(Originally written Christmas 2007)
I heard recently that Sears has, after many years, re-released its historic holiday “Wish Book”. As children, my sister and I would spend thousands of hours, at least, paging through the catalog, circling each item that we absolutely had to have lest our young lives be traumatized from toy neglect! My sister’s picks were always nauseating little baby dolls complete with layette, bassinette, and stroller; my choices were more artistic – the Barbie® sewing machine (those glue cartridges were great on draperies!), paint sets, and electronic piano keyboards. I never did score an Easy Bake Oven, but one year my parents hit the jackpot and bought me a miniature drafting table and tracing patterns for all the Super Friends®!
When I was a high school sophomore, I was still drafting my Christmas list from the hallowed pages of the Wish Book, but by this time, I had graduated from toys to clothes, makeup, and hair accessories. As always, I dreamed of stacks of presents under our tree, and as I started making the requisite circles around each item that I so desperately craved, I hoped against hope that I would find under that tree the pink taffeta dress on page 472.
Ten days before Thanksgiving, my father had a heart attack.
My mother took my sister and me to the hospital (my brother was too young to visit). Dad was more tubes than person, and what bit of flesh we could see through the oxygen tent and IVs, was a mottled, pasty grey. The doctor said he had only 22% of his heart left, and frankly, he didn’t know why he was still alive. Later that night, our pastor came by our home with an emergency food box and spent time counseling and praying with us. All of a sudden, the Wish Book didn’t seem so important. At week’s end, my mother announced that due to our sudden change in financial circumstances (it doesn’t take long for hospital bills to pile up) we could choose one thing from the Wish Book, $20.00 or less.
On Christmas Eve, there were three presents under the tree. I unwrapped the soft and snuggly, multi-colored plaid scarf I had chosen and snuggled up in it. Dad was home now, and as was our family way, he turned on the Christmas lights and read to us the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke. We made hot cocoa with marshmallows and put “White Christmas” in the VCR to watch together. By whatever miracle, we were still a family.
I never circled anything in the Wish Book again. But I wore that scarf every winter; every time I wrapped it around my neck and shoulders I would think of how blessed I was to have my daddy, who wasn’t supposed to have lived.
Daddy died nine years after that fateful heart attack; my scarf was stolen not too long afterwards. Over the years, as I’ve grown into myself and have decided what my own values in life are, Christmas lists haven’t been much of a priority. I don’t hit the stores the day after Thanksgiving. I don’t count shopping days until Christmas. Memories with family and friends, and a faith in God's love that brings joy and peace even in the hardest of times – these are the things that make Christmas magical to me.
As I face my fifteenth Christmas without Daddy, and without my scarf, I wrap myself in the memory of his smell, his voice, his hugs and kisses that I miss so much. And I seek to make Christmas a time of building memories with family and friends, and faith, so that when I too am gone, my children and grandchildren can wrap themselves in my memory and be blessed – not because of mountains of presents on Christmas morning, but because, by whatever miracle, we are a family.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
The Blessing of Chaos
This year, I've been reading a devotional made up of various writings by Madeleine L'Engle (Glimpses of Grace, in case you're interested). A few days ago, I came across one of her poems that touched me so deeply, I just want to share it with you. It just seems so appropriate to remember that even though our world is full of absolute chaos, terror, and, dare I say, stupidity, it was into a world just like this that God incarnated Himself, so He could experience that same chaos, terror, and stupidity, and extend His healing, calm, and wisdom to it, thereby beginning the process of redeeming all things, bringing them all into one in Him. If you're feeling chaotic, afraid, or even stupid (one of my more frequent feelings), remember - it's in the middle of that mess that the Father is most at work. Happy Advent!
FIRST COMING
He did not wait till the world was ready,
till men and nations were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady,
and prisoners cried out for release.
He did not wait for the perfect time.
He came when the need was deep and great.
He dined with sinners in all their grime,
turned water into wine. He did not wait
till hearts were pure. In joy he came
to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.
To a world like ours, of anguished shame
he came, and his Light would not go out.
He came to a world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.
We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!
Friday, December 4, 2009
What's This Supposed To Feel Like?
Today I am 40 years old. I think this is what people consider the beginning of middle age. I don't feel any different than I did yesterday, and I certainly don't look 40 (or so people tell me), so I'm really not sure what to think.
I remember when I turned 18. I was a freshman at the University of Puget Sound, and made an absolute ninny of myself as I went to each of my friends and asked what they had gotten me for the big day. What a rude awakening when I found out that no one really cared. I sat in my dorm room and cried, wondering why there weren't fireworks and strobe lights, not understanding yet that the world just wasn't going to revolve around me.
21 years old...I was a student in Bible college, and, quite frankly, the most concerning thing to me was that at my age, I was no closer to marriage than I was at 2. Not that preparing for full-time ministry wasn't important, but if I was going to have 4 children (a boy, a girl, then boy/girl twins - yes, I had all my ducks not only in a row, but all wearing appropriate name tags) and have them all out of the house by the time I was 50, well, I had to be married by 22. I felt a horrible sense of impending doom because my best laid plans just weren't coming together.
25 years old...my "midlife crisis." My best friend was engaged, the ministry career I'd prepared for had blown up in my face, leaving bits of me all over the place, and I was starting over as a restaurant hostess in a tiny Oregon town. Wonderful, just wonderful. No title, no direction, and no hope for me. Woe was me at 25. I remember then that I made a list: "Things I want to do for God before I die: 1) Record an album; 2) Write a book; 3) Be a retreat speaker; 4) Lead women's praise and worship."
27 years old...I stood up with my best friend as she married her Prince Charming, and I just knew that I was a washed up old maid. That is, until I met my Prince Charming that year and married him before he had time to think better of it. With marriage came three kids; alas, no twins. 27 years old and parenting a 14, 13, and 9 year old; one might consider that I was now a bit ahead of my timeline! Establishing my piano studio, along with adjusting to family life, kept me in the throes of busy-ness and slight insanity (ask the kids - they'll tell you).
