RIP, ginger cat

I killed a helpless little animal today. I was driving along the short three mile stretch between my house and my church when out of nowhere a slender ginger cat darted across the road. Before I had time to think, react, and swerve, I felt the sickening thump of my tires going over a bump in the road, and a quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed my fears. A lump of ginger fur lay prone in my wake. 

When I arrived at church I felt sick to my stomach. My first roadkill. My first bloodshed. I was Lady Macbeth with metaphorical blood on my tires. The car behind me had seen my transgression. I was so traumatized, I felt like I needed to confess what I had done. And yet, how could I offend the shining faces of the junior high girls who greeted me when I walked in the door? How could I stand up under their judgment? It was with a quivering lip that I made my confession.

And what happened next was kind of weird. 

They hugged me. They patted my arm and told me it was all right, and that now that kitty was in a better place, and that accidents happen to everyone. They shared with me stories about all the times their parents had killed unsuspecting wildlife. They gave me their compassion. They weren't all sunshine and roses, though. They certainly expressed their horror that I didn't even pull over to assess the damage done and their concern that now some poor family was without their kitty. And they mourned the passing of an adorable ginger kitten like only junior high girls can. Still, it was comforting, and I felt a little less queasy when I passed the site of the terrible deed on my way home.

I believe with a measure of certainty that there is no healing without confession. Straight-up James 5:16 style. This is part of what makes my heart so heavy about the turmoil that has disrupted my family's equilibrium. Resolution and restoration must be pursued with repentance, and yet, how much has yet to come to light? And so I've been thinking about how to be like those junior high girls, to banish the fear of condemnation and create safety for confession and healing. 

I wonder how it feels to have something terrible locked up inside you, a grievance far worse than turning an adorable pet into roadkill. And how overwhelming the fear of confession must be, to keep such a cancer contained inside. Is that part of why our trend is to "like to keep our issues drawn"? Jesus demanded of the woman at the well, to share who she really was. He already knew, but he asked it of her anyway. A woman who got around. Like Him I want to expect genuinity, and be prepared to meet it. I want the first words on my lips to be compassion, not condemnation. To be a comfort in the face of confession. I want to help bring healing.

What would it look like for us to be genuine and trustworthy? 

"You can tell me who you are, and I will not reject you. Release your burdens, accept my compassion."

And what does it look like for us to trust and be real? 

"I will surrender what weighs on me, because the freedom that calls is more precious than the shame I fear." 

Help us, Jesus.

He is near to the broken-hearted

Are you, God?

It seems every hour I am reminded of the disease of this world. I see it now with unveiled eyes, I see how evil presses in close all around us, I see how it seeps in and stains and erodes. It is always within reach of those who would grasp it. It is brashly stealthy in our complacency.

I see the hearts pearly pink on the outside, and cracked open I see them blackened and hollowed out by the cancer of darkness. How did this happen? I see deceit, betrayal of that which was not what it seemed. I see innocence long abandoned, and fresh burdens that never ought to have been carried. It happens so easily.

I am angry. I am grieved. And I am so disheartened I can scarcely raise my head to see Your rainbow in the sky and Your chariots on the hills. In the thick of the battle, it is only with terrible and grim resolution that I wield Your promise of victory. And I seek to embrace forgiveness, but the anger is only swelling in my guts. And I am trying to stay positive, but it's chalky like a lie in my hands. And I have not doubted for a moment that You will have Your way, but I am burdened by the hurt in my heart.

Out of the darkness You shine, and out of the ashes we rise. And there will come a day where this muck and mud yields beautiful fruit for You. And until it does, what I cannot bear You will bear for me. So take my sorrow and make it pleasing to You. Humble me and refine me in this hurt. Set my heart on the hope of Your power. And may I always be broken before You. 

You are God. And my broken heart will ever praise You.

I tipped him off when I asked for time signals

Today it finally came out. He asked me point-blank. I couldn't avoid the question. So I answered his question with an nigh imperceptible nod. "Have you done speech before this class?" Nod. "Have you competed in speech?" Nod. My professor smiled in a self-satisfied sort of way. "You're a ringer. I can always spot them."

