Sound and Fury
AK January 2010
I cover my ears from the piercing shrill;
Chaotic cacophony plaguing me still.
A strand of hair breezes my face as yet another passes by...
I cower down.
I want to hide.
So many things I cannot control...
So much life I cannot hold.
Reach through the abyss
Of sound and of fury.
I am lost in this black hole
And the darkness does bury.
So find me.
I’m calling.
Calling you to set me free.
Do you hear
The shouting voices?
Do you feel
The tormenting wind?
Do you hear
The demanding noises?
Do you feel
My breath caving in?
Reach through the abyss
Of sound and of fury.
Lost in this black hole -
The darkness does bury.
So find me.
I’m calling
Find me -I’m falling;
Falling on my knees.
Rescue me in this life I surrender.
Redeem me from the self I abhor.
Deliver me from the abyss of confusion.
Empty me until I exist no more.
Release me from the burden I carry...
Unleash me from the sound and the fury.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Little Things...
I was trying to put in my contacts this morning. It is something I’ve done for the better part of year now. It’s no big. Eye open, silicone in, blink twice, good to go.
This morning I began the process as any morning. With my right contact resting on my left pointer finger, I held my eye open while allowing the cool, wet plastic hit my eye. I blinked. And then I screamed. My eye burned! I squinted my eye back open and was struck by the intense pink invading the creamy white of my eye. I blinked my eye a few more times before reconciling myself to the fact the intense pain would not be stopping. I frantically peeled the contact off of my eye.
I held it on my finger in one hand while covering my eye (as if holding it would take away its hurt) and began inspecting this small clear piece. Did I put it in backward? Was there a small rip or tear? Did I manage to put a tiny hole in its delicate surface? I put the contact back into solution and placed some eye drops in my throbbing eye.
As the water pooled under my eyelids, I felt something. Looking into the mirror I gently lifted my lid and then, (somewhat awkwardly), attempted to blink. As a small eye drop laden tear pooled in the corner, I caught the drop on my finer. There a small, thin, brown eyelash stuck contentedly.
“Seriously?” Was that it? I couldn’t believe it. Was that little eyelash stuck behind my contact, causing me so much pain? Questioning, swiftly I retrieved my contact and allowed it easily to cover my eye. Painless. The eyelash had been to blame the whole time.
The eyelash was small, essentially harmless. They fall out all of the time. You blow them off and make a wish. Had I known it was loose, I probably wouldn’t have thought it a very big deal. But sometimes the littlest things make the biggest difference...
When the long promised call never comes and the phone never rings. One forgotten birthday. The sharpest, smallest comment placed in just the right spot at just the wrong time. When life is always too busy and there is never time. When the smirky remark is made when the thought was nobody heard. When attempts are made to wave at the friend who purposefully turns and walks away. All little things which get stuck under a thin surface and get trapped next to the place where it hurts the most. In themselves, practically harmless, yet they mean something so close to the inside.
But the little things go either direction. The good and blessings have just as much power and opportunity to seep under the surface as the bad and ugly. The unsigned note with the encouraging word. The signed card saying “thanks for always being there”. The word heard from the grapevine you were doing a “great job”. The deliberate stop just to say “hi”. The awkward hug at the best of times. The five minute conversation which says “you’re important and you matter to me.” In themselves, practically inconsequential, yet they mean something when allowed so close to the inside.
What are you doing with your little things?
This morning I began the process as any morning. With my right contact resting on my left pointer finger, I held my eye open while allowing the cool, wet plastic hit my eye. I blinked. And then I screamed. My eye burned! I squinted my eye back open and was struck by the intense pink invading the creamy white of my eye. I blinked my eye a few more times before reconciling myself to the fact the intense pain would not be stopping. I frantically peeled the contact off of my eye.
I held it on my finger in one hand while covering my eye (as if holding it would take away its hurt) and began inspecting this small clear piece. Did I put it in backward? Was there a small rip or tear? Did I manage to put a tiny hole in its delicate surface? I put the contact back into solution and placed some eye drops in my throbbing eye.