At 31 I went back to school; at 33 I finished the bachelor's degree I started at 17. At 34 we adopted a fourth child, a high school boy and foster youth whom we'd grown to love through our youth ministry. Kid number four came a few years late, but he was half-baked already so that made up for it. At 35, I woke up and realized that all the things I'd wanted to do with my life at 25 were not only not even started, but that at 35 I was just barely capable of considering them. One foot in the grave and none of my goals were even in sight.
At 36 I was both a retreat speaker and a praise & worship leader at the same retreat...check 2 boxes "DONE!"
37 brought both my husband and I to unemployment and losing our home. I spent the first three months of that year in utter shock, some days unable to get out of bed. Reciting the Lord's Prayer over and over and over and over again got me through some incredibly difficult days. But after those three months, I found myself working for Child Welfare Services in our new community, where I experienced an incredible (and do I mean incredible!) degree of favor, we found a church that brought healing to deep wounds, I found new best friends and somehow, I felt that life just might get better.
Three years later, I find myself halfway through a Master of Social Work program, and am enjoying the benefits of increasing tenure in our agency. Our eldest son married a beautiful girl this year, and our eldest daughter is marrying a wonderful man next year. The other two kids are also discovering the freedom - and challenges - of life as adults. Hmmm, I wanted all the kids out of the house by 50. I'm 10 years ahead! My husband is discovering new passion in the field of and completing a degree in anthropology. We have nestled into our church community, we've been accepted into community life and service, and the sorrows and challenges of yesterday have faded into the distance.
So what is this 40th birthday supposed to feel like? I like how my slightly older, sometimes wiser friend put it: "Welcome to your 40s! You're old enough for people to take you seriously, but young enough to completely change your life direction if you want." I like that, although I don't foresee changing my life any time soon (did I just jinx it?). If I had to put a feeling to this culturally significant birthday, though, I would say "I feel blessed." I feel blessed because I know that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. The trials of yesterday have prepared me for the challenges of today, challenges that even I can see myself surmounting. No, I haven't written a book (although I'm writing my thesis - is that the same thing?), and I haven't recorded an album (but I did record a vaudeville piece last month; it was on a CD), and I'm not a famous retreat speaker or worship leader, but my best friend and I are putting together a band to lead worship at synod assemblies and have been invited to plan and conduct a number of retreats coming up in the next few years. I suppose I could finish checking off my list, but who knows? I'm only 40 - there may be more opportunities to fulfill those things.
This is a bit of a babble, I know. Maybe it's more of a processing for me than a blessing for you. But I can honestly say to myself, "Happy Birthday, Hannah! Welcome to the best of the rest of your life."
Now, it's time for cake.
I remember when I turned 18. I was a freshman at the University of Puget Sound, and made an absolute ninny of myself as I went to each of my friends and asked what they had gotten me for the big day. What a rude awakening when I found out that no one really cared. I sat in my dorm room and cried, wondering why there weren't fireworks and strobe lights, not understanding yet that the world just wasn't going to revolve around me.
21 years old...I was a student in Bible college, and, quite frankly, the most concerning thing to me was that at my age, I was no closer to marriage than I was at 2. Not that preparing for full-time ministry wasn't important, but if I was going to have 4 children (a boy, a girl, then boy/girl twins - yes, I had all my ducks not only in a row, but all wearing appropriate name tags) and have them all out of the house by the time I was 50, well, I had to be married by 22. I felt a horrible sense of impending doom because my best laid plans just weren't coming together.
25 years old...my "midlife crisis." My best friend was engaged, the ministry career I'd prepared for had blown up in my face, leaving bits of me all over the place, and I was starting over as a restaurant hostess in a tiny Oregon town. Wonderful, just wonderful. No title, no direction, and no hope for me. Woe was me at 25. I remember then that I made a list: "Things I want to do for God before I die: 1) Record an album; 2) Write a book; 3) Be a retreat speaker; 4) Lead women's praise and worship."
27 years old...I stood up with my best friend as she married her Prince Charming, and I just knew that I was a washed up old maid. That is, until I met my Prince Charming that year and married him before he had time to think better of it. With marriage came three kids; alas, no twins. 27 years old and parenting a 14, 13, and 9 year old; one might consider that I was now a bit ahead of my timeline! Establishing my piano studio, along with adjusting to family life, kept me in the throes of busy-ness and slight insanity (ask the kids - they'll tell you).
At 31 I went back to school; at 33 I finished the bachelor's degree I started at 17. At 34 we adopted a fourth child, a high school boy and foster youth whom we'd grown to love through our youth ministry. Kid number four came a few years late, but he was half-baked already so that made up for it. At 35, I woke up and realized that all the things I'd wanted to do with my life at 25 were not only not even started, but that at 35 I was just barely capable of considering them. One foot in the grave and none of my goals were even in sight.
At 36 I was both a retreat speaker and a praise & worship leader at the same retreat...check 2 boxes "DONE!"
37 brought both my husband and I to unemployment and losing our home. I spent the first three months of that year in utter shock, some days unable to get out of bed. Reciting the Lord's Prayer over and over and over and over again got me through some incredibly difficult days. But after those three months, I found myself working for Child Welfare Services in our new community, where I experienced an incredible (and do I mean incredible!) degree of favor, we found a church that brought healing to deep wounds, I found new best friends and somehow, I felt that life just might get better.
Three years later, I find myself halfway through a Master of Social Work program, and am enjoying the benefits of increasing tenure in our agency. Our eldest son married a beautiful girl this year, and our eldest daughter is marrying a wonderful man next year. The other two kids are also discovering the freedom - and challenges - of life as adults. Hmmm, I wanted all the kids out of the house by 50. I'm 10 years ahead! My husband is discovering new passion in the field of and completing a degree in anthropology. We have nestled into our church community, we've been accepted into community life and service, and the sorrows and challenges of yesterday have faded into the distance.