My spirits sank at this confession, I spent the rest of the class stewing in self-pity. I've tried desperately to keep my competitive forensics background under wraps. It's not on my resume. I haven't sought out the debate team. I've never mentioned it to my advisors. I stack expectations against me by approaching speeches, presentations, and group projects with much trepidation. I managed to get all the way to my junior year without a soul in the communication studies department knowing I did seven years of forensic competition in secondary school.

But I think my beginning public speaking teacher was on to me. She pinpointed that nebulous criticism I had always received on my NCFCA ballots: my tendency to "put on" an stereotyped persona, to become a caricature of myself when speaking. She held me to a standard higher than just being able to stand in front of the class and sound coherent. I got my first A- in that class, and I was furious. Each subsequent semester I would pull my evaluations out of my folder, and begin assembling my grade appeal. Eventually, though, I just threw it all out. I deserved the grade I got. It took my pride a few semesters to see that. 

And this was exactly why I wanted to leave my speech and debate experience in high school. Let the truth be known: I am not a good public speaker. I lack the natural knack for dynamics and fluidity. I worked at speech and debate for several years before I made it to the podium for the first time. This is not to say that I have not honed a certain degree of skill in this area, but I still have much, much more to learn, with much more struggle and practice ahead. And an understanding of this reality offended my pride. I wanted low standards, I wanted little expected of me. I wanted to coast, I didn't want to be challenged.

But my secret's out. My advanced public speaking professor knows, and worse, our whole class is also privy to my handicap. And I'm petrified, of not being good enough, of getting a bad grade, of being challenged, and of being unable to rise to the challenge. And yet, how much more fearsome is it to be content with my own mediocre skill? Much worse, I think. And on that I will lean the rest of the semester.

"Where you invest your love, you invest your life," Part II

I heard a beautiful salvation story this evening, told over a few pieces of $1 cheese slices from my favorite Ronzio's location. She shared her heart with a sparkling conviction, her blue eyes brimming as she explained the waterfall of joy that welled up in her heart when she realized her need. I sat there rapt as we talked about Thailand and family and YWAM and church. 

Rewind an hour or two. I get off a long day at work, weary of talking to angry parents and making awkward dorm visits. I clutched a heavy tiredness as I headed to the quad to play frisbee with our Intervarsity chapter as part of our new student outreach. I showed up out of obligation, and glanced at my watch in between pathetic frisbee tosses, and made small talk like I was trying too hard. 

Last semester I was approached about joining the leadership team for my school's Intervarsity chapter, and without a second thought I filled out an application. It is the hand of God that has me here where I am, and I want to be working where He is working. But now that the fall is beginning and the rubber has to meet the road, I am finding myself timid and dulled by the sense of obligation that motivates me to show up. And an empty motivation it is.

My brain knows what's good for me, knows what I ought to be attending to and where I ought to be investing my life. Watered by ambition, it flourishes in the idealism of a productive life, one that loves and serves with abandon. It trusts and believes that the strength and love and joy that He pours into me is enough to overflow into others, and turn back into praise to Him.

By contrast my heart is weak and brittle. Besieged by apathy, it longs after the things my brain knows to be foolishness. With a sullen sense of defeat it contents itself with curling up in the silence of frivolous and solitary pursuits. It grows achy and feels helpless at the realization of its anemia, and to fight its own coldness it grows numb.

My brain wants to want faithfulness, love, righteousness, but my heart is too helpless to fight to desire these things.

But then there is the beauty of the story shared with me. The reminder that showing up to play frisbee and meet people is not an obligation but a privilege. And that the joy that poured from her eager face is the joy that could pour from my softened heart. Oh Father, so high above me, so close within me. So much like Lilith, strong in her rebellion and broken in her repentance, I cannot open my hand on my own. Unite my heart to fear Your name.

"Where you invest your love, you invest your life."

I have this white board. Technically it's my mom's. The homeschooling stand-by that sported our daily grammar lessons and math tricks charts  lived in our basement for a while, until I redirected it for my own personal use. (Kids do this with their parents' stuff. It's the worst.) So "my" white board that previously enshrined my summer to-do list has received a makeover as my autumn goals list. Though I whipped up the goals arbitrarily and on a whim, one particular goal has been a nagging addendum to each campus-related decision I make.

It says, "Be available."

I feel pulled in so many directions, my heart caught by the things I know I ought to invest in. There are seven days in a week, and twenty-four hours in a day, and the things set before me are all good and important. Why, then, do I find myself disquieted by the lack of space in my schedule? 