As the water pooled under my eyelids, I felt something. Looking into the mirror I gently lifted my lid and then, (somewhat awkwardly), attempted to blink. As a small eye drop laden tear pooled in the corner, I caught the drop on my finer. There a small, thin, brown eyelash stuck contentedly.
“Seriously?” Was that it? I couldn’t believe it. Was that little eyelash stuck behind my contact, causing me so much pain? Questioning, swiftly I retrieved my contact and allowed it easily to cover my eye. Painless. The eyelash had been to blame the whole time.
The eyelash was small, essentially harmless. They fall out all of the time. You blow them off and make a wish. Had I known it was loose, I probably wouldn’t have thought it a very big deal. But sometimes the littlest things make the biggest difference...
When the long promised call never comes and the phone never rings. One forgotten birthday. The sharpest, smallest comment placed in just the right spot at just the wrong time. When life is always too busy and there is never time. When the smirky remark is made when the thought was nobody heard. When attempts are made to wave at the friend who purposefully turns and walks away. All little things which get stuck under a thin surface and get trapped next to the place where it hurts the most. In themselves, practically harmless, yet they mean something so close to the inside.
But the little things go either direction. The good and blessings have just as much power and opportunity to seep under the surface as the bad and ugly. The unsigned note with the encouraging word. The signed card saying “thanks for always being there”. The word heard from the grapevine you were doing a “great job”. The deliberate stop just to say “hi”. The awkward hug at the best of times. The five minute conversation which says “you’re important and you matter to me.” In themselves, practically inconsequential, yet they mean something when allowed so close to the inside.
What are you doing with your little things?
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I am a Lover
When I came to Spring Arbor as a freshman over three years ago I was awkward. Socially, my skills needed some...refining. I thought maybe I was comfortably a loner...a natural introvert. I thought I was destined to never be in close relationship. I thought I didn’t know how to interact. I thought I didn’t know how to be a friend...let alone make a friend. In the end, I just didn’t know how to love...or, for that matter, be loved.
The process of chipping the icy shell covering my existence was a painful process. I truly did not know how to open myself to other people’s care and, try as I might, I was unsure of how to go about caring.
Slowly but surely, however, my resistance came unglued. I recognized myself and my actions in light of love languages. People saw by investment. I was a doer. I loved by serving. I did things in order to try and prove to you that I cared.
And I, I needed you. I needed your presence. My need was rooted in deep insecurity. No one had really ever come into my life and stayed. If I felt loved, it was the result of someone who was willing to come and spend quality time with me.
But there were a few things I was unresponsive too. Gift giving – I didn’t even know where to start there. And then, well, I was articulate – but unable to share words of affirmation. I didn’t know how to tell you I appreciated you, admired you, wanted you in my life. I didn’t know how to encourage you. I didn’t know how to be encouraged.
And physical touch? You’re kidding, right? No one could touch me. No one was allowed near enough to make it into my personal bubble. I flinched at a pat on the back. Cringed at a hug. Endured touch if given...and never gave. Ever.
So it’s been three years. And I stop to consider how much my heart breaks – because I have found a means within side me which not only cares but feels deeply. My heart breaks, because I love. And I want to love. Some days I wake up and pout at the list of things I “must” accomplish. Because...I would much rather just love on people instead.
I have since stared to think about what it meant for me to love on people. If I wanted to do nothing but love on people for a while...what would it look like? And my response? “EVERYTHING!” Or mostly...
I am stuck on writing these encouragement notes every week... a few standards and then an assortment of others...because I just want people to know they are thought about, appreciated. I want to bring you cupcakes; I want to come up with a way to bring you “snow”; I want to put little gifts on your door for 12 days straight. I will bend over backwards for you on any given day. I will cover for your shift, work on something so you can go to bed (even though it means I won’t get to sleep), make the decorations, try to lighten your load...I still want to serve. I still want quality time...I am going to look for opportunities to be with you...whether it means just “being”, or it means we are doing or giving alongside one another. And, I want to physically show love. I’m not very good at it yet. I don’t think to give the hug first...but I want to. I want to love on you this way.
