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...”

A Christmas Hallelujah

Christmas. 

 

It’s upon us once again and has been so for quite some time.  Normally the very fact the commercialism of Christmas takes over about the same time pencils are being sharpened fresh for back-to-school, embitters me.  By the time Christmas rolls around – I’m ready to be done. 

 

But, this Christmas season?  It’s felt different this year.  I’ve found myself relatively into Christmas...but not in all of the normal or necessarily identifiable ways.  I’m not feeling compelled to make dozens of cookies or decorate a handful of trees or string garland from one end of the world to the other...but Christmas definitely comes with it’s own excitement and appreciation and expectation this year.  Christmas can be hard...and I have had a lot of life happen around Christmas time (for one example: my cancer diagnosis came the day after Christmas) and Christmas just wasn’t the same anymore.  Things little and big year after year and then it just didn’t come with the same sparkle or pizzazz… But, this Christmas season?  This year there is something internal...

 

In such a way that the whole of the Christmas story, when I pause to truly consider it, makes me a little weak in the knees.  Not figuratively either.  I’m truly blown away by the reality of a God who, as Paul tells us in Romans 5, sent a son while we were yet sinners.  The reality and immensity of God with us – Emmanuel. 

 

Emmanuel is one of my favorite names and resulting concepts of the nature of God.  The fact that between Malachi, the last book of the old testament, and Matthew, the first book of the new testament – there are 400 years.  400 years where God was silent.  Where there was no record of prophet or priest with a voice from heaven, no word from God.  400 years and the silence is broken by Emmanuel.  Silence is broken by not just a word from God but the Word which, John tells us in chapter 1, WAS God… And God took on the form of a baby – the most beautiful and most powerless thing in the entire world – born in the lowliest of places though one day his name would be exalted above all names that at it every knee would bow and tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.  If that doesn’t give you chills…

 

There is the somewhat cliché phrase “you can’t have Christmas without Easter and you can’t have Easter without Christmas”.  The two, in my head, should always be celebrated together.  You’ve probably seen the picture of the manager in the shadow of the cross.  And I think of the fact that light came into the darkness but darkness couldn’t understand it.  Part of me pictures Jesus, in a manager, covered in the ring of shekinah glory, with blackness surrounding. But if I were to put a magnifying glass to the blackness, I would see the principalities of darkness, held at bay, unable to touch the one who would one day willing place all of the sin and shame and weight of that darkness on his back and drag it down to Hell in order that we would have opportunity at restored relationship…  I tremble a little when I truly stop to consider the reality of it…

 

And then one word comes to mind.  It shouldn’t be surprising that it is the word my brain chooses…it’s been one of recurring pattern and them in my brain for the last six months or so. It gets screamed at me in songs on the radio and in the smallest snippets of sermons.  But it did surprise me a little because it’s not a typical word associated with Christmas, necessarily.

Peace. 

Joy. 

Glory.

Hope.

Love. 

Those are Christmas words. This was a good word, but not necessarily a Christmas one... But it struck me as the perfect word and perfect Christmas word, especially after listening to my current favorite “Christmas song” – a song which, though quite familiar in origin, had been covered to tell the whole of the Christmas story in a very profound way. (It was the only “Christmas song” I would listen to before Thanksgiving and it is the only song I would willingly play on repeat.)  I encourage you to click on the youTube link and check out Cloverton’s “A Hallelujah Christmas” if you haven’t already.  If you do, really listen to the Christmas story being told through the lyrics of the song and really listen to challenge it gives to offer up a Hallelujah…

 

You see, the song walks through the familiar Christmas story. The story of a baby boy, who was God, who came to earth – the very acknowledgment alone calling to sing out “Hallelujah” with every breath.  A couple went to Bethlehem...but there was no room and so God’s son was born in a barn.  Hallelujah.  Angels came to shepherds...who went and found Emmanuel in the manger and left proclaiming “Hallelujah”.  Wise men from the East traveled long and came with gifts and the cry of “Hallelujah”.  But the story doesn’t end with a baby, because “That rugged cross was my cross too”...and Jesus was nailed to it crying out “Hallelujah”...

 

Hallelujah...