Part of me is bitter. I look at the students in my honors' class, how they're on the executive board for three clubs, and in Greek life, and they have internships, and campus jobs, and they still have time for Applebee's trivia night every week. How do they do all that? Why can't I pull that off?

Part of me is selfish. My time is my time, and I will spend it the way I want. The sense of obligation and responsibility I feel towards my commitments leaves me with an acidic taste in my mouth, something my head can rationalize but my heart revolts against. Why do I hoard my time so hungrily? Why do the things I love and choose to do so often feel like obligations?

Part of me is overwhelmed. I am just one person, and I am not enough to do all that needs to be done. I cannot possibly love all the people that need loving. I cannot even learn all there is for me to learn. I am too weak and too busy and too self-centered to be what I ought to be. How can I cut off the things that make me small and hold me back? And what if I can't?

Oh, here is the really mysterious part. That I have to teach my brain to skirt around it, so I can think about it better. (Like you see things more clearly out of the corner of your eye.) It's so simple that I struggle with the mechanics of it, but this is it: He is my enough. He owns my time. He fills my heart. He gives me strength. What does that mean? What does that look like? How do I let Him?

It's the most wonderful time of the year

Today I survived my first half-marathon race. Actually, it was the first time I've ever run that far in my life. [Yeah, I know, not an advisable training strategy.] It was a total blast, and as the heat bore down on me around mile eight at India Point Park, the race seemed to me a fitting end to one of the most bizarre summers of my life, and a great kick off to the foggy semester ahead. 

And oh, it was so hard to believe when I smelled the salt on the harbor breeze and when I rubbed the grass in the finishers' village and when I melted in the heat reflecting off the Gtech building, but the signs were all around. The shorter days, the budding acorns, the sale displays in the shop windows; fall is coming. 

New England is the best place to be, I don't think I could ever leave it during fall. Brisk air on my cheeks. Wood smoke in the air. Leaves turning. Apple picking. Corn mazes. Fog on the fields in the morning. Walks in the woods, nature exploration. Sweaters. Scarves. Lots of layers. Oranges and yellows and purples and browns. 

And time in the kitchen. Pumpkin-spice everything. Pumpkin-spice muffins, pumpkin-spice coffee, pumpkin-spice pancakes, cupcakes, cookies, pumpkin-spice French toast, pumpkin-spice bagels, pumpkin-spice froyo. Everything. Apple cider. Tangy black tea. The most satisfying soup weather. Scituate Art Festival vendor food. Halloween candy. 

Back to school. The brain revving that comes after a restful summer break. Getting inspired over new course material, before it starts to get dreary and stressful. Beginning new notebooks. Reorganizing files. Repacking backpacks. Meeting new professors, befriending new classmates, new opportunities to live Him large.

New season, new goals, new to-do list. Summer? It's been real. And it's hard to say good-bye, but the regency of fall makes it possible. 

Pride & Prejudice

People wound people with their misunderstandings and their hasty judgments and their callous assessments and thoughtlessly spoken words. Their good intentions sometimes crumble into ill-advised decisions. Their unripe opportunities sometimes implode under the uncommunicated resentment.

Sometimes everything is so close to going wonderfully amiss. 

And sometimes, when they chose vulnerability over pride, transparency over prejudice, when they seek others above themselves, when they examine themselves with humility, when they swallow the consequences their judgements have concocted . . .

Then, sometimes, people end up completely and perfectly and incandescently happy.

Nehemiah 8:10

When the weight on my chest forces out a heavy sigh during my solitary car rides. When I can't force my eyes to crack open in the dark at the sound of my alarm. When my patience and fortitude is mercilessly sapped by the people I seek to love. When I am so mired in my confusion that I don't know the right way to move forward. 

I must remember, I must not forget . . .

You have been called for joy. 

When I sing along with revelation songs at the top of my lungs in my soul-mending car rides. When my eyes snap open to catch the opportunities in a new day. When I am spilling over from the Creator's love for His creation. When I am shrouded in clarity and hedged by a path from which my steps will never falter. So I will walk in the way set before me.

"Father, put Your loves in my heart, and steel me to choose them."

He is bigger, He is greater, He is my refuge and my salvation. The joy of the LORD is my strength, so I face the darkness and heaviness with no need to grieve.