Perhaps the world, this world, has shown me how to love. It taught by example a loving life where it was possible to serve, to give to, to be with, to affirm, and to touch. I’ve learned to feel loved in all of these ways. I’ve learned to treasure the smallest of notes with the smallest affirmation – reminders I am valued. I’ve learned to feel cared for and not helpless when others do for me. I’ve learned to love it when someone pats my head or touches my shoulder. I’ve learned to feel loved when someone wraps their arms around me and holds on tight.
And I’m coming to find these things I have been taught...are becoming natural as responses. I want to do them. The more I love you (sounds awkward doesn’t it?), the more I grow in relationship with you, the more ways I am going to try to love on you. Sometimes in hopes you will reciprocate and sometimes, some days because I just want to love. I don’t choose one of them because it is my “love language” or even my “primary love language”. Instead I choose all of them because, without endeavoring towards it, I, I am a lover.
The process of chipping the icy shell covering my existence was a painful process. I truly did not know how to open myself to other people’s care and, try as I might, I was unsure of how to go about caring.
Slowly but surely, however, my resistance came unglued. I recognized myself and my actions in light of love languages. People saw by investment. I was a doer. I loved by serving. I did things in order to try and prove to you that I cared.
And I, I needed you. I needed your presence. My need was rooted in deep insecurity. No one had really ever come into my life and stayed. If I felt loved, it was the result of someone who was willing to come and spend quality time with me.
But there were a few things I was unresponsive too. Gift giving – I didn’t even know where to start there. And then, well, I was articulate – but unable to share words of affirmation. I didn’t know how to tell you I appreciated you, admired you, wanted you in my life. I didn’t know how to encourage you. I didn’t know how to be encouraged.
And physical touch? You’re kidding, right? No one could touch me. No one was allowed near enough to make it into my personal bubble. I flinched at a pat on the back. Cringed at a hug. Endured touch if given...and never gave. Ever.
So it’s been three years. And I stop to consider how much my heart breaks – because I have found a means within side me which not only cares but feels deeply. My heart breaks, because I love. And I want to love. Some days I wake up and pout at the list of things I “must” accomplish. Because...I would much rather just love on people instead.
I have since stared to think about what it meant for me to love on people. If I wanted to do nothing but love on people for a while...what would it look like? And my response? “EVERYTHING!” Or mostly...
I am stuck on writing these encouragement notes every week... a few standards and then an assortment of others...because I just want people to know they are thought about, appreciated. I want to bring you cupcakes; I want to come up with a way to bring you “snow”; I want to put little gifts on your door for 12 days straight. I will bend over backwards for you on any given day. I will cover for your shift, work on something so you can go to bed (even though it means I won’t get to sleep), make the decorations, try to lighten your load...I still want to serve. I still want quality time...I am going to look for opportunities to be with you...whether it means just “being”, or it means we are doing or giving alongside one another. And, I want to physically show love. I’m not very good at it yet. I don’t think to give the hug first...but I want to. I want to love on you this way.
Perhaps the world, this world, has shown me how to love. It taught by example a loving life where it was possible to serve, to give to, to be with, to affirm, and to touch. I’ve learned to feel loved in all of these ways. I’ve learned to treasure the smallest of notes with the smallest affirmation – reminders I am valued. I’ve learned to feel cared for and not helpless when others do for me. I’ve learned to love it when someone pats my head or touches my shoulder. I’ve learned to feel loved when someone wraps their arms around me and holds on tight.
And I’m coming to find these things I have been taught...are becoming natural as responses. I want to do them. The more I love you (sounds awkward doesn’t it?), the more I grow in relationship with you, the more ways I am going to try to love on you. Sometimes in hopes you will reciprocate and sometimes, some days because I just want to love. I don’t choose one of them because it is my “love language” or even my “primary love language”. Instead I choose all of them because, without endeavoring towards it, I, I am a lover.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Compassion and Pain Stealing
Today I remembered that compassion means “pain taking”.
Not pain asking.
Not pain borrowing.
Not pain sharing.
Pain taking.
Taking has such a hostile connotation to it. Like you are commandeering something. You take candy. You take a bike. You take a test.
You claim it.
You steal it.
You take what belongs to you and refuse to give it back.