 

After about the 20^th time of looping the song, I looked up the word “hallelujah” because I realized it was a word I knew the meaning of – kind of – because it always came with its own context – but I wanted to know to understand.  And I learned, unsurprisingly, that it is a Hebrew word, originally “allelujah”, literally translating “praise ye the Lord!” (which makes that call and response song make SO much more sense!). It is a shout, a proclamation, and an exclamation of joy, praise, gratitude and exaltation – meaning to lift one to the highest level. 

 

What struck me must about “Hallelujah” in the context of the song was the way it was presented as an offering.  And furthermore an offering which HAD to be given.  Not “had” as in when your mom forced you to share with your brother, but the necessity to cry it out as if it were impossible to keep in.  What does it mean to live and to leave that kind of Hallelujah as an offering? 

 

Furthermore, it brought into fore light an otherwise neglected piece of the Christmas story – neglected at least in my mind.  The profound realization of the dichotomy that both prince and pauper came to lay their “hallelujahs” before the Lord:

 

Shepherds, being the lowliest of the low, not well liked, not always well trusted with nothing to give but themselves, left glorifying and praising God and offering up a hallelujah to any who would listen. 

 

Yet, on the same token, were the kings.  People of status and power and wealth (things we can glean without being told because, lets face it, if you’re capable of taking two plus years off work to travel through the desert to hunt down a baby boy and leave physically valuable and impressive gifts…there’s a good chance you’re a “somebody” in the world). But they too came.   When I consider or think about the magi, I think of their gifts.  What I often forget is that before they gave any of their physical gifts to Jesus, they bowed down to worship Him.  Their physical gifts were in addition to the gift of their hallelujah. The stocking stuffers to the gift they came to give.  Though scholars will tell us these gifts had specific significance to the life and ministry of Jesus...they were secondary to a bowed knee and a gift of praise.

 

No one was above or beneath being welcomed to encounter Christ, and all who encountered left with a hallelujah.  A hallelujah which was also offered by Christ himself. He, who humbled himself to the point of death on the cross for the glory of God, was exalted to the right hand of the Father (Philippians 2), but His hallelujah came first – and was evident through his life.

 

So where does that leave us?  If we have encountered Christ, have we left an offering of hallelujah? Does every breath strive to cry it out?  Do we come full and rich and whole as the magi?  Do we come broken and ostracized as the shepherd?  Does either, regardless, come with the response of hallelujah?

 

I’ve been struck for the last six months especially and again with the idea of a broken hallelujah and how beautiful a hallelujah is when it comes out of brokenness.  Whether it be brokenness like David whose psalms of woes due to the depth of his sin are followed by psalms of praise as he recognizes God’s mercy and grace…or brokenness like Ruth who lost everything outside of her desire and control and still sought the face of God… (“Broken Hallelujah” may in fact be a blog for another time for it has occurred to me that every biblical figure we give merit, endured brokenness and still came to a place of hallelujah.  None were praising from a place of physical wholeness – but of spiritual completion.)  Hallelujahs which are louder and brighter for they come in the middle of life that doesn’t make sense. 

 

Christmas is upon us once again.  But, this Christmas season?  It’s felt different this year. This year there is something internal.  Something internal which has me “into Christmas” in a way which has lacked in years prior.  In such a way that the whole of the Christmas story, when I pause to truly consider it, makes me a little weak in the knees. Makes me wonder.  Makes me tremble.  Takes my breath away.  Something internal which causes my soul to well up, with a Hallelujah. 

 

 

 

 

Luke 2:1-20

“In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to their own town to register.  So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to house and line of David.  He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child.  While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son.  She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.  And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.  An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.  But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid.  I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.  Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord.  This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manager.  Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”  When the angel had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”  So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger.  When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.  The shepherds returned glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.”

Matthew 2:1-2,9-11

“After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, “Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him...After they had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped ove3r the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were overjoyed.  On coming to the house, the saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshipped him.  Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.”

Stop. Drop. Roll.

I remember the first “drill”. The first “tutorial”.

It remains ingrained in my memory.  In the file reserved for the events of my six-year-old self.   

There we were, standing in a straight line on the “grassy knoll” outside of the front doors of my elementary school.  The flag billowed behind us with a light breeze. 

