the same place I fell.  Regardless of what Lent means to you or what you decide to commit to in Lent...put your treasure somewhere your heart will follow... 

Laundered Rags, Really?

My mom washes rags.

Like “cleaned the whole kitchen and then wiped up a mild mudslide” rags.

We’re not talking expensive or meaningful rags.  These aren’t sham-wow’s or those things that can absorb a whole bucket of water (wait, are those sham-wows??) or the ones that polish the stains off of silver and re-varnish wood tables.

These are old socks...which sprouted holes and were filleted to serve a new purpose.

These are the remnants of t-shirts...the fronts of which were turned into a t-shirt quilt...

These are towels...which covered you – sort of – (if you were open to unfortunate peep shows), that were cut into squares.

These are (unfortunately) underwear from, well, no one wants to know.  Admittedly this is no longer really true but oft was when I was a child.  It doesn’t seem so long ago we retired the “rag” with the Mickey Mouse print...

I should also note that we have no shortage of rags.  We could clean up several mild mudslides. They aren’t a rare commodity...

And my mom, she uses them. She abuses them.  Like when you find one, you don’t question where all it’s been.  It could be an X-file episode with a warning label.

And afterwards? She washes them.

Takes ‘em, tosses ‘em in with a load of whites, bleaches the snot out of that poor rag (which vaguely remembers being a sock in some previous life), and it shows up somewhere else a few days later.  Faithful rags...

  

You wanna know what I do with rags?

I commit them to a task. I take one rag (typically one the 19 formed from some t-shirt) and I give it a mission. Say “the bathroom”.  I grab my cleaner.  And then I wipe down the counter and the sink. Then I wipe out the bathtub. Then, after scrubbing out the inside of the toilet with a brush, I wipe down the rest of it with my rag. 

And after? When this rag has spent its last repurposed moment with a bleach laden toilet bowl?

I throw it away.  I throw it. Away. I throw it. In the garbage. With tissues and hairballs and dental floss. And then I take the trash out of the bathroom.

Call me crazy, (it’s been done before...you wouldn’t be the first nor would you be the last), but no part of me wants to take that rag which has seen the nastiness of potentially all nastiness and just toss it in with some towels and socks and whatever. I can’t do it.

  

Now, I come from a very proud Dutch heritage.  I can claim with some degree of certainty that in this melting pot called America that I am 100% Dutch*.  If you know someone this Dutch you probably know a few things about my kindred.  The Dutch are notoriously stubborn and notoriously proud... “you can always tell a Dutchman but you can’t tell him much!”...and notoriously frugal... “have you ever heard how copper wire was invented? Two Dutchmen fighting over a penny!” (But for real...where did you think the phrase “going Dutch” came from?)

Now, I did use the word “frugal” and not the similar but different word “stingy”.  I suppose I can’t speak for all of us, but I have found most to be extraordinarily generous and giving...but where there is a penny to be saved? There is definitely a penny to be earned!  You use things until they die and then you repurpose them and use it again!  We routinely washed Ziploc bags and left them open to dry overnight when I was young.  When we had to rebuild part of grandpa’s greenhouses after a tornado? We salvaged and drilled back in many old screws.  And cool whip containers? Oh...don’t get me started on cool whip containers! 

Making rags out of old socks is a given. (It is practically genetic!)  And washing them is merely the natural outsourcing of the “use it till it’s dead!” lifestyle.

I am a stubborn, proud, (and pretty frugal!) Dutch woman.  I try to do too much on my own. I do things people tell me I can’t do just to prove to them I can.  I don’t back down from something I believe in.  I am a thrifty shopper and a champion budgeter.  However, I do not and will not wash rags.  It will not happen. Ever.

This long narrative?

First...I love stories.  And story telling. I’ve come to accept this and I find no reason to apologize.

Second...when switching out the laundry I found three of the afore mentioned washed rags (and promptly shook my head with deep sigh)

Third...I was reading the other day in Isaiah.  Specifically Isaiah 64.  Specifically verse 6.  “All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags...”

Filthy rags.

Mudslide rags.

Toilet rags.

Actually pretty literally.  Forgive the “oh gross!” factor (if you feel like you need the warning) but most biblical scholars will point to the connection of “ceremonial un-cleanliness”; those who translate out of the original Hebrew (which I can’t do so I take their word for it) assert its literal translation is “menstrual rag”. 

Menstrual being "a woman’s period".  Rag being “thing to sop up said period”.