Compassion is not sharing pain. It’s not in itself empathizing, sympathizing, or even listening. It is stepping in a taking claim of someone else’s pain.
Which means you don’t wait. You don’t tell someone to come and find you if they need you. That’s sympathy. Pity even sometimes. You don’t sit to see if you can come to their aid.
You do it.
You send text messages that say “I’m on my way over. Be ready.”
You say “Be honest with me. I WANT to know.”
You hug not because you understand but because she needs to feel understood.
You all not to talk but to listen...
You listen not so you can hear but so he can talk.
You look for an area of need and you step in.
It’s a near hostile take-over. You stake claim on their pain and you make it your own.
True compassion feels like a whirlwind. You don’t know what hit you until suddenly you realize your load is lighter. It leaves you shocked and amazed. Dumbstruck and confused. Baffled at others’ care. Wondering why and how. Questioning if you gave them permission. Realizing they never asked.
But that’s okay.
Because compassion isn’t pain asking.
Or even pain sharing.
It’s pain taking.
Pain stealing.
And nothing means more than someone who has just stuck claim into your
Not pain asking.
Not pain borrowing.
Not pain sharing.
Pain taking.
Taking has such a hostile connotation to it. Like you are commandeering something. You take candy. You take a bike. You take a test.
You claim it.
You steal it.
You take what belongs to you and refuse to give it back.
Compassion is not sharing pain. It’s not in itself empathizing, sympathizing, or even listening. It is stepping in a taking claim of someone else’s pain.
Which means you don’t wait. You don’t tell someone to come and find you if they need you. That’s sympathy. Pity even sometimes. You don’t sit to see if you can come to their aid.
You do it.
You send text messages that say “I’m on my way over. Be ready.”
You say “Be honest with me. I WANT to know.”
You hug not because you understand but because she needs to feel understood.
You all not to talk but to listen...
You listen not so you can hear but so he can talk.
You look for an area of need and you step in.
It’s a near hostile take-over. You stake claim on their pain and you make it your own.
True compassion feels like a whirlwind. You don’t know what hit you until suddenly you realize your load is lighter. It leaves you shocked and amazed. Dumbstruck and confused. Baffled at others’ care. Wondering why and how. Questioning if you gave them permission. Realizing they never asked.
But that’s okay.
Because compassion isn’t pain asking.
Or even pain sharing.
It’s pain taking.
Pain stealing.
And nothing means more than someone who has just stuck claim into your
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Jesus in my Heart
When I was four or five I “formally accepted Jesus into my heart.”
And I SOBBED. Not because it was an emotional, life changing experience. It was traumatizing. And I was confused.
It was the phrasing: “You need to ask Jesus into your heart...”
“What???”
I was a little girl. This I knew. And Jesus was a big guy. As big as the whole sky. This I knew too. Everyone told me Jesus was big. So I had a problem. I just didn’t know how a God that big was going to fit into me, being so small. I pictured the last time I tried to shove my teddy bear in my backpack. I couldn’t handle it. This was probably going to hurt. Maybe my heart would explode!
I got over it.
Eventually.
When I was older, I came to a better understanding of what it meant to have Christ in my life. I offered Him a place with more authenticity and genuineness rooted in faith and knowledge. My relationship was real. We walked hand in hand, partners.
Then, when I was older still, (like now), I went back to my previous model. Because something about it is very real...
...To recognize a God who is very much too big for me. Realizing just how small I am in comparison to Christ. I am too small for Jesus to fit in. He comes in, invades my life, but spills over into every other believer. Hello, the body of Christ! Just maybe if we get enough people too small for Jesus piled up in the same room, willing to just love Him and do what He says, then maybe we’ll have a real picture of what He looks like.
...To be willing to bet that when I “ask Jesus into you heart”, it is probably going to hurt. He is probably going to do some rearranging in there. Life probably isn’t going to look the same. Allegiances are going to have to be different and that is going to cause some pain. It is never fun to fix what’s been broken.
...To allow my heart to explode. Whatever that will mean. Whatever it will include. So be it. And let it be so.
And I SOBBED. Not because it was an emotional, life changing experience. It was traumatizing. And I was confused.
