A Final Fairwell to the Jeans...

These were my “adventure” jeans.

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

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

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

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

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

So...

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

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

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

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

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

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


For the burning:

1. Assemble by fire (check)

2. Salute (check)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come and Dance

He stood there.

Waiting.

Would she come? Would tonight be the night?

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

~*~*~*~

And this persisted on. Night after night.

He waited. She feared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~*~

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

“You came...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~*~*~

Each night was much the same.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you trust me?”

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

“Then why won’t you dance?”

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

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

He reached for her but she pulled away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wouldn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

His voice deepened and his words became frantic.

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

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

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

His tear had turned into a quiet weep...

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

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

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


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



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

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

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

Attitude Adjustment

This week was a rough one.

I was tired. I was drained. The end of the season will do that to you.

To top it off, our kids were idiots. I might have, through the week, used the phrase “straight up retarded”. They were a little off the base the first half of the week and the group that came in the second? *Touched*. They were loud and disrespectful. They wouldn’t listen. And when they did? It was like they hadn’t as we repeated instructions yet another time for something simple and small. Their parents were cabin leaders and I felt like I could see where they got it from...

I thought maybe it was just me – my lack of desire to deal with their deals. Maybe I just sucked at life this week. I felt reassured and relieved to realize my coworkers – without commiserate – had come to the same conclusions. All of us were more than ready for our 200 bounding 5th graders to go home (within hours after they arrived, if I am really going to be honest).

Thursday I didn’t feel well. All day. It happens sometimes. I was also front and center stage all week as the Dining Room Supervisor. And I was whiny. Extra whiny. Physically checking out and working hard to try to make it at least looked like I was trying with these 5th graders I hated. After a full week and a day with five classes and a busy night still ahead, my inner (and natural) introvert was weeping. I needed an escape. And I might have hidden under the staff table for five minutes towards the end of dinner just to feel like that inner introvert was allowed to have some time.

I left Thursday dinner to get ready for square dance and I was grumpy. I had 7 minutes, no patience, no energy, and no desire. I walked past seven cabins to get to my own. One had a group of girls shrilling in high pitched voices – for fun. I scowled and my brow furrowed as I marched towards my house. “Go home. Just go home. All of you go home. I am tired. I am grumpy. And I feel like I am going to hurl. I don’t like you here. I don’t, actually, really like you. Shut up and leave!!”

My mental drama was met by own personal monologue.

“Anika, watch it...”
“Watch what?”
“Your attitude.”
“So what, I’m not allowed to be grumpy occasionally?”
“No, I’m telling you to make a choice. I know you’re tired. I know you don’t feel good...”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah...”
“I’m serious! Attitude adjustment!”
“Attitude, attitude, attitude...”

The very next words to come to my head and also my lips?

“Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus...”

Convicted much?

Maybe just a little. Or maybe just a lot as a grabbed a pen to write the familiar words from Philippians 2 on my arm.

I changed my clothes and hurriedly opened my bible to read through the verses. “Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus. Who, being the very nature of God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped but humbled himself, taking on the very nature of a servant...” (Phil 2:5-7)

Reality check = attitude adjustment?

My attitude hadn’t been at all like Jesus. There was no humility, no service. It was just about me. I was sick of kids. I didn’t feel well. I wanted time. I wanted to sleep. I wanted the kids to both shut up and magically become less stupid. I was whiny. I was irritable. I, I, I. Me, me, me.

There was no service or even a heart of service. I wasn’t serving my coworkers who were just as drained and tired as I and I definitely wasn’t serving campers or their parents or their teachers.

In trying to explain this at one point, I was told I was justified. Allowed to have off days and not expected to be perfect. While I am so thankful for those notes and the grace that abounds despite my glaring shortcomings – it still doesn’t excuse my need for an attitude adjustment. Just verses later and Philippians 2:14-15(and beyond) explain that when this attitude of Christ is displayed, when humility and service is mirrored, my response will not be grumbling but praise (missed that boat completely). We become as stars in the heavens, providing a light to a world that only knows blackness. What if my negative attitude made me miss my chance to be the only salt and light these kids ever see?

How do I adjust my attitude in such a way so that even on the worst of days, I am still carrying and taking on the attitude of Christ?

In all I do...
To honor You

Abercrombie, Hollister, and Velcro

I was instructing a class at LCC teambuilding initiatives) for a cabin of 5th grade boys. They were a squirrely bunch. Rambunctious, talkative, distracted. They had a hard time communicating and working as a team. Charlie was the most spastic of the group...and a straight up punk.

The thing that most struck me about Charlie? His fashion haircut and bright red Abercrombie t-shirt that had some slogan about being so good looking on the front. As I stood to the side watching the boys work on their initiative all I could think was “Really? Really? You’re in 5th grade. If I was your mom, I wouldn’t want you to grow up so fast. Whatever happened to being a kid?”

And then I looked down (trying to see if they had balanced the giant teeter-totter). As my eyes fell towards the ground, I saw his feet. There, on his feet, were a brown pair of tennis shoes. With Velcro straps. Velcro. Part of my 10-year-old, Abercrombie-wearing, punk was still a little boy...