So what is this 40th birthday supposed to feel like? I like how my slightly older, sometimes wiser friend put it: "Welcome to your 40s! You're old enough for people to take you seriously, but young enough to completely change your life direction if you want." I like that, although I don't foresee changing my life any time soon (did I just jinx it?). If I had to put a feeling to this culturally significant birthday, though, I would say "I feel blessed." I feel blessed because I know that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. The trials of yesterday have prepared me for the challenges of today, challenges that even I can see myself surmounting. No, I haven't written a book (although I'm writing my thesis - is that the same thing?), and I haven't recorded an album (but I did record a vaudeville piece last month; it was on a CD), and I'm not a famous retreat speaker or worship leader, but my best friend and I are putting together a band to lead worship at synod assemblies and have been invited to plan and conduct a number of retreats coming up in the next few years. I suppose I could finish checking off my list, but who knows? I'm only 40 - there may be more opportunities to fulfill those things.
This is a bit of a babble, I know. Maybe it's more of a processing for me than a blessing for you. But I can honestly say to myself, "Happy Birthday, Hannah! Welcome to the best of the rest of your life."
Now, it's time for cake.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Is It Really A Miracle?
I must say, I get discouraged when I don't have time or energy to write. Oh, I do plenty of writing, but most of it is driven by the graduate program I'm in and has a grade attached to the end of it. But today, I'm bundled up in my flannel pajamas and thick bathrobe, complete with snuggly socks. I'm not sick, I'm not tired, I'm just enjoying a crisp but sunny Saturday with a steaming cup of coffee and with one more assignment under my belt, I now have time and energy to write what I've been meaning to for weeks.
Every year, our church women get together at a beautiful conference center for a fall retreat. This year, we met October 30 - November 1, and studied the lives of God's "Faith Filled Women": Ruth, Mary & Elizabeth, and because we're Lutheran and feel we must, Katherine von Bora Luther. I think what stood out to me most was that none of these women were extraordinary. They lived their lives, doing what they needed to do from moment to moment, filled their culturally assigned roles to the best of their ability, and praised God for nothing more than those things. They didn't look for special opportunities to shine; they didn't turn over rocks, seeking miraculous manifestations of God's power; and, somehow, I don't get the idea that they spent hours on their faces, begging for revival or renewal or regeneration or whatever the current "re-" word is in Christendom right now. Yet despite their seeming lack of religious fervor (however you define it), God worked wonders - miracles, if you will - through their lives, their normal, everyday lives.
With that in mind, I want to share the miracle that God performed in our little group of women. On Friday, our guitar player showed up late, and, inconveniently, her shoulder was frozen. She didn't know why, she had done nothing to hurt it, it just mysteriously stopped working and started hurting. She was in considerable pain and found playing very difficult. What can one do with a three-inch range of motion? She didn't complain, she did what she could, but it was very disconcerting. However, on Saturday night, one of the ladies prayed for her healing, and on Sunday morning, she woke up pain free, with full use of her arm.
Yeah, God! But that's not the miracle I'm really excited about. That miracle was the end result of months and months of women, and other people, too, just doing what they do. Let me explain.
In May, my girlfriend and I, the worship coordinators for our retreat, were up late one night. As women - even pushing 40 - are wont to do, we were having a bit of a giggle-fit. It was late, we were tired, the dust on the table seemed funny, we couldn't get the cork out of the wine bottle (probably a good thing in the state we were in), and out of the blue, one of us suggested, "Hey - wouldn't it be neat if at this year's retreat, each woman had an anonymous secret prayer pal? They can pray for each other Friday and Saturday; the big reveal can be during Saturday night communion! How gooey and slushy is that?"
So that's what we did. Each woman was paired up - no one, not even us, knew who had who; the women themselves didn't even know who they were praying for. Saturday night, after the women met their prayer pals, our guitar player's pal prayed for her healing, and she was healed.
But that's not all! God's devious machinations go even deeper than that. You see, her pal wasn't one of our women, she was the friend of a friend of one of our women. We didn't know her, she didn't know us. She came up from Southern California, from another Lutheran church whose pastor had preached on healing the week before the retreat. Now, if you're familiar at all with Lutheranism, you know already that we're generally not known for being overly demonstrative or for getting caught up in charismania; words on a wall during worship tend to frighten us and the highest our hands go during worship is high enough to receive Communion bread. "Peace be with you...and also with you" is about as close to an "Amen! Hallelujah, brother!" you will ever hear come out of our lips. Not that we don't believe in God's healing power, but we tend to trust God to do that kind of thing, and far be it from us to issue prophetic words (unless they involve a future potluck - that's okay, because potlucks are always God's will). So when our Southern California sister's pastor said what he did, you must realize that this sort of thing is quite out-of-character.
So...a week before our retreat, an anonymous Lutheran pastor in Southern California preached on the healing power of God. At the end of the sermon, he said something to the effect of, "I don't know why I'm saying this, but I feel that someone in this congregation will, in the next week or so, meet someone with an injured shoulder; if that's you, you might take the opportunity to be a vehicle for God's healing power in their life." And our stranger-sister who heard that drove up the next weekend to our tiny little retreat and, through the "luck of the draw", was paired up as a secret prayer pal to our guitarist with a mysteriously injured shoulder.
So, what's the miracle here? Is it that God healed Sharon's shoulder? Or is it that God took everyday, ordinary people doing ordinary things and wove them all together to accomplish the purpose he had set from the foundation of the world? Not one of us prayed, "Dear God, please work a healing miracle during our retreat!" What God did do - and this is what I consider to be "miraculous" - is inspire two giggly women who couldn't unstop their bottle of wine at 11:30 at night in the middle of May to have secret prayer pals in October. He coaxed a Lutheran pastor - of all people - to challenge his congregation to be open to be used as healing vessels. He nudged a stranger to us to join our retreat, and He tweaked Sharon's shoulder just so He could bless all of us with His love and grace...and give us a great story to tell others.