It was the phrasing: “You need to ask Jesus into your heart...”
“What???”
I was a little girl. This I knew. And Jesus was a big guy. As big as the whole sky. This I knew too. Everyone told me Jesus was big. So I had a problem. I just didn’t know how a God that big was going to fit into me, being so small. I pictured the last time I tried to shove my teddy bear in my backpack. I couldn’t handle it. This was probably going to hurt. Maybe my heart would explode!
I got over it.
Eventually.
When I was older, I came to a better understanding of what it meant to have Christ in my life. I offered Him a place with more authenticity and genuineness rooted in faith and knowledge. My relationship was real. We walked hand in hand, partners.
Then, when I was older still, (like now), I went back to my previous model. Because something about it is very real...
...To recognize a God who is very much too big for me. Realizing just how small I am in comparison to Christ. I am too small for Jesus to fit in. He comes in, invades my life, but spills over into every other believer. Hello, the body of Christ! Just maybe if we get enough people too small for Jesus piled up in the same room, willing to just love Him and do what He says, then maybe we’ll have a real picture of what He looks like.
...To be willing to bet that when I “ask Jesus into you heart”, it is probably going to hurt. He is probably going to do some rearranging in there. Life probably isn’t going to look the same. Allegiances are going to have to be different and that is going to cause some pain. It is never fun to fix what’s been broken.
...To allow my heart to explode. Whatever that will mean. Whatever it will include. So be it. And let it be so.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
An exert from my journal...
Today I was reminded that when I most want to dig a hole, bury myself, and hide from the world, sometimes the world comes through. And sometimes God uses people in the most profound ways to remind me He's not really so far away.
As I left my apartment this morning...violently ill, desperately low on sleep, completely behind on all of my assignments, and headed to class, I wasn't sure what kind of mood to be in. I wanted to be depressed but the gentle sprinkle with a gray sky attempting to allow a bold sun through didn't allow me that desperation of such. Reminded of my "glimpse", I looked into the sun and said out loud "I know you're here! You're just really going to have to show up today!"
The day became progressively worse and the guessing game of "how to feel" became a non issue. I became more infuriated with the life I was living...the drastic and intrinsic "unfairness" of everything I go through. All day I wanted to cry...a few times real tears actually slipped. Anyone who knows me knows this is a big deal. I was so ready to cash in my chips, to give up, to quit.
As I sit, typing, exhaustedly ready to go to bed, I can't help think about how nothing has changed about my situation. And yet, I sit somewhat renewed. The intense pain which had me ready to curl and die has subsided since my class prayed over my contorted face - despite my objections - after all researching, convinced I had appendicitis. Time to just decide not to care, to write, to vent, to retract into my intoverted world has helped.
And the mailbox. I never get mail. It is just the way it goes. But I love to send mail. I send out six standard encouragement notes a week and typically send out another four or five to random individuals. I never expect anything in return and my box remains empty. Today I was surprised. I had not one piece of mail but three: each with special significance.
Yesterday, I had an assignment which required me to turn in, essentially, a mission statement. My first draft (which didn't actually change) was folded up in my pocket and fell out. It had my name and class on the top, however, and was found and returned via campus mail. On my worst of days was a list of all the things I wanted my life to stand for.
I was intrigued by the other two: a folded up piece of paper and a pink envelope. I looked at the return address on the envelope...it was a note from the girl who was supposed to be the RA in the building I now serve. She just wanted me to know she was praying for me more than ever (I certainly needed it today!) and that, specifically, she was praying I would be found re-energized, revitalized, refreshed, and refilled - all of the things I so desperately needed today. And included how much she hoped I was finding time for rest, family, friends, and Jesus. Maria's prayers for me were an answer to my prayers and I was touched she had thought of me and felt blessed by her friendship from miles away.