I stood next to my first grade best friend, Jeff, and we, along with the rest of our class, squinted into the sun as we stared at our teacher and the fireman (who, much to our disappointment, wasn’t dressed in his heavy fire-fighting gear).  There was respectful silence as we listened to more instructions about fire safety but small gasps and anxious murmurs were heard as we were informed of an unbelievable and terrifying reality:

Someday, I could catch on fire.

My active imagination pictured my little body ablaze. 

My classmates must not have been very far behind me because, as I recall, we took the next ten minutes of calisthenics very seriously!  Calisthenics resulting from very specific instructions:

“When you find yourself on fire, you need to do three things: Stop.  Drop.  And then Roll.  And Keep rolling until the fire is out!” 

Freeze.  Down.  Roll in the grass.  Up.  Shake off the dirt.  Do it again.  All with military precision.  I’m sure we looked like a pile of puppies out there in the grass by the front doors of the school, but you had to know – we weren’t about to be found standing doing nothing when we, ourselves were engulfed in flames!

I remember taking my new skill home and explaining quite thoroughly how prepared I was to catch on fire.  I demonstrated my technique and insisted my siblings take part in my fire-preventing exercise!  I also remember waiting, sometimes in the fear of my dark bedroom (I had some pretty awesome anxiety issues and fire safety week often did a number on me in terms of the nightmare department), for the moment I would catch on fire and need to implement the three life saving steps.  I would repeat them over and over again in my head. 

Alright, so granted, my memory probably remembers the situation more dramatic than the reality but the intensity of my memory has insisted I’ve never forgotten. And yet, that memory also serves as the last time I can actively remember stopping and dropping and rolling…at least in that order for that purpose. 

I grew up believing “Stop. Drop. Roll.” was going to be a MUCH bigger deal in my life.  At the very least, I was relatively certain there was going to be higher instance of catching on fire. 

I did sort of catch on fire.  Once. The cuff of my jeans trailed over a still hot coal while at the barn preparing to teach a class.  The team of instructors at the time (and I!) all started to smell smoke.  We went looking for the source.  Each room I walked into, I was convinced the smell was getting stronger, that we must be getting closer.  I was mentally deciding whether to grab a bucket of water now or later in anticipation for rising flames I was surely about to discover.  And then, all of the sudden, we realized it was me.  I was on fire.  My first grade instincts did NOT kick in.  No part of me considered the need to stop, drop, or roll.  Instead we re-enacted a short version of a tribal dance where I stomped, patted, and subsequently squelched the burning denim.  My newly exposed ankle wasn’t even a little a hot.  Truly catching on fire had been avoided once more. 

Turns out, generally speaking, it is always good to be prepared for an emergency; important to know what to do and when to enact it, but emergency preparedness is typically just preparedness. 

Turns out, generally speaking, most adults I know can recite “stop, drop, and roll” and when it should be utilized.  Yet, I rarely see groups of adults in front yards running drills with military precision on the off chance their bodies would burst into flames.  While probably their own first grade memory will enact if the necessity ever arose, turns out, generally speaking, most adults I know are completely unconcerned about the prospect of catching on fire. 

Turns out, generally speaking (in my experience*), most Christians are as well.

A read through the book of Acts and most of the New Testament would make one think Christians could be bursting in flames with a much higher instance.  I can nearly envision Peter and Bartholomew and Paul and John and Timothy standing in front of groups of the curious and confused, the open and the skeptical.  I can hear Paul passionately proving the Old Testament scriptures and how they had been fulfilled in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  I can hear Peter admitting his denial and God’s faithfulness in light of his infidelity; his fervent desire to “feed the sheep”. I can hear John reminding the crowds of the words Christ has spoken, encouraging each to find him or herself connected to the Vine, to see Jesus as the way to the Father and the way to life.  And I can almost hear the gasp and anxious murmurs from the crowd as Followers of The Way convey an unbelievable and terrifying reality:

Those who become followers of Christ will catch on fire.

Perhaps it was never quite communicated in such a way but it was a known result. The disciples themselves had been anointed with fire at Pentecost, were filled with the Holy Spirit, were commissioned to go forward teaching and bringing the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the very ends of the earth.  This fire wasn’t only something they had to prepare for it was undeniable and certain. The Holy Spirit, promised to every believer as a guarantee of our inheritance, set lives ablaze in incredible ways.