This poem given in Isaiah 64 speaking of God’s greatness and humanity’s, (specifically God’s chosen people, Israel – to whom we have been grafted in), depravity creates a staggering contrast. Here is God – before whom the mountains tremble and twigs blaze and water boils and nations quake and then there are His people. His people whose most righteous acts, the best of who we are, are menstrual rags.  Used tampons.  Soiled maxi pad (or “Always with Wings” – take your pick). 

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been called some pretty terrible things in my life.  Creative, terrible things even (not all bullies are as stupid as they look!). But I don’t recall ever being called a dirty tampon.  I’m a chick.  I’ve been around this block more than a few times and explained the “magic of womanhood” to more than a few terrified sixth graders. Still, there is something incredibly disgusting about being called a dirty tampon. 

Culture has come a long way in normalizing this very normal occurrence (I used to say things to my campers like “the good news is...only like 40 or 50 more years!”).  And when I say “a long way” I am saying that what I view as both normal and pretty fantastically gross was the height of insult in Isaiah. 

Ya wanna know why? Blood.

Blood was ceremonially unclean.  According the Levitcal law (Check out Leviticus 15), anyone who touched a woman on her period was unclean.  Anything she sat on or touched was unclean.  Anyone who touched something she touched was unclean.  And after the bleeding stopped? Count off seven days...then you can be clean.  Cleanliness was far more than a social issue.  It was a God issue.  Being unclean kept people away from God. Clearly this oversimplifies the bigger picture but it gives an idea of what’s going on in Isaiah. 

Isaiah is literally saying: “what you think is getting you closer to God is doing the exact opposite, it’s revolting.” And, as Isaiah continues, their fate is sealed...shrivel like a leaf, swept away by sin, made to waste away... 

Those toilet rags were as good as mine...trashed!

There was this moment of self-triumph when I thought I had biblical evidence for my rag disposal...

It was short lived.

Short lived because if this is reality, it is also my fate.  Or should be...

Except the book of Isaiah, much like the narrative of scripture as a whole, is about more than Israel’s shortcomings. It’s about God’s love, God’s mercy, God’s grace, God’s faithfulness to an unfaithful people, God’s salvation for an unworthy people. 

Ultimately God does what only my mom has dared to do since – He washes those rags.  1 John promises that God cleanses from the unrighteousness. He makes clean what before was the epitome of unrighteousness.  He takes toilet rags – something no one should go near even if they wanted to, something without Christ He had to be separate from – and washes them. Repurposes again and again and again...Repurposes for His purposes...

Lent is approaching and so this reality brings me ever closer to my knees – and on more than one occasion – to tears.  I can see myself as a dirty rag.  I know the height of my unworthiness...and putting up next to God’s righteousness?  The distance separating is staggering. But so is His love for me.  I have a sense of what God’s redeeming from...

My brain took it a step further though.  It always does. 

See...I realize I am a washed a redeemed dirty rag (I don’t mean to be a heretic, I’m aware Jesus was Jewish, I just think He would make a good Dutch man...just staying).  But I am also the one who all too easily throws away dirty rags.  One mission, remember?  Sometimes I think I do that with people too...

I see where God has washed and redeemed me...but I forget He is always and still in the process of redeeming. 

Not just me but others.  Not just the others I like...but especially the ones I don’t.  Especially the ones who make me angry. Who hurt me.  Who, worse, hurt those who are important to me.  The ones who do stupid things and make bad decisions and I shake my fist at the pictures on the news. The ones who endanger the world, the innocent, the defenseless. The ones that make me growl as I mentally curse the parents of students whom I love but I know aren’t the parents they need to be (as their kids tell me through tears and hugs and nonchalant “yeah the police were at my house again...” comments). 

Jesus and I have been talking a lot about forgiveness in the last year.  I’ve had to come to this point of realization where I know forgiveness is important and necessary for those who have wronged me but I forget that a) I have to forgive those people who haven’t directly wronged me but whom I still hold accountable and that b) forgiveness is oft WAY bigger than me – I have to give it and them to God to forgive and c) God forgives those who acknowledge sin (flashback to 1 John...) AND d) God is in the practice of washing dirty rags.  God is in the practice of redeeming the ones I am ready to throw away... 

The moral of the story? I could take some lessons from my mom.  Maybe wash a dirty rag from time to time...  If for no other reason than maybe it would remind me to be more like Jesus.  To be more dedicated to the process of redemption...

*I’m secretly compelled by and terrified of those Ancestry.com commercials where the one guy finds out he’s not German.  I think it would be fascinating to have my DNA tested but am afraid that it is going to reveal that somewhere way way back there was a single lonely strain of Russian or something and so I’m only 98% Dutch.  I want to know...but I don’t want to know.  I want to live in my pureblood pride as long as I can...