The last piece I treasure most. It was a reply encouragement note from a colleague and new friend. She gets one of my encouragement notes every week and so she sent me one just to let me know she loved me and that I was "amazing". So overwhelmed, stressed, and not feeling well...and already on the brink of tears...I just about lost it in the Kresge Center. Someone whom I genuinely love and hhave intensely appreciated but, really, in terms of things, have only barely begun to know...decided to let me know she's noticed. For reasons I cannot come close to imagining, she's decided me worthy of her admiration and her accolades. Perhaps I treasure this one the most because it says the life I live says something to the rest of the world regardless of the life I feel like I'm living...
I asked God to show up today...without the expectation He would follow through. When I most wanted to dig a hole, bury myself, and hide from the world - he kept filling in my hole. "Hey, Anika, you, yeah. It's like this princess, I'm here. I'm always here. I sustain. Promise. Put down the shovel. Smile - you're worth far more than you know."
As I left my apartment this morning...violently ill, desperately low on sleep, completely behind on all of my assignments, and headed to class, I wasn't sure what kind of mood to be in. I wanted to be depressed but the gentle sprinkle with a gray sky attempting to allow a bold sun through didn't allow me that desperation of such. Reminded of my "glimpse", I looked into the sun and said out loud "I know you're here! You're just really going to have to show up today!"
The day became progressively worse and the guessing game of "how to feel" became a non issue. I became more infuriated with the life I was living...the drastic and intrinsic "unfairness" of everything I go through. All day I wanted to cry...a few times real tears actually slipped. Anyone who knows me knows this is a big deal. I was so ready to cash in my chips, to give up, to quit.
As I sit, typing, exhaustedly ready to go to bed, I can't help think about how nothing has changed about my situation. And yet, I sit somewhat renewed. The intense pain which had me ready to curl and die has subsided since my class prayed over my contorted face - despite my objections - after all researching, convinced I had appendicitis. Time to just decide not to care, to write, to vent, to retract into my intoverted world has helped.
And the mailbox. I never get mail. It is just the way it goes. But I love to send mail. I send out six standard encouragement notes a week and typically send out another four or five to random individuals. I never expect anything in return and my box remains empty. Today I was surprised. I had not one piece of mail but three: each with special significance.
Yesterday, I had an assignment which required me to turn in, essentially, a mission statement. My first draft (which didn't actually change) was folded up in my pocket and fell out. It had my name and class on the top, however, and was found and returned via campus mail. On my worst of days was a list of all the things I wanted my life to stand for.
I was intrigued by the other two: a folded up piece of paper and a pink envelope. I looked at the return address on the envelope...it was a note from the girl who was supposed to be the RA in the building I now serve. She just wanted me to know she was praying for me more than ever (I certainly needed it today!) and that, specifically, she was praying I would be found re-energized, revitalized, refreshed, and refilled - all of the things I so desperately needed today. And included how much she hoped I was finding time for rest, family, friends, and Jesus. Maria's prayers for me were an answer to my prayers and I was touched she had thought of me and felt blessed by her friendship from miles away.
The last piece I treasure most. It was a reply encouragement note from a colleague and new friend. She gets one of my encouragement notes every week and so she sent me one just to let me know she loved me and that I was "amazing". So overwhelmed, stressed, and not feeling well...and already on the brink of tears...I just about lost it in the Kresge Center. Someone whom I genuinely love and hhave intensely appreciated but, really, in terms of things, have only barely begun to know...decided to let me know she's noticed. For reasons I cannot come close to imagining, she's decided me worthy of her admiration and her accolades. Perhaps I treasure this one the most because it says the life I live says something to the rest of the world regardless of the life I feel like I'm living...
I asked God to show up today...without the expectation He would follow through. When I most wanted to dig a hole, bury myself, and hide from the world - he kept filling in my hole. "Hey, Anika, you, yeah. It's like this princess, I'm here. I'm always here. I sustain. Promise. Put down the shovel. Smile - you're worth far more than you know."
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thinking about becoming something different.
Turn me around.
Pick me up.
Undo what I've become.
Bring me back to this place
Of forgiveness and grace.
I need You.
I need Your help...
I can't do this myself.
You're the only one...
Who can undo what I've become...
Pick me up.
Undo what I've become.
Bring me back to this place
Of forgiveness and grace.
I need You.
I need Your help...
I can't do this myself.
You're the only one...
Who can undo what I've become...
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