My ultimate question, though, is this: is it really a miracle? Somehow, I think this is pretty average stuff for God. Maybe the miracle is that because we are united with Him, which is "walking in the Spirit", this kind of thing is average for us, too.
Every year, our church women get together at a beautiful conference center for a fall retreat. This year, we met October 30 - November 1, and studied the lives of God's "Faith Filled Women": Ruth, Mary & Elizabeth, and because we're Lutheran and feel we must, Katherine von Bora Luther. I think what stood out to me most was that none of these women were extraordinary. They lived their lives, doing what they needed to do from moment to moment, filled their culturally assigned roles to the best of their ability, and praised God for nothing more than those things. They didn't look for special opportunities to shine; they didn't turn over rocks, seeking miraculous manifestations of God's power; and, somehow, I don't get the idea that they spent hours on their faces, begging for revival or renewal or regeneration or whatever the current "re-" word is in Christendom right now. Yet despite their seeming lack of religious fervor (however you define it), God worked wonders - miracles, if you will - through their lives, their normal, everyday lives.
With that in mind, I want to share the miracle that God performed in our little group of women. On Friday, our guitar player showed up late, and, inconveniently, her shoulder was frozen. She didn't know why, she had done nothing to hurt it, it just mysteriously stopped working and started hurting. She was in considerable pain and found playing very difficult. What can one do with a three-inch range of motion? She didn't complain, she did what she could, but it was very disconcerting. However, on Saturday night, one of the ladies prayed for her healing, and on Sunday morning, she woke up pain free, with full use of her arm.
Yeah, God! But that's not the miracle I'm really excited about. That miracle was the end result of months and months of women, and other people, too, just doing what they do. Let me explain.
In May, my girlfriend and I, the worship coordinators for our retreat, were up late one night. As women - even pushing 40 - are wont to do, we were having a bit of a giggle-fit. It was late, we were tired, the dust on the table seemed funny, we couldn't get the cork out of the wine bottle (probably a good thing in the state we were in), and out of the blue, one of us suggested, "Hey - wouldn't it be neat if at this year's retreat, each woman had an anonymous secret prayer pal? They can pray for each other Friday and Saturday; the big reveal can be during Saturday night communion! How gooey and slushy is that?"
So that's what we did. Each woman was paired up - no one, not even us, knew who had who; the women themselves didn't even know who they were praying for. Saturday night, after the women met their prayer pals, our guitar player's pal prayed for her healing, and she was healed.
But that's not all! God's devious machinations go even deeper than that. You see, her pal wasn't one of our women, she was the friend of a friend of one of our women. We didn't know her, she didn't know us. She came up from Southern California, from another Lutheran church whose pastor had preached on healing the week before the retreat. Now, if you're familiar at all with Lutheranism, you know already that we're generally not known for being overly demonstrative or for getting caught up in charismania; words on a wall during worship tend to frighten us and the highest our hands go during worship is high enough to receive Communion bread. "Peace be with you...and also with you" is about as close to an "Amen! Hallelujah, brother!" you will ever hear come out of our lips. Not that we don't believe in God's healing power, but we tend to trust God to do that kind of thing, and far be it from us to issue prophetic words (unless they involve a future potluck - that's okay, because potlucks are always God's will). So when our Southern California sister's pastor said what he did, you must realize that this sort of thing is quite out-of-character.
So...a week before our retreat, an anonymous Lutheran pastor in Southern California preached on the healing power of God. At the end of the sermon, he said something to the effect of, "I don't know why I'm saying this, but I feel that someone in this congregation will, in the next week or so, meet someone with an injured shoulder; if that's you, you might take the opportunity to be a vehicle for God's healing power in their life." And our stranger-sister who heard that drove up the next weekend to our tiny little retreat and, through the "luck of the draw", was paired up as a secret prayer pal to our guitarist with a mysteriously injured shoulder.
So, what's the miracle here? Is it that God healed Sharon's shoulder? Or is it that God took everyday, ordinary people doing ordinary things and wove them all together to accomplish the purpose he had set from the foundation of the world? Not one of us prayed, "Dear God, please work a healing miracle during our retreat!" What God did do - and this is what I consider to be "miraculous" - is inspire two giggly women who couldn't unstop their bottle of wine at 11:30 at night in the middle of May to have secret prayer pals in October. He coaxed a Lutheran pastor - of all people - to challenge his congregation to be open to be used as healing vessels. He nudged a stranger to us to join our retreat, and He tweaked Sharon's shoulder just so He could bless all of us with His love and grace...and give us a great story to tell others.
My ultimate question, though, is this: is it really a miracle? Somehow, I think this is pretty average stuff for God. Maybe the miracle is that because we are united with Him, which is "walking in the Spirit", this kind of thing is average for us, too.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Letting Go of Me
This particular entry has taken quite awhile to write, simply because it's come in fits and starts. The brilliant epiphany that startled me in the car on the way home from class faded by the next morning, convincing me that sleep is, truly, the enemy. (What we could accomplish if we didn't have to sleep or earn a living...) It returned, sliver by sliver, and although what initially burst onto the stage of my mind crawled back slowly, it allowed time for fermentation and the blossoming of the original idea into something that I think is really worthy of writing.
The last time I posted, I asked, "What am I afraid of?" What was holding me back from going where God wanted me to go. In the several weeks I've been pondering that question, I think I've figured it out, and it's a whopper. To be quite frank, I don't even know how to begin, so let's look at a man named Saul.