Sunglasses on a Cloudy Day...

The synopsis of my muddled brain which follows requires (at least) two back stories...

Back Story 1: If you know me personally, or interact with me on a relatively normal basis, you are probably already aware: I have this thing for sunglasses.  It stems, at least in partial, from necessity rooted in especially sensitive eyes (my doc told me back in the day radiation would intensify this and it’s a legit warning on the label of my life-preserving medication).  I rarely go anywhere without a pair of sunglasses.  Even if it doesn’t seem necessary.  There is nothing worse than suddenly needing sunglasses and not having any.  Also I have a few issues (friends and family call it my “OCD” but really I just like things to match...and be in alphabetical order...and to keep track of percentages as I read or complete a project...and a couple other small things...) and I really like when my sunglasses (like my socks and underwear) match my outfit.  Which has resulted in me purchasing multiple pairs of sunglasses that I might have some for every occasion.  I have A LOT of sunglasses.  I was working at the elementary school for less than two hours when my first student noticed (I work on the playground, mostly) my “shades”.  And, as the weeks progressed, my students would begin to watch and look for my various pairs...and then note how they matched...and how I ALWAYS had them with me...

Back Story 2: (Connected to the Prior) I have a “Lunch Box” which I keep with me at work.  It is an old Whitman’s Chocolate Sampler box which contains “musical chairs”, Story Cubes, Mad Gab, Silly Putty, Would You Rather?... Once my kiddos sit down with their lunches I find a table group with whom I haven’t sat in a while and we play games until lunch recess.  I/it gets fought over with every grade at every lunch.  I love the way it fosters their imagination and lets me into their worlds in subtle ways.  They are obsessed with “Would You Rather” (Story Cubes a close second).  One of the questions (a frequent reoccurrence) is “Would You Rather...have a bestselling book or top-chart song written about you?” I typically follow their answers with “what would the title be?” and receive many eclectic responses.  A fourth grader asked me what my title would be and another instantly responded with “It should be something about her sunglasses!” A pair were propped characteristically on the top of my head – despite the fact the day was cloudy at best. 

The title of the best-selling book (obviously it was book! Psh!) written about my life?

“Sunglasses on a Cloudy Day”

Though probably a mid October declaration, it has been a favorite thing to ponder.  (The title not the hypothetical book).  I smirk when that question comes back into rotation.  I sometimes find myself reflective as I go to pick out the most suitable pair for the day. 

Sunglasses on a Cloudy Day  

This is not a title that would refer to my chronic over-preparedness. It goes deeper than that.  The longer I’ve sat with this make-believe title, the less whimsical it appears and the more defining it becomes...of me and my life as whole. 

Wearing sunglasses even if the sun isn’t shining yet is not about “thinking ahead”; it is not the result of mere folly; it isn’t even definitely connected to my innate fear of being caught with burning retinas.  It’s about the “yet”.  The sun isn’t shining...yet. 

Wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day is about expectation.  It’s about hope...

I have a love/hate relationship with the word “hope”.  It, (with the word “joy”), has been one of my “words” for several years. Definitively...eight (although perceivably longer).  It is a love/hate relationship because I love what it means, what it stands for, what it refers to in my life...but it was a word thrust upon me more than it was a word I chose.  A word rich with meaning, especially in my life, and so I love it.  But a word so rich I struggle to live into it and so I hate it because it demands so much of me. 

Yet in seasons of my life such as this, it’s a word close to my heart, nearly always on my mind. This is an apt time for me to consider.  My brain and heart are oft busy this time of year regardless of the rest of life.

It’s December 29.  I am somewhere directly in-between my eight year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis (12.26) and my eight year anniversary of receiving my smile-shaped necklace scar (1.3).  I’ve officially been clear as long as I was diagnosed and yet my wheels spin and my memory blasts quickly and sharply and raw.  It often does about this time of year.  It’s strange to have to process something which turned my life upside down and inside out and spit me out with pieces of my world screaming “where is your God?”

It was the beginning of my journey with hope.  It didn’t happen all at once.  It wasn’t something I could see or understand from the beginning.  But it was the gift I was given.  I was given the picture of a “glimpse”...when it is stormy and the sky is gray and clouds completely cover the skyline and there is just gray, forever gray.  But then the clouds break, just a little, just a moment...in that break the sun pours through and floods a piece of the sky, though small, with light.  And there is the reminder that all along the sun has existed just beyond the clouds.  