Christians hear this.  Learn this.  Know this.  And are mostly unburdened and unconcerned with catching on fire…

I recently finished reading the book “Forgotten God” by Francis Chan**.  A book which suggests we’ve forgotten about catching on fire.  More so, we’ve neglected the Holy Spirit.  We neither seek to understand what it means to be anointed with fire or to have lives ablaze by the work of the Holy Spirit.  We are comfortable, complacent, consumers of spirituality and have forgotten the Spirit lives within us and the passion and fire of following should makes us cities on hill, the light of the world, those who shine like stars in a crooked and depraved generation.  And instead, too often, we’ve smelled the smoke, experienced just enough of the flames raising to tribal dance stomp that baby right out…to avoid truly catching on fire.

Confronted with the reality of both our spiritual depravity and what should be the both terrifying and exciting realization of catching on fire, I recognize we are still given the opportunity to stop and drop and roll.  Not to put the spark out but instead to fan it into flames.

Stop.  Where we are. What we are doing.  Find ourselves in the pause; the moment where the spark first takes root.  Not being so quick to disregard, to forget, to carry on without it, but allow it to burn.

Drop.  Everything.  Our whole lives.  Our whole beings.  Our wants.  Our desires.  Our passions. Our fears. It’s hard to faithfully follow when our arms and hearts are full of the life we are supposed to surrender. Throw off what so easily entangles. Cast burdens on Jesus.  Being in tune with the Spirit is about surrender. Being on fire is about throwing off the bushel which would otherwise snuff it out. 

Roll.  Or better yet...  Run.  Run with perseverance the race set out for us. It isn’t enough to stop or drop if we don’t also roll.  If we don’t find ourselves willing to be led to where God would have us at any moment.  Rolling is impossible without stopping and dropping…as it is not a mindless a pursuit but determined act of obedience….and requires a trust which knows no borders and no limits.

And then keep rolling.  Rolling because the more we move, the more we follow, the more licks of fire will touch every person and everything we encounter.  To be ablaze with the Holy Spirit is to be contagious, passionate, moving, active, faithful.  To not be found doing nothing when we realize we’ve caught on fire. 

My eyes are squinty, my brain is racing.  These are unfinished thoughts as I have considerations and ideas and ponderings I haven’t quite explored and am still trying to figure out.  Especially as it relates to my life.  My acts of obedience.  My openness and willingness to put myself aside to be in tune with Father…and what I need to do to really make the act of “Stop. Drop. Roll” a MUCH bigger deal in my life.  To know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that in doing so there would be a much higher instance of catching the world on fire…

*I realize my experience is limited and not a full or completely accurate description of the world as a whole. 

**I would recommend Forgotten God as a read. Thought provoking, compelling, and challenging – it very biblically presented a case for understanding the Holy Spirit and His role in the lives of believers.  Regardless of where you “stand”, I think Chan does a good job of forcing readers to consider how they relate to the Holy Spirit and why having a relationship with the Spirit is essential…

Unsung Thank You's

Last week, much to my amazement and surprise (and hers as well, I believe!), I ran into a college professor.  Perhaps this wouldn’t have been such a surprising interaction if our run-in hadn’t taken place at the camp where I happen to be currently employed and where she happens to have been coming with a church for the last 25 years.  The surprise, for me, was met with delight.  Though a professor outside of my “field of study”, and my professor for a very specific “class” (namely the class which led into and included a three week stay in Uganda), my memories attest to a fondness.  Not just a fondness built out of an admiration, although such is most definitely present as she was and is a remarkable lady, but a fondness rooted in appreciation. 

I wondered, after connecting for a few minutes, if I had ever expressed as a student, or if there was a good way to express now, such appreciation.  Had I thanked her for meeting with me prior to the class to confide in her the reality of my life and ensure the trip would be plausible?  Did I thank her for the intentionality before she really knew me; insisting my soon to be “team” prayed for me as I returned from a second surgery?  Does she know how much it meant to me that she checked in with me pretty specifically about a couple key things during our trip… that while I couldn’t find a way to confide in her about everything, the fact she noticed meant the world? 