Not an hour later I had two dozen 5th graders (boys and girls) out with me playing volleyball for afternoon activity. I switched between each of the four teams and eventually found myself on a team with Kyle. A tall, blonde 5th grader with a Hollywood smile.

Kyle wore a white Hollister tee and walked with the air of a kid who was well aware that he was well-known and well-liked. Two or three times I caught him making “that’s what she said” jokes...placed in such a way it was clear he knew exactly what he was saying. I called him out while spiking the ball one more time. I began to contemplate how old I was before those comments would have been more than just the “cool thing to say”. It came with the need to mourn the loss of innocence.

No sooner did I, with furrowed brow, contemplate this thought than the ball flew back over the net – smashing Kyle in the face. His bright red face (mostly from embarrassment) he held in his hands – trying hard not to let the rest of the gang realize a couple tears were making their way down his face. He turned around and shook it off and got back into the game before anyone else knew the difference. But I did. Part of my 10-year-old, Hollister-wearing, captain popularity was a still a little boy...

Today it was boys. Yesterday it was girls. With my 5th and 6th graders, I see it almost every day.

And I could blame a thousand things.

I could blame all of things we always blame. Things present in their life; things that leave an impression and have my 5th graders acting like high schoolers. I could definitely blame things revolving around the media: TV, Video Games, music, magazines, the internet...the messages they send. Or I could just blame their parents - a generation fed into believing that the label is everything and that the kid with the most toys (a cell phone at 9? Well, we we’re going to wait until her 10th birthday, but the family plan...) wins. Especially their kid. After all, its their parenting styles, their laissez-faire attitudes, their ability or inability to monitor what their kids are watching, listening, begging for. They are paying for those Hollister T’s after all. (Clearly this is rude generalization in angst of some parents and not all...)

Or I could just blame what’s not in their life. Sometimes it is structure, respect, discipline. Or the missing sense of being accepted for who they are – no labels attached. Or the ability to grasp hold of imagination and live in the simplicity of being a kid. Or maybe it is just real presence. The presence of someone(s) who is willing to protect the Velcro, protect the tears, protect the innocence.

Can it be me in the 2 or 3 or 5 days that I have them? Can it be you?
What are we going to do about it?

Busy, Busy, Dreadfully Busy...

In the VeggieTales Classic “Are you my Neighbor?” they recount the story of the Good Samaritan. With Larry the Cucumber portraying our beat-up and bullied traveler with his head stuck in a hole, many likely vegetables/characters come by but offer him no help. Instead they break out in this little number:

“I’m busy, busy dreadfully busy.
You’ve no idea what I have to do.
Busy, busy shockingly busy.
Much, much too busy for you....
Cause we’re busy, busy, frightfully busy.
More than a bumblebee, more than an ant.
Busy, busy, horribly busy.
We’d love to help, but we can’t!”

Okay, so maybe I’ve not been given the opportunity to help my neighbor on the side of the road who just happens to have his head stuck in a hole, but part of my insides have been screaming (for the better part of the last two weeks) “I’m busy, busy, dreadfully busy...” with any number of excuses as to what and to why and to how.

I’ve done my best to make time for people and situations and things. I’ve packed far more into my busy schedule than I previously thought possible. Working a typical 14 hour day seemed like a piece of cake after I managed to pack another five or six hours of life in and around it while denying my need for the little things, like sleep.

Busy. Too busy. But it get’s done, it always gets done. So says my longstanding mantra.

And in the end there is only one I’ve really been too busy for...

Jesus.

“You get it, right, Jesus? I’ve been busy. Terribly busy. Shockingly busy. Horribly busy. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you. It’s not that our relationship isn’t important to me. It’s just that... I’m busy. Frightfully busy. Dreadfully busy. Apparently much too busy for you...”

That’s a problem.

Quality time rates the highest on my love language profile. I feel most loved when I receive quality time and quality time is a huge part of the way I give love (acts of service rating just a little bit higher in the ‘give’ department, but the two play closely together.) This means that I interpret love through the eyes of time...at least on some level.

I see people investing the most time into the ones they hold the dearest and the closest. When you love someone, there is no “too busy”. You make the time. Giving time means the world to me. And giving the time you don’t have? In my life, that is the highest form of affection.

So what does it say if I haven’t given Jesus any time as of recently? Am I just not capable of giving because of my dreadfully busy schedule? Or does it really reflect back on to how much I love?

A couple weeks ago I stayed up late talking to my little sister on the phone. She needed me. I needed sleep. Terribly. But I love her. And love, for me, comes in the outsourcing of time. My time. She came before sleep...I didn't hesitate.

So what are my actions, decisions really communicating? “Jesus, I’m busy, frightfully busy...but I’ve managed to make time for everyone and everything but you...”?

Not okay.

I don’t think it takes a rocket scientist or even a relationship guru to know that healthy relationships require time.

I’m the spouse that comes home late – long after dinner’s become cold – shouting “what more do you want? I’m trying to provide for you, to serve You. What more do You want?”

And you can almost hear the whispered “You. The only thing I’ve ever truly wanted in this relationship is you. All of you. Anika, I want you.”

Oh to be as the psalmist who knew one day in the courts of the Almighty was better than a thousand anywhere else. There is one with his priorities straight. Time is relative when Jesus comes first. Everything else must follow behind.