In the book of Acts, Saul was "da man." A leader of leaders, a rising star in the Jewish community, Saul had it made in the shade. His entire life had groomed him for prominence and prosperity, and he knew it. He came from the right Jewish tribe, he was a Roman citizen, he had the right education and connections. His zeal to protect God led him down a path of persecuting the new sect of Christians, until Jesus Himself crossed Saul's path. At that moment in time, everything that made Saul, Saul, vanished. A new person - Paul - was born, one who had to start from scratch. All his education, all his connections, all his heritage meant nothing. The only thing that meant anything was Christ. Saul had to let go of himself to go where God wanted him to go, and trust that it really was God speaking to him. As we have the benefit of history, we know that it was God who spoke to him and we reap the blessings of Paul's ministry to to the early church. Later in his life, Paul could speak with confidence, "It is no longer I that lives, but Christ that lives in me," and "For me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain." Those aren't the words of a man consumed with himself - those are the words of a man who recognizes that he is nothing outside of God, one who lives, daily, as a branch connected to the Vine.
I said all that to say this: I find myself at a crossroads in my life. On the way home from class a few weeks ago, after I had turned off the radio and was just sitting in the silence of my car with my thoughts about the nature of fear and possession, constitutional vs. social democracies, conservativism vs. liberalism, blah blah blah...(such is the nature of a social welfare policy class). In the midst of that cognitive maelstrom, God interjected a thought: "If 'yourself' was no longer an issue, why would you ever need to be afraid?"
In that moment, in that split second, Paul's words made sense to me. Why could he face so much adversity, persecution, die three times, and still come back boldly proclaiming the Gospel of the Kingdom of God? Why could he be content whether he had little or plenty, how could he be all things to all people? Because "Paul" was no longer the issue. He recognized that himself was merely a human expression of God's own Self, and nothing happened that was not already preordained. Paul's steps, however self-determined they might have appeared, were ordered of the Lord.
So, where does that leave me? Hannah - with all her education, experience, drive, talent, ability, blah blah blah...is nothing but an expression of God's own Self. All that I am comes from Him; it is in God alone that I live and move and have my being. Every little piece of my life - my whole journey, including all its triumphs as well as its failures, all those little acts of "disobedience" and "rebellion" (shall I name names? Not!), all the pain and hurt and unjust situations - were ordered of the Lord. Nothing has been outside of His purview, because nothing is outside of His purview. Outside of God is - nothing.
And why have I been afraid to voice this? Because it challenges everything I've ever been taught was true. It eliminates free will, it eliminates the idea that anything can happen outside the direct, divine will of He who is truly Creator, Preserver, and Governor of all things. It eliminates the possibility that I can ever be, or do, anything but what He wills. It blows holes through the thought that I have any control over my life, because my life, truly, rests in Him alone. All has been planned, orchestrated, and played out to fulfill His purpose - whether I recognize that purpose or not. Whether I have little or plenty, whether I live or die - my life is in His hands. And because He cannot forsake Himself, He cannot forsake me. To live? Christ. To die? Gain. Either way - He's got my back.
Wow - with all that said, why have I been afraid? That same Creator, Preserver, and Governor of all things is also the ultimate Lover of all things, Leaving me to my own devices is far more frightening than knowing that everything has already been arranged for by the one who loves. Knowing that God is sovereign and has left no room - or possibility - for error gives me a sense of freedom and boldness that I've never had before. And when I look at the world - crazy, chaotic, out-of-control - I realize that all of it is well within God's agenda. Everything is as it should be, happening right on time, fulfilling its God-ordained purpose.
I guess there's really no cause for fear. But it's like my first time on the high dive: shaking as I climb and climb and climb, trembling as I stand on the edge (with everyone in back of me screaming, "Jump, jump, jump!), closing my eyes, plugging my nose, and finally just sort of falling off the edge, hoping the water will cushion my fall. Only after I let go of what I thought was solid ground could I experience the thrill of soaring through the air and enjoying the refreshment of the water catching me. So, as I let go of me - the idea that I am somehow independent of God - I let go of all I thought was safe and secure. Yeah, I tremble a bit, but as I step off the edge of that self-driven platform, I soar through the expanse of God Himself - contained, guided, and totally protected.
Do I know where this journey will lead me? Immediately - no. It is not for me to know where or what He has planned from day to day, only to accept that each day will unfold as planned. But ultimately? This journey leads back to the heart of my Creator - to that divine union I have longed for.
The last time I posted, I asked, "What am I afraid of?" What was holding me back from going where God wanted me to go. In the several weeks I've been pondering that question, I think I've figured it out, and it's a whopper. To be quite frank, I don't even know how to begin, so let's look at a man named Saul.
In the book of Acts, Saul was "da man." A leader of leaders, a rising star in the Jewish community, Saul had it made in the shade. His entire life had groomed him for prominence and prosperity, and he knew it. He came from the right Jewish tribe, he was a Roman citizen, he had the right education and connections. His zeal to protect God led him down a path of persecuting the new sect of Christians, until Jesus Himself crossed Saul's path. At that moment in time, everything that made Saul, Saul, vanished. A new person - Paul - was born, one who had to start from scratch. All his education, all his connections, all his heritage meant nothing. The only thing that meant anything was Christ. Saul had to let go of himself to go where God wanted him to go, and trust that it really was God speaking to him. As we have the benefit of history, we know that it was God who spoke to him and we reap the blessings of Paul's ministry to to the early church. Later in his life, Paul could speak with confidence, "It is no longer I that lives, but Christ that lives in me," and "For me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain." Those aren't the words of a man consumed with himself - those are the words of a man who recognizes that he is nothing outside of God, one who lives, daily, as a branch connected to the Vine.
I said all that to say this: I find myself at a crossroads in my life. On the way home from class a few weeks ago, after I had turned off the radio and was just sitting in the silence of my car with my thoughts about the nature of fear and possession, constitutional vs. social democracies, conservativism vs. liberalism, blah blah blah...(such is the nature of a social welfare policy class). In the midst of that cognitive maelstrom, God interjected a thought: "If 'yourself' was no longer an issue, why would you ever need to be afraid?"
In that moment, in that split second, Paul's words made sense to me. Why could he face so much adversity, persecution, die three times, and still come back boldly proclaiming the Gospel of the Kingdom of God? Why could he be content whether he had little or plenty, how could he be all things to all people? Because "Paul" was no longer the issue. He recognized that himself was merely a human expression of God's own Self, and nothing happened that was not already preordained. Paul's steps, however self-determined they might have appeared, were ordered of the Lord.