Hope is realizing and putting faith and trust beyond the temporary and holding out for the transformational. It is Abraham’s hope, acting on the promise that God is going to show up. Collins, a Christian counselor wrote that hope is “more than the wish that God will perform a miracle. It is the confidence that God, who is living and sovereign, also controls all things and can be expected to bring to pass that which ultimately is best...”  Hope arises out of the belief that God sustains; God restores.

In the world's worst research paper (it was a “good” paper but totally removed from my heart on the matter in order to please a finicky professor) I had to detail how hope was integrated into the counseling office. In the midst of my research I poured through passages of scripture dealing with hope.  I was struck anew by the fact hope rarely stands alone and is seldom admonished or pursued separate of suffering and the faithfulness of God...

The writer of Lamentations bemoans his predicament and is burdened with bitterness and affliction but transitions to an attitude of hope stating “Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, His compassion never fails...” (Lamentations 3:19-26, emphasis added). God’s faithfulness is the “therefore”. 

On the other side of the resurrection there is an additional understanding of the promise given to Christians of God’s power, presence, and authority.  Peter refers to it as “living hope” – implying it is not stagnant but active and growing – which is made possible through the resurrection of Jesus and fulfilled in an inheritance resulting from suffering of many trials (1 Peter 1:3-9). 

Paul expresses it even further stating not just the inheritance but the suffering itself should be rejoiced in; not for the suffering in and of itself but for what it accomplishes: “Not only so but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character hope.  And hope does not disappoint, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.” (Romans 5:3-5).

Trials, suffering, and crises give way to hope when properly considered and, unlike the crisis itself, it will not disappoint.   Suffering births hope.

So...why this? Why now? What now?

Here I am on December 29.  Part way between Christmas and the start of a New Year.  Two calendar days which sandwich the depth of “hope”.  The New Year always has this way of encompassing the idea of anticipation and expectation and looking forward to not what has been but what will be.  And Christmas, Christmas is the reality of hope fulfilled.  The ultimate display of what it means for God to “show up”; what it means for God to fulfill His promises; what it means for God’s faithfulness to break into the lives of a hurting world; what it means to continue to give reason, to be the “therefore” of hope. 

So I find myself looking forward, which is forcing me to look back.  I am considering what 2016 will hold, where I am and what I’m doing and what God possibly is thinking with the life He has me living.  I struggle to see His plan, His purpose, and sometimes...His presence. 

This time of year can be hard to process.  Hard to recall.  It’s life. It happens...because it happened.  But it also can be a refreshing and joy filled reminder.  “This I call to mind and therefore I hope...”  God has been SO faithful in my life in so many places, so many ways – ways far greater and thicker and richer than the questions and doubts I find myself with.

So instead I find myself wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day.  Filled with expectation rooted in the promises of the transformational. Because every so often the sun breaks through the clouds and I’m reminded it has been there all along...

Coffee, Oughts and Wants

The first time I drank coffee, it was for a boy I liked.

I was a sophomore in college.  Doing my best to just get by in terms of life and school with the added problem of “cancer” in the mix.  I was on my way out of the Dining Commons, having just finished my iodine free meal all alone...and he was on his way in.  He asked where I was headed and if I was in a hurry.  He’d love to catch up on life.  He noted I was on my way out but did I have time for some coffee?  Had I tried this coffee? It was so good! It was a mix, he knew, but seriously some good stuff.  I was short on friends and I wasn’t in his “inner circle” but he was a solid addition to mine.  Not to mention I was not at all about to turn down an opportunity to chat with the guy I called “friend” but had also been secretly crushing on for the last couple years.  I agreed.

Now...I had drunk coffee before. Floofy coffee that was mostly cappuccino.  And...desperate Thursday camp coffee...containing a handful of sugars and at least as many creams per cup.  You know, the kind to help one survive at the end of a marathon week.  But I wouldn’t have called myself a “coffee drinker”...

We walked over to the beverage bar and he poured himself some coffee.  I took a stryofoam cup and filled mine.  And paused.  I couldn’t add any cream because of the precarious iodine content it undoubtedly contained.  And I wasn’t about to add sugar without cream.  I sipped.  Black.  He was right. Not the worst stuff... although it was bitter and hot and I didn’t know if I was totally up for the challenge.  I looked at him, smiled, and held my coffee.  I continued to sip.

I recall not moving very far from the beverage bar. I have no idea why.  I’m sure we must have drove people insane.  But we chatted.  He filled up his cup at least once more and I continued to sip on mine, black.  All the while smiling and listening to him talk about, well, I don’t fully remember but I do know it included Ghost Busters. 

I remember later telling a friend proudly I drank my first cup of coffee.  I think I even called and told my dad.  I didn’t tell them I did it for the boy I liked.  That I drank my first cup of coffee for a boy...