Not unrelated, almost a month ago, I was able to reconnect with the “older” couple who “hosted” me in their home the summer after my freshman year of college.  Shy and awkward and introverted as a way of life and not a personality trait, I’m sure I was an odd addition to their basement that summer.  As I strove to work with their church’s office and children’s ministry and servant evangelism programs as an intern, I learned a great deal about leadership and initiative and impact.  My summer internship was catalyst in changing my entire educational and life trajectory.  While I wouldn’t say we “bonded”, I do still hold them both dear and am terribly grateful for their willingness to invest in me.  To, as a result, invest in who I was and who I was becoming.  I know I thanked them then.  But do they really know?  Do they really have any idea?

Appreciation. Gratitude.  Thanks. 

I grew up instilled with the power of the words “please” and “thank you”.  I know them to be magic words.  And I know that while “please” can often be the magic word to getting what you want; “thank you” is often the set of magic words which give meaning to what was given.  As a “grown up”, I’ve come to see that the most powerful “thank you’s” are in return for gifts the giver didn’t always know he or she had bestowed. 

My life has been full of these gifts.  My unique experiences have given opportunity for people to be in and give into my life in ways, some for but a moment, for which I have attempted to communicate gratitude and yet I know I’ve fallen short.  For some I didn’t always see the gift for what it was until it was too late to thank effectively.  Or I was afraid of it being awkward.  Or, I don’t know.  How do you thank some one for giving you something which had an impact they had no idea about?  I hope I tried, awkward though it may have been.  And yet, I feel the weight of a dozen unsung thank you’s.  So while I can’t possibly cover them all, know that if I don’t cover “our story” specifically, this thank you is for you…

This thank you is for you…for the individual who came out of the woodwork as an intentional connection for but mere moments.  Several scattered throughout a given year over the course of several.  Someone who affirmed postscript the work I had done with camping and who invited me to share in new ways…both publicly in ministry and privately as an individual.  Who, in a very unimportant manner of ways, pointed to “tools with the tags still on” in my toolbox of gifts and graces and handed me some projects with which to use them.  For encouraging me as an individual and as one called to be active in ministry…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the friend to whom my deepest secrets became known.  Who held my confessions carefully as the broken offering they were.  Who listened without judgment.  Who supported without question.  Who bore the weight of my secrecy so I could be strong enough to fight the things which haunted me.  For holding things and me when there was little I could give back, for time and for friendship…thank you. 

This thank you is for you…for the trip leader who stayed intentional in the short weeks post the return from Puerto Rico.  The one who heard me nonchalantly explain my weekend plans and who asked me what I was going to do for Anika; if I had time to take care of me in the midst of the insanity before me.  The one who caught me off-guard by being the first to call out the attempt I made to be superhero and to do it all and be it all and challenged it (on the missions trip and after).  For beginning to see past a mask to the core of who I was before I was at a spot in life to let that mask down…thank you.