So, where does that leave me? Hannah - with all her education, experience, drive, talent, ability, blah blah blah...is nothing but an expression of God's own Self. All that I am comes from Him; it is in God alone that I live and move and have my being. Every little piece of my life - my whole journey, including all its triumphs as well as its failures, all those little acts of "disobedience" and "rebellion" (shall I name names? Not!), all the pain and hurt and unjust situations - were ordered of the Lord. Nothing has been outside of His purview, because nothing is outside of His purview. Outside of God is - nothing.
And why have I been afraid to voice this? Because it challenges everything I've ever been taught was true. It eliminates free will, it eliminates the idea that anything can happen outside the direct, divine will of He who is truly Creator, Preserver, and Governor of all things. It eliminates the possibility that I can ever be, or do, anything but what He wills. It blows holes through the thought that I have any control over my life, because my life, truly, rests in Him alone. All has been planned, orchestrated, and played out to fulfill His purpose - whether I recognize that purpose or not. Whether I have little or plenty, whether I live or die - my life is in His hands. And because He cannot forsake Himself, He cannot forsake me. To live? Christ. To die? Gain. Either way - He's got my back.
Wow - with all that said, why have I been afraid? That same Creator, Preserver, and Governor of all things is also the ultimate Lover of all things, Leaving me to my own devices is far more frightening than knowing that everything has already been arranged for by the one who loves. Knowing that God is sovereign and has left no room - or possibility - for error gives me a sense of freedom and boldness that I've never had before. And when I look at the world - crazy, chaotic, out-of-control - I realize that all of it is well within God's agenda. Everything is as it should be, happening right on time, fulfilling its God-ordained purpose.
I guess there's really no cause for fear. But it's like my first time on the high dive: shaking as I climb and climb and climb, trembling as I stand on the edge (with everyone in back of me screaming, "Jump, jump, jump!), closing my eyes, plugging my nose, and finally just sort of falling off the edge, hoping the water will cushion my fall. Only after I let go of what I thought was solid ground could I experience the thrill of soaring through the air and enjoying the refreshment of the water catching me. So, as I let go of me - the idea that I am somehow independent of God - I let go of all I thought was safe and secure. Yeah, I tremble a bit, but as I step off the edge of that self-driven platform, I soar through the expanse of God Himself - contained, guided, and totally protected.
Do I know where this journey will lead me? Immediately - no. It is not for me to know where or what He has planned from day to day, only to accept that each day will unfold as planned. But ultimately? This journey leads back to the heart of my Creator - to that divine union I have longed for.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Facing Fear
I have a friend who I'm really growing to admire. I met him through the master's program I'm in; we've been enrolled in the same classes for nearly two years. He's a veteran from Operation Enduring Freedom, and was returned from Iraq short one leg; better than coming back in a body bag, although it was a pretty close shave for him. What I admire about him is that, after having such a traumatic, life altering experience, instead of wallowing in disappointment with the way things turned out, or allowing what some might call a "disability" limit him, he has overcome multiple obstacles and now serves as an example and support to others, not only veterans, but those who have some overcoming to do.
We were chatting tonight, and he was telling me not about what wonderful things he's doing with other veterans, and not about how he's planning on using the master's degree he's earning to influence national policy (both of which I know he's actively pursuing), but about how afraid he is. Telling his story, putting himself out there, reliving his experience time and time again - these things cause him fear. But, in the manner of a true overcomer, he looks at his fear and walks right through it. And in so doing, he helps others around him do the same. A true overcomer always brings others with him.
In our adult Bible study, we've been studying the book of Revelation (ooh, aah, scary). I am, by no means, an expert in Scripture, although I have studied it for most of my life. And I am certainly no authority on prophetic writings, although I certainly have some opinions regarding such. I do consider myself, however, to have a pretty keen sense of observation, and in the early chapters of this profound book, Christ exhorts the churches to "overcome", or "conquer"; not once, but seven times. That's a lot of repetition; it must be important. "To everyone who conquers, I will..." and He lists a variety of rewards (see chapters 2 & 3). By extension, He promises His followers today the same rewards for conquering.
What are we to conquer? If we take our example from those early congregations, we are to overcome: love grown old and stale (Ephesus), persecution (Smyrna), tolerance of idolatry (Pergamum & Thyatira), apathy (Sardis), fatigue & discouragement (Philadelphia), and lack of commitment (Laodicea). In my life, I have experienced all of them, on multiple occasions (well, more like seasons - long stretches of time). And every time I've made it through, to the other side, of a period of, say, idolatry or discouragement or fatigue, I find that not only have I grown stronger, but I also have a new weapon in my spiritual arsenal, a weapon that will not only help me in my spiritual battle, but one that will help someone else: a true overcomer always brings others with him.
My friend just published his first book*, and, despite his fear, is spreading his story of personal overcoming and victory to many, many hurting people. I know God will use him greatly, because he has refused to give into his fear. The question that leaves me with is this: what am I afraid of? What phantom is terrorizing me into paralysis and inaction? What could God possibly do with me if I looked my fear dead in the face and, by His grace, walked through it?
There's only one way to find out.
(*You can check out my friend's book, Exit Wounds, as well as the companion website, at http://www.painfoundation.org/learn/programs/military-veterans/)
We were chatting tonight, and he was telling me not about what wonderful things he's doing with other veterans, and not about how he's planning on using the master's degree he's earning to influence national policy (both of which I know he's actively pursuing), but about how afraid he is. Telling his story, putting himself out there, reliving his experience time and time again - these things cause him fear. But, in the manner of a true overcomer, he looks at his fear and walks right through it. And in so doing, he helps others around him do the same. A true overcomer always brings others with him.