It was the first of many.

Cups of coffee that is. 

Boy removed.

Although it would have happened eventually.

The coffee that is.

A year later and I found myself in Uganda.  Coffee is a major export.  When we had the chance to drink real coffee (some areas it was ALL exported and natives drank Nescafe.  I have to be pretty desperate for that)...it was always rich and delicious. Milk, however, was in short supply.  And sugar was always a dark cane sugar.  Not exactly the mixture you put in coffee.  I first drank coffee for a boy...but Uganda taught me to love it...

I first drank coffee for a boy...

But eventually I would have made it there on my own.  If not Uganda then something else.  Because I never hated coffee and I really love coffee now. If I wasn’t going to love coffee (unlikely end: my grandmother Baas used to talk of her 24 cups a day in her prime, it was literally in my blood...), no boy would have been able to change my mind; no matter how long I had crushed on him.  But for me and coffee? It was just a matter of time.

HOWEVER, it took the boy to show me, to “make” me do what I was going to want to do anyway.

Now coffee...coffee isn’t necessarily a “should”...not anything important in the long run (legitimate claims to it being the elixir of life aside), but other things in life are. Now, there are certainly things we do for others which shouldn’t be done. Compromising the essence of who we are and who God created us to be for another is a generally bad idea. (I know about Peer Pressure – I went through DARE). And yet, sometimes, we need people to remind us of what we ought to do to reorient us around what we want to do.

I do this with running.  When I wake up in the morning, I have zero desire to jump on the elliptical or (depending on the location) throw on a pair of tennis shoes.  No part of me does.  My bed has the ideal number of blankets – for one.  Generally it takes a snooze and a pep talk; generally I have to convince myself it something I ought to do. By the time I’m done, however, I am glad I did.  I feel more awake and often less stiff and like I am better ready for the day. Despite what I told the first pep talk, I had wanted to...but the desire came out of an “ought”.

I saw that phrase “ought to remind of want” in my counseling text book for my most recent grad class.  The author was discussing forgiveness.  The fact that Jesus instructs it.  We can’t ignore it.  That for believers it’s something we typically genuinely want to do but it often takes someone reminding us, helping to show us and guide us to it, to remember that we want it as well. 

I am intrigued by the idea of “ought” being not just a directive – but a relationship. 

While, again, there are times we do things in and for relationship which are more or less compromising...

I’m reminded of all the times relationship helped guide me into the person I needed to be.

Wanted to be. 

In and for relationship I drank coffee and jumped off of cliffs. 

In relationship I was propelled to go through my extra ear piercing as a freshman in college and the tattoo I had been toying with getting as a 20-something. 

In relationship I’ve written and developed things I didn’t know existed inside of me...

In relationship I have experienced God in the most real and awesome ways. 

In relationship I have been given the picture of what steadfastness and commitment and sacrificial love look like. 

In relationship I was given examples of the transformative power of forgiveness, prayer, devotion. 

In relationship I was encouraged to stick with projects and decisions which would have otherwise been too difficult or terrifying to endeavor on my own. 

What makes me smirk is the fact I was willing to step into something uncomfortable for a boy I liked. (That’s not the part that makes me smirk – okay a little but not the contemplative smirk with which I now finish this string of thoughts).  What makes me smirk is that we, as humans, are oft willing to go to incredible lengths for those we like/love/care about.  If I claim to like Jesus, love Him more than anything or anyone, should His “oughts” not be compelling?  Should my relationship with him not lead me into things I’m not so sure about, lacking in true commitment to, but truly and honestly desire?  Should not forgiveness, love, service, thanks, prayer, joy, hope...all be actions which, though sometimes uncomfortable, are the things I’m propelled into for the sake of the One I love the most?  Might not those oughts which stir us become wants as well?  And if my relationship with Christ moves me to such things – should not my relationship with others draw them to similar ends?

I first drank coffee for a boy.

What relationships will I allow to lead me...

And to lead others...

To such life giving extremes...

To far greater Life-giving streams...?

The Cowardly Lion

If you have followed my blogs at any point over the last several years, you’ll be the first to realize there has been nothing to follow for the last nine months.

I haven’t posted a blog in nine months.

I don’t know I’ve ever had a gap that long...

I have excuses.  Meaningful ones...

I was working 60 plus hours a week...

I was trying to figure out why my meds were off...

I had just started grad school...

I was developing camp curriculum in some way, shape, or form for three camps...

I was preparing several messages...

I was doing my best to invest in a team of summer counseling staff...

I was job searching...

I was apartment hunting...