This thank you is for you...for the college classmate who became an unlikely friend.  The one with whom I had nothing in common (or so I thought). The one with whom I had no thought of our paths ever crossing in any meaningful way outside of a major or a Kono class...but they did.  The one with whom very little life was ever "done with" but who much life was once or twice discussed with... The one with whom false pretenses could be dropped and each of us could be allowed the ability and freedom to be real.  For long chats and personal affirmation and an unlikely friendship...thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the RD who was sort-of-my-boss-but-not my senior year of college.  The one who listened to me talk about where God had been showing up in the midst of the life that hurt.  For asking intentional questions and giving intentional responses.  For allowing me to pour out my soul on the sidewalk between Apartments A and B.  For affirmation and genuineness…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the classmates who picked me up at my apartment and forcefully demanded I get in their car and drove me to the ER when they thought I had appendicitis (but I was "too busy" to get it checked out).  The ones who were willing to put their own commitments aside on the chance I might need some convincing. For making someone outside of your normal circle of friends a priority…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the male classmate who, upon awkwardly hearing my afore-mentioned “appendicitis scare” was actually an ovarian cyst the size of a tennis ball, took it upon himself to check in daily.  For asking sincerely if there was anything he could do to make it better and who, when finding out it simply needed to burst, would greet me across the plaza by mock shooting his own side and aiming his finger gun at mine.  For making me laugh and for caring genuinely about something you couldn’t possibly understand…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the college professor whose 9am class I fell asleep in religiously during my first semester of cancer treatment.  The one to whom I attempted to apologize to but who instead apologized to me for not meeting me to pray over me sooner.  Who told me quick naps or not I was still rightfully earning the “A” I was receiving in his challenging class.  For grace and understanding…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the friend who stopped what he was doing with his core group of friends to check in on me when I first got sick (but I didn’t know what was wrong yet).  The one who lost the race to ask if I had heard anything new and if there was anything he could do.  The one who prayed for me there in the middle of campus.  The one who came to visit me in the hospital while I was still hopped up on pain killers and looking like a champion in bloody bandages and my hospital gown.  For epitomizing “friend” (though our friendship had been an odd one) when I needed friends the most…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the pastor who deaned the camp I volunteered at.  The one who called me a leader when, looking back, I doubt I had displayed much worth noting.  The one who knew I would strive to live up to such a meaningful identity.  The one who gave me tasks I knew nothing of and told me I was capable…in such a way that I would see that I did have what it took.  The one who gave me the spring board for curriculum development and fundamental leadership.  The one who, by example, helped confirm a passion in myself to be about intentional ministry.  For perhaps unknowingly and unintentionally being a coach from the sidelines and as a result empowering me to play in this game called life…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the high school teacher who highlighted my ability to be creative with my writing.  The one who knew I was quiet but saw almost instantly that I used words as an outlet for thoughts louder than I was.  The one who encouraged me to continue to allow words to flow.  For unknowingly giving me the tool I would need to cope and for fanning a spark so it wouldn’t go out before I had a chance to allow it to catch fire…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the mom of the girls I babysat so many times during my high school years.  The one who found unique ways to value me and my personhood far outside the fact she and her husband employed me as an occasional caregiver for her children.  The one who engaged me in conversation about classes and homework and college applications as she drove me home and who gave me a luggage carrier to help tote around my monstrosity of a backpack.  The one whom I was tempted to believe (and wished I would have somehow taken advantage of…), though older and wiser, was also my friend.  For being willing to invest…thank you.   

This thank you is for you…for the counselor at Wesley Woods.  The one every girl camper at camp wished was their counselor.  True when I was but 11 and a camper for the first time and true when I was 16 and counselor in training for the first time.  The one who was bubbly and passionate and fantastic…the person (and eventually counselor) I so desperately wished to be.  The one who quite unknowingly showed me what it looked like to live and serve in such a way that others would see Christ.  The one who listened to me shakily share my story at a firebowl and then came to tell me that through me Christ was shown to you (what a table turner in my brain!).  For being Jesus was skin on and an example this young girl desperately needed…thank you.

This thank you is to you…for the 8^th grade teacher at my new school who noticed.  Who saw that life for me somehow wasn’t what it could be.  Who saw I didn’t fit in and was struggling to be a student…let alone the student of excellence I wished to be. Who assigned me work outside of the curriculum for the rest of the class...to challenge me and to keep me engaged.  Who wrote me a letter of recommendation to get into an accelerated academic program in high school which would empower me outside of the school I was in.  For seeing what I was capable of and for freeing me…thank you.

This thank you is for you…for the only true youth leader I ever had.  The one who invested herself as well as her time into the straggly teens in her care.  The one who is the first I recall affirming me in such a way as to say “Anika is strange but Anika is okay”.  The one who opened my eyes to the idea that there was more than one way to do life and one of them might be without nylons… For loving me for me – including all the awkwardness a 12 year old could possibly hold in her body – in such a way that I still feel the reverberations of such an impact today…thank you.

And on my list could and should go…

And so this thank you is for you…for the one reading this right now.  For the way(s) you have perhaps unintentionally, perhaps unknowingly, perhaps unwillingly impacted my life.  The ways in which I am shaped because of the experience I have had, even for the briefest moment, with you.  Thank you for the gift given by your presence and existence. Thank you for ordinary interactions which made for extraordinary moments.  I wish this “thank you” could some how be a repayment gift enough to give meaning to the touches you’ve placed into my world.  And though I know it still falls short, for 1000 unsung thank you’s…may this be one which finally is heard sung back to you…

This thank you is for you…