In our adult Bible study, we've been studying the book of Revelation (ooh, aah, scary). I am, by no means, an expert in Scripture, although I have studied it for most of my life. And I am certainly no authority on prophetic writings, although I certainly have some opinions regarding such. I do consider myself, however, to have a pretty keen sense of observation, and in the early chapters of this profound book, Christ exhorts the churches to "overcome", or "conquer"; not once, but seven times. That's a lot of repetition; it must be important. "To everyone who conquers, I will..." and He lists a variety of rewards (see chapters 2 & 3). By extension, He promises His followers today the same rewards for conquering.
What are we to conquer? If we take our example from those early congregations, we are to overcome: love grown old and stale (Ephesus), persecution (Smyrna), tolerance of idolatry (Pergamum & Thyatira), apathy (Sardis), fatigue & discouragement (Philadelphia), and lack of commitment (Laodicea). In my life, I have experienced all of them, on multiple occasions (well, more like seasons - long stretches of time). And every time I've made it through, to the other side, of a period of, say, idolatry or discouragement or fatigue, I find that not only have I grown stronger, but I also have a new weapon in my spiritual arsenal, a weapon that will not only help me in my spiritual battle, but one that will help someone else: a true overcomer always brings others with him.
My friend just published his first book*, and, despite his fear, is spreading his story of personal overcoming and victory to many, many hurting people. I know God will use him greatly, because he has refused to give into his fear. The question that leaves me with is this: what am I afraid of? What phantom is terrorizing me into paralysis and inaction? What could God possibly do with me if I looked my fear dead in the face and, by His grace, walked through it?
There's only one way to find out.
(*You can check out my friend's book, Exit Wounds, as well as the companion website, at http://www.painfoundation.org/learn/programs/military-veterans/)
Monday, October 5, 2009
Unlearn Me
"Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."
Jesus, as quoted in Matthew 18:3
I am less than two months away from my fortieth birthday. I have earned multiple undergraduate degrees and am working on my first master's degree. My IQ is well above average; my vocabulary, stellar. I get bored easily and am always looking for new and greater answers to all the new and greater questions I have. If I could do my life over again, I would want to pursue neuroscience, because I think the human brain is, quite possibly, the most fascinating thing in the universe. Then again, astrophysics is pretty swell; have you heard about the Higgs boson particle? They call it the "God particle".... Takes some significant smarts to think about all that.
Problem is, I'm too smart. Too smart for God. My head is so full of stuff, that when God tries to teach me anything, instead of receiving and pondering and learning from Him, I have an immediate answer, a comeback, a one-up. That's probably why I'm always full of questions; I've already got the answer, so why would God need to grace me with another?
When I was a kid, we used to sing a funny song in Sunday School, went something like this: "Oh you can't get to Heaven in roller skates; Oh you can't get to Heaven in roller skates, you'd roll right past those pearly gates." I've been thinking of a new verse: "Oh you can't get to Heaven with too many smarts; oh you can't get to Heaven with too many smarts, 'cuz being smart don't change your heart." Jesus told us that the only way to enter the Kingdom of heaven is to change and become like children. Children know nothing, but they're hungry to learn. It's only when we become adults that we think we know it all. I would have to say that God's biggest challenge is unlearning us so that we can truly learn of Him.
I don't know what it will take for God to unlearn me. But I'm willing - let the unlearning begin.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Teach Me To Die
I don't have much to say today; sometimes, all I have are questions. As I was asking my standard myriad of questions tonight, pestering God like a two-year old learning to speak, I chanced across a poem by one of my favorite authors, Madeleine L'Engle. This poem actually shut me up for a few moments (something, I daresay, even God finds difficult). I offer it to you here for your consideration and contemplation:
If I can learn a little how to die,If I can free myself from self's iron bands, freed from myself...through Christ...Amen.
To die while body, mind, and spirit still
Move in their triune dance of unity,
To die while living, dying I'll fulfill
The purpose of the finite in infinity.
If God will help me learn to die today,
Today in time I'll touch eternity,
And dying, thus will live within God's Way.
If I can free myself from self's iron bands,
Freed from myself not by myself, but through
Christ's presence in this simple room, in hands
Outstretched in holy friendship, then, born new
In death, truth will outlive the deathly lie,
And in love's light I will be taught to die.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
God Speaks
I've been considering, for the last few days, how God speaks to us. We go to worship on Sunday; sometimes God shows up for that and has a few words, when we let Him. Then there are the times when He speaks through a friend, or a TV preacher, or maybe a popular movie (i.e, The Matrix - I consider that a thundering from God). We look to Scripture, to song, to nature...all of these are vehicles that might, can, and often do, carry the Word of God.
In 1 Kings 19, we find the story of God's prophet, Elijah, running for his life. At the point of his deepest, most desperate frustration, fear, and longing for God to do something (we've all had days like that), God speaks. But God doesn't speak to Elijah from the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire. God's voice was still and small, coming from, as it's translated in the New Revised Standard Version, "a sound of sheer silence."
Sometimes, "sheer silence" is louder than a sonic boom, don't you think?
I've learned to not set boundaries on when, how, where, or why God speaks to me. Case in point: today, He spoke on Facebook (I told you I was connecting with the unexpected on there!). I posted about how much housework I had to do, and how much I would love - oh, what I wouldn't give for - a nap. Then I darted over to my cousin's site, and had the opportunity to click on an application, promising a message from God. I had as much expectation from that as I might from one of those Magic 8 balls, but I'm always game for something silly. Here's what popped up:
"Just rest for a moment. It's OK. Yes, things are crazy, yes, the world is going nuts. Yet, deep underneath the stormy waves, there, in the core of your being, there is pure silence, pure love. And ... it's ... just ... OK."