And did I mention I was in grad school? (With all of the reading and papers there-of)...

Time was in short supply. 

I have been running a marathon that I am even just now beginning to recover from and redefine. 

The days were always too long...

The nights were always too short...

There were never spare moments...

And when there were?  No part of me wanted to stare at a computer screen any longer. 

But there was more...

Time had been so short for so long with my life demanded by so much with the return being so little...

I didn’t have anything left to give. 

Not in word form. 

It used to be in this same physical drain...

The mental emptiness...

That the words would just flow. 

But not this time...

I was out of words.

I was out of me.

If you’ve followed my blog at all you know my blog has always been uniquely me...

Some odd combination of the way the life looked through my eyes...

The way God showed up in the midst of my moments...

But I was missing. 

There wasn’t anything of “me” I could put in word form...

Because I didn’t know who I was and where I fit in the midst of the life I was living...

So at least now we are being honest.

Somewhere at the core of the “problem” that is my abandoned “Abandoned Scawls” is the fact that I lost a sense of my identity. 

Who is Anika now? What is she like? What are her passions? Her hopes?  Her dreams? Her goals?  All of them exist (even now) as fill in the blanks.  Your answer is as good as mine.  Maybe better.

Truly.

But as longs as we are being honest...

Those questions are only half of the dilemma...

Half of the reality.

In all honesty,

I have written.

Written some...

There was the one about soul keeping...

And the blurb about my soul mirror...

And the reflections on the dusting of my grandparents antiques...

The one with the analogy from my short lived free cell addiction...

And the journey through my boxes of memories...

Not a ton, obviously.

I didn’t post any of them – clearly.

But I’ve written some.*

Honestly, I couldn’t.

I was too afraid. 

I couldn’t post because I lacked the courage.

The courage to reveal part of me...

The realization that the part I revealed may or may not be someone I recognized.

I can’t and won’t dive into detail but I spent the year traversing from (what seemed to be) one disappointment to the next.  Some things are just things, just life (car problems and school delays and doctor changes and medical questions) and some were very personal.  Some were direct stabs.  I was betrayed by people I trusted, hurt by people I had called friend.  I was lied to and lied about.  I worked endlessly to serve people who didn’t care, would never understand the extent of my investment, who left at the end of the week because camp was over or, worse, who never left but also never showed up. 

I slowly but surely withdrew. 

I limited the people I could trust. 

I only spent time with those people.

I was embittered by reality and calloused by my own objective.

To put my most basic thoughts in a public space was like putting a sign around my neck that said “I’m bruised and broken and I’ve just stopped the bleeding, so hey! Why not take another stab??”  It seems melodramatic but in many ways it was the way I felt.  If I could be attacked without any of my cards showing, what could possibly propel me to leave myself exposed?

I couldn’t do it.

I was too afraid. 

I’ve felt like the Cowardly Lion...

Remember how Dorothy approached him with trepidation?

...Only to find out HE was the one who truly feared?

He talked a big talk...

But walked a shallow walk...

I had all of these thoughts...

Muddled and uncertain...

Stuck but pushing...

And none of them would I let put through.

None of them would reach a public sphere...

I was raw.

I was confused.

I wasn’t driven – at least not that internal-can’t-get-these-words-out-fast-enough kind of driven...

I sat down and I ran out of words to say. 

And when the words came...

I wondered...

I wondered if they were me.

And I wondered if they were me if that would give permission,

Permission for the world to tear off a piece I couldn’t afford to lose.

Because life had me living the life of an oxymoron...

A Wordless Writer

A Bottled Explosion

A Cowardly Lion

The thing about the Cowardly Lion, though, for those who know the story’s end... [For those of you who don’t...a) spoiler! and b) for real?? Where have you been? We are talking a cinema masterpiece!]...is that all of the characters, Lion included, are awarded the things they most covet at the end.  Why?  Because he was deserving?  Because he had traveled so far and wanted it so badly? No...because his journey proved the courage he had so desired had been inside of him all along.  The Lion was limited only by the cowardice he assigned himself...not the breadth of ability or the lack of intention.  He feared because he didn’t know (perhaps what he really needed was Scarecrow’s brain!), he didn’t know the stuff he was made of, he didn’t know the companions for his journey...

I am reminded of scripture. 

Joshua specifically

(Although my brain goes to so many places the examples could be near endless...)

Here we are at the beginning of Joshua 1

Moses has died and the reigns of leadership are being given to Joshua...

Whose task it will be to take the Israelites into the Promised Land.  

Joshua is being given instructions in the form of a blessing...

Over and over his instructions include “be strong and courageous”. 

Biblical accounts point to the fact that Joshua was faithful...

But also relatively strong and courageous. 

(From brave spy to brilliant warrior to faithful servant who accompanied Moses in receiving the 10 commandments from Mt. Sinai...) 

I have to wonder if he was ready to take over the leadership Moses had previously,

If he always believed in himself,

But his character spoke for itself.

Much like the Cowardly Lion, Joshua’s instructions weren’t to give him the power...

They were given to remind him of the actions he had already displayed...

The actions required of him when the moment demanded.

“Be strong and very courageous”. 

Instructions as a blessing came with a promise, however.

Joshua was told “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you.  Be strong and courageous” (1:5-6) and the well known words of 1:9 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

Where do all these thoughts connect?  That’s a good question.  Because in my head – they don’t.  But in my heart they do.

See...it’s in writing quite often that God shows up.  It’s not that He hasn’t been there but who He is and insights into His character and where He has been active in my life...somehow it all starts to become clear when I write.  When I allow words to flow with or without my permission... it’s in looking back that occasionally it all makes sense. 

See it’s not about blogging or even posting – it’s about the moment of realizing that fear is petty in comparison to the One who meets me in the words such produce.  Petty in thinking a cowardly response to the life which hurt was better than intentionally embracing the gift of space I was given to simply meet God amidst the words. 

I’ve been the Cowardly Lion. It’s not that I couldn’t. I was limited only by the cowardice I assigned myself.  Not the breadth of my ability or even the lack of attention.  I feared because I didn’t know.  Feared because I didn’t know the stuff I was made of (the problem of definition and who I would find in the pages) and I knew – but acted as if I didn’t – the One who was along for the journey.

The thing about promises in scripture is that though given by God to an original audience (fresh out of a Bib-terp class this important to note), as a people grafted in – the promises can be and are true for us too...thousands of years later.  “As I was with Moses so I will be with you...be strong and courageous.” 

A strange inaugural blog after a nine month hiatus, I’ll be the first to admit.  Application for you? Only if you want it.  See my blog was always supposed to be this public space in which the thoughts I had pondered and the words I had scrawled in this massive collision between where life happened and God showed up.  Abandoned for the world to find if it wished to be found... But existing as a pillar of testimony to the collision itself. 

May this stand as a pillar showing God isn’t finished with me yet...

Soli Deo Gloria.

May I be found faithful.

*Some of these may some day be posted.  Some will sit in the files.  I’ll try not to let all words go unsaid... : )

Crossed I's and Dotted T's

I match my socks to my t-shirt...

Everyday.

If I can even possibly begin to help it.

Lesser known fact: my underwear must also match.

To both my socks and my t-shirt...

If I can even possibly begin to help it. 

Whole outfits have been changed on the basis of one missing sock. 

I’ve had mini meltdowns (normally about the time laundry becomes a desperate situation) because I can’t quite put together the right combination. 

There is this little part of me that legitimately, (though the ridiculousness even as I admit it to myself reaches preposterous heights), has a bit of internal anxiety well up inside on days I choose to leave the house without proper coordination.

I wish I were joking...

I wasn’t always like this. 

I mean, I’m sure I always had plenty of odd quirks and I know I’ve gone through plenty of strange obsessions... (For example, my affinity for VeggieTales and the right shade of neon green during my high school years could and should go nearly unnamed).  

Yet this strange compulsion isn’t quite five years old.

I can tell you almost precisely when it began.  The right search for the right journal entry and I could even give you a date... 

The details which surround are unnecessary.  But I do recall quite vividly the fact several pieces of my life were starting to spiral.  I was slowly but surely loosing the grasp of a couple items which always before made me feel like I had control.  The whirlwind inside flared with impressive fury.  And then one day, as life would have it, everything matched.  For the first time that day I was filled with such relief.  I remember extensive pleasure in the perfection of the ensemble. I also remember very little deliberate and immediate focus on such past that exact moment.  It would be several weeks before I realized I had been subconsciously and unintentionally designing my wardrobe choices around such a phenomenon.  In would be several more before it was a daily and purposeful decision. 

It was and is innocent and simple enough.  I chose a piece of my life – hidden and unknown, a piece for which no one could have an opinion or a say, a place which caused neither the world nor me any harm – and I created a power center around it.  Only I knew that the pieces pulled themselves together.  Only I needed to know.  It gave me a sense of control at an uncertain time.  When all else seemed chaotic – it was one thing I could guarantee was right about my day.  And for whatever psychological reason, many days...it was enough. 