Okay. So it wasn't the Magic 8 ball. But it certainly wasn't coincidence that, as I was lamenting over my fatigue, in the face of having way too much on my plate, this spontaneous, spiritual fortune cookie generator would just tell me to rest. But it might be my Father, God, who watched me work hard all week, struggle to keep up with my studies, fight off a little stomach bug, take care of my husband, and get home super late last night (actually, early this morning) because we were helping our son. It might be my Father, God, who knows that when I get overtired, I also get cranky and depressed and cry way too easily. It might be my Father, God, who says that He will give His beloved sweet sleep, who rested after a busy time of creating, and who, when He was living as a human, got tired and had no problem taking a break, having some nice R & R.
Maybe the laundry doesn't have to get done right now. Maybe the dishes can wait. Maybe the world won't end if I'm not three weeks ahead on my homework. Maybe the best response I have for God's word to me isn't a reply, but a nap. *YAWN*
"On the seventh day God finished the work that he had done, and he rested." (Genesis 2:2)
I'm not finished with my work, but then again, I don't quite have God's stamina. I think, however, that I'll follow His lead. I'll wrap myself up in my Father's love, and my pink blankie, and have a nice little rest. Maybe you'd like to do the same.
In 1 Kings 19, we find the story of God's prophet, Elijah, running for his life. At the point of his deepest, most desperate frustration, fear, and longing for God to do something (we've all had days like that), God speaks. But God doesn't speak to Elijah from the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire. God's voice was still and small, coming from, as it's translated in the New Revised Standard Version, "a sound of sheer silence."
Sometimes, "sheer silence" is louder than a sonic boom, don't you think?
I've learned to not set boundaries on when, how, where, or why God speaks to me. Case in point: today, He spoke on Facebook (I told you I was connecting with the unexpected on there!). I posted about how much housework I had to do, and how much I would love - oh, what I wouldn't give for - a nap. Then I darted over to my cousin's site, and had the opportunity to click on an application, promising a message from God. I had as much expectation from that as I might from one of those Magic 8 balls, but I'm always game for something silly. Here's what popped up:
"Just rest for a moment. It's OK. Yes, things are crazy, yes, the world is going nuts. Yet, deep underneath the stormy waves, there, in the core of your being, there is pure silence, pure love. And ... it's ... just ... OK."
Okay. So it wasn't the Magic 8 ball. But it certainly wasn't coincidence that, as I was lamenting over my fatigue, in the face of having way too much on my plate, this spontaneous, spiritual fortune cookie generator would just tell me to rest. But it might be my Father, God, who watched me work hard all week, struggle to keep up with my studies, fight off a little stomach bug, take care of my husband, and get home super late last night (actually, early this morning) because we were helping our son. It might be my Father, God, who knows that when I get overtired, I also get cranky and depressed and cry way too easily. It might be my Father, God, who says that He will give His beloved sweet sleep, who rested after a busy time of creating, and who, when He was living as a human, got tired and had no problem taking a break, having some nice R & R.
Maybe the laundry doesn't have to get done right now. Maybe the dishes can wait. Maybe the world won't end if I'm not three weeks ahead on my homework. Maybe the best response I have for God's word to me isn't a reply, but a nap. *YAWN*
"On the seventh day God finished the work that he had done, and he rested." (Genesis 2:2)
I'm not finished with my work, but then again, I don't quite have God's stamina. I think, however, that I'll follow His lead. I'll wrap myself up in my Father's love, and my pink blankie, and have a nice little rest. Maybe you'd like to do the same.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Family
When I signed up for Facebook earlier this year, I had no idea what a profound impact on my life it would have. Sure, I anticipated meeting up with old friends, and was pretty sure that it would help me stay connected with my current circle of acquaintences, but I never gave much thought to the obvious: family.
I moved away from my hometown when I was 20 years old. Unlike some, I generally didn't pine for my relations; in fact, I rarely thought about them. I guess I saw life as one grand adventure and moved from place to place relishing the novelty of every new chapter. I returned for my father's funeral, my grandfather's funeral, and then one last time to show my husband and stepchildren my hometown. Beyond that, though, I never gave home or family a second thought. Over the last 24 hours or so, I've been reminded that, no matter what the history has been or how disconnected you are, family is still that: family.
For whatever reason, I started searching for cousins on Facebook. The first one I found was Walt. Going back to memories from 10-years old, the only thing I could remember about Walt (or Wally, as we knew him then) was getting into some highly embarrassing screaming match with him at church. That, of course, led to Aunt Joyce hauling him off by the ear and my own mother literally attempting to smack me into next Tuesday. I don't think that incident set us up to be friends...at least not then.
But thirty years later? I have all these warm, fuzzy feelings surfacing in my heart and am just about ready to buy a plane ticket back "home". Conversations about Grandma's house, catching up with life stories, just the rekindled connection itself has led to the most enjoyable series of exchanges I've had in a long time.
Walt, if you're reading this...thank you. Family's a good place to go. Here's to the next 40 years.
I moved away from my hometown when I was 20 years old. Unlike some, I generally didn't pine for my relations; in fact, I rarely thought about them. I guess I saw life as one grand adventure and moved from place to place relishing the novelty of every new chapter. I returned for my father's funeral, my grandfather's funeral, and then one last time to show my husband and stepchildren my hometown. Beyond that, though, I never gave home or family a second thought. Over the last 24 hours or so, I've been reminded that, no matter what the history has been or how disconnected you are, family is still that: family.
For whatever reason, I started searching for cousins on Facebook. The first one I found was Walt. Going back to memories from 10-years old, the only thing I could remember about Walt (or Wally, as we knew him then) was getting into some highly embarrassing screaming match with him at church. That, of course, led to Aunt Joyce hauling him off by the ear and my own mother literally attempting to smack me into next Tuesday. I don't think that incident set us up to be friends...at least not then.
But thirty years later? I have all these warm, fuzzy feelings surfacing in my heart and am just about ready to buy a plane ticket back "home". Conversations about Grandma's house, catching up with life stories, just the rekindled connection itself has led to the most enjoyable series of exchanges I've had in a long time.
Walt, if you're reading this...thank you. Family's a good place to go. Here's to the next 40 years.
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