This is a long and somewhat precarious story and confession with which to lead off.  Though if you’re familiar with my blog probably not at all surprising or unexpected.  And yet, why is it I share this detail?  Well, because it seems relevant.  Relevant because matching my socks and underwear to my t-shirts is on many days enough – but lately, not even close.  Relevant because it’s not uncommon in my blogs (when I write them that is...) to breach topics of control and subsequent surrender.  Relevant because it turns out I really love to have a sense of control (when I can’t over one area, it plays out in another) and I really struggle with the surrender that should be happening as a result...

I wasn’t always like this...

[Or maybe I was. Life has a way or rewriting memories sometimes]. As a child, I liked to envision myself a free spirit.  I was goofy and sarcastic and unruly and curious and creative and I was pretty sure all of that meant boundaries were what I made them.  But I think I always enjoyed putting the lines on my boundaries, even then...

Regardless, when I look back, for quite some time now, mostly what I see is a pile of ducks.

Emphasis on the pile.

I would love to see them in nice, straight lines. 

Rows would be preferable. 

Not my ducks though.

My ducks like to be in piles. 

I don’t know the last time I’ve felt like my ducks have really all been in a row...

So I go back to grasping for control and looking for thicker socks to be worn in the winter and still match the day’s outfit to somehow feel a semblance of having the pieces of my life in order...

It’s harder than it looks.

And maybe also unnecessary.

About a year ago (I think), my brother, Caleb, and I were talking about life.  Life such as this where the ducks are undoubtedly deaf, mute, and blind (and also struggling with one leg which is just enough shorter than the other as to propel them naturally in circles rather than lines).  It was then Caleb mentioned his own desire to have t’s crossed and i’s dotted in life. (A task harder some days than others...) In the midst of our conversation Caleb noted how some days he felt like the best he did ended with him crossing his i’s and dotting his t’s. 

Still he ended with this profound truth:

“Except, what I’m realizing, Anika...” Caleb told me on the phone, “...is even though I’m crossing my i’s and dotting my t’s...either way I’m still ending up with i’s and t’s.” 

Our conversation continued to explore this mind-shattering breakthrough.  Though it was true the resulting i’s and t’s may end up seemingly out of place in some cases, not at all where we wanted or planned them to go, the product was still the same.  A t crossed and an i dotted leaves me with t’s and i’s.  A t dotted and an i crossed leaves me with i’s and t’s.  The result is equal.  All that has really changed is the journey. 

I’m reminded of the story of Joseph... Now there is a guy who seems like he learned a few things about deaf, mute, blind, and tilted ducks. (For a full account of Joseph, check out Genesis 37-50).  I don’t think you could convince Joseph to tell you that life went the way he planned...(although curiously for Joseph at least...perhaps in fact the way he dreamed?).  I wonder how many questions Joseph was left with at the end of the day.  How did he deal with the uncertainty of God’s plan and provision (although clearly knowing the certainty of God’s hand upon his life?) in the midst of it all?

“Dear Scroll Diary, Here I am in prison again.  I mean, if you count the hole my brothers threw me in the first time.  I thought Potiphar was really starting to trust me.  It was like I was more than a slave.  But his wife...she’s....well, I guess using that word isn’t becoming.  *sigh*.  I thought things were really beginning to look up.  I know the Lord is with me but...right now all I see are a pile of ducks!”

Yet, as Genesis draws to a close, Joseph affirms the Greater.  He reassures his brothers with the words: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done...” (Genesis 50:20)

Honestly, Joseph could have pegged a lot on his brothers.  Their bullying and badgering and eventual sale of his personhood got the ball rolling on even worse situations.  This was not the dream God had given to Joseph.  And yet each step along the way brought Joseph closer to the life God had in store.  In the end, it looked like Joseph had all of his ducks in nice neat rows.  In reality those rows are the result of a journey of dotted t’s and crossed i’s.   God revealed not only His plan but the fullness of the dreams given.  The realities of every seemingly out of place “i” and “t” now fit perfectly into place when considered from the end.

I don’t always want to wait until the end.  In fact I rarely want to wait.  I wish I could at least get my ducks to learn a little sign language to hint at what row they are headed towards.  I like nice dots over i’s and proper crosses on t’s.  But instead I’m left relishing my perfectly matched socks.  But I can come to a sigh of relief realizing God's faithfulness is far more certain than matching underwear.  More than that, I’m looking to see where God is putting the crosses on i’s and dots on t’s in such a way as to take the life that doesn’t make sense [to me] and use it for His purposes and His glory. Perhaps one day down the line I’ll round up my ducks and sit them down and we will look back and see how just maybe my life, with every out of place crossed i and dotted t, will get used to “accomplish what is now being done...”