I will boast gladly of my weaknesses

Some days I am such a coward. I look at the opportunities in front of me and the big things within my reach, and I run so quickly away. I am wearied by the importance of the things I hold in my hands. I want all of the power with none of the responsibility, and it's made me afraid of significance.

I am too foolish to be doing anything at all.

I forget that this is not my work. I am too full of myself. I forget that I am merely a vessel.

I worry that I was born a wuss. Or worse, that I was born a leader and have devolved into a wuss.

I think it's my defeatist attitude: so easily shut down by obstacles, so easily resigned to cynicism, so easily downtrodden. I want to ask, "How did I get this way", but it's more likely that this is a symptom of the sin that has always been inside of me, and I am slowly being given the eyes to see it.

If this latter instance is the case, I'm in big trouble because I'm too much of a wuss to even really do anything about it.

And so you see my vicious cycle. Who will save us from ourselves?

The Veritas Forum went reasonably well. It has its own few hiccups: the building was difficult for community members to find, signage could have been better, we were a little short-staffed and over-zealous with taping off sections. Holistically, though, I was pleased with how things went. How even though the event was dominated by community members, there seemed to be a few more students than the year before. 

Still, my heart was in my throat when the Veritas rep starts talking with me about next year. Next year? As I'm picking up the scraps of this year? I have to let down my hair and sigh and shake it out a bit before I can even begin to think of facing the terrifying reality of coordinating the Forum with Manny graduated. It sounds too hard. I would probably mess everything up. And worst of all, I'm worried the Forum hasn't made a difference at URI. So why continue?

You see now my defeatist attitude. 

I'm praying for God to enlighten my perspective. To be cheered in the fact that there were students there. That what the impact lacks in scope is makes up for in magnitude. That with each year the Forum has another opportunity to gain recognition with students. That faithfulness will eventually be rewarded with fruit.

I want more than anything to see God working and moving and redeeming at my school. But I'm a little too small and a little too fearful and a little too wimpy to do much of anything. And so I am continually thankful that His power is made perfect in weakness, because at the very least weakness is something I have in abundance. 

In His grace we're sinking

It seems that quite unlike wine or cheese or ironic music, I am not getting better with age. I've been noticing that things that never used to bother me now drive me nuts. I'm a lot more intolerant, I think, and more easily irritated. I'm less loyal, more rash and, immature? It doesn't seem to add up that an individual who was set on the road to sanctification early-on is still getting worse as one gets older. Except when I consider that pride unchecked always balloons out of control.

My mom says that this is the typical sin of the college student. The world revolves around them. For the first time in their lives, they are part of an independent world that is all there own, with responsibilities and obligations outside of the family structure. Freed, so to speak, from the rules and standards that held them back while under typical family governance, college students become incredibly self-absorbed in a setting where they have all the control and everything is actually mostly about them. (College: it does wonders for the ego.)

I say this all in the third person like I'm not talking about myself. :P

When I sit in meetings, wincing at immature assessments and poor conflict resolution, I wonder at how these "mature saints" could be so childish. I spot character flaws in others and reflect on the trouble that'll cause all their lives. I am lacking in compassion for others' mistakes. And I am welled up with defensiveness and justifications for my own. A well-timed conversation this weekend related to this very topic reminded me of the video below. (Lilly, you're my muse.)

 

This is what I see in myself more and more. (Ironically, when I first watched this video, perhaps over two years ago, I thought to myself how important it was that I guard my heart against defensiveness. Whoops.)

One thing I get really defensive about is my time. My availability is next to zero, with almost every minute of almost every day allocated to a specific purpose. If it's not class, it's work. If it's not homework, it's youth group. If it's not family time, it's church stuff. When am I going to train for the half-marathon? Not totally sure! I feel a sick sense of pride in how occupied I am, like being busy is only for awesome people. Therefore, when people make demands on my time, I can feel myself flush at the neck and my heart rate quicken. I feel uptight and resentful that they don't seem to understand that I am busy. Even as I feel shame at guarding my time so jealously, I also struggle to fight the feelings of irritation that I am being misunderstood -- I am irritated in my assumptions that people think I'm lazy (well, I am, ya know) and I exaggerate my commitments. 

I'm so sick, guys. I'm a terrible person. I really need Jesus. 

Wouldn't it be wonderful if I actually was the person that people thought I was.

I know this battle with pride is a long one, a tricky one. I know it requires vigilance, faithfulness, ruthlessness. I worry that my pride will engulf me, sinking me like an iron-clad cruise-liner, and even in this is the irony that my pride thinks it's too big for God's grace. Because if there is any escape from a thing as extensive and cancerous as my pride, it is in Him.

Unsourced

I'm thinking about what it means to be available. Open to being used by God, and willing to do His bidding. About what that looks like on a macro scale, and what that means for every morning of sluggish rising and morning commutes and quiet lunches with book in hand. 

I know some pretty charismatic people. Interestingly, most of them are in ministry. (Though I'm not saying correlation equals causation! :P) They also write blogs, and I read them.

And occasionally re-blog them.

Like right now.

Here is a cool story I heard a while ago. There was this guy who was a Christian and really loved Jesus. One day he felt God was saying to do a head stand in isle 9 of a local super market. The guy thought he has gone crazy and felt he just heard God wrong. But again God told him to do that. So he ended up going to that isle and doing a headstand. A little while later a lady passed by and when she saw him standing on his head she broke down in tears. After talking to her for a little bit he found out that a few minutes before she was jokingly saying that if God exists he should have a guy do a headstand in isle 9.

Does God work that way?

I don't know. Why not? 

(You can follow some of the work God is doing through YWAM at San Francisco's North Beach at Markus Hauesser's Twitter feed.)

Slip-sliding away

My eyes opened on their own at 8am this morning to the perfect vantage point to see Lilly's numerous book titles and the swiftly falling snow out the window. In that comfy bed, on three quality hours of sleep, I willed the snow to fall faster and thicker, hoping against hope to be snowed in instead of en route to work in an hour. Unfortunately, responsibility dragged me out of bed, and excessive hemming and hawing stuck me in the thick of it, driving through the messy roads of South County. 

I cannot even count how many times I lost control of my car today. And it was really scary! I wanted to cry the whole way home, but I also wanted to be able to see the road. I wanted to warm my fingers up, but I also wanted to keep my hands on the wheel. I couldn't feel my feet, but I kept one foot gently on the accelerator, afraid to stop and get stuck in the drifts. The perpetual smell of burning rubber as I skidded along was giving me a headache, but there was no stopping, there was only struggling through. 

At one point my car was stuck with its wheels spinning in the snow of a busy intersection, and it bucked crazily like it had a direction of its own when I tried to pull the wheel in a left-hand turn. Just as the light began to turn, I lurched forward in shock and relief that I hadn't hit anyone, only to hold my breath as my car veered left and right trying to forge a path through the slippery highway. I thought to myself how glad I was my tires had blown in August. Because as traumatizing as it was at the time, now it meant that I had fresh, not-bald tires to help me wade through the chaos of an unplowed I-95.

My heart stopped beating wheezily when I finally pulled onto my unplowed street, where the snow was a lot less abundant and a lot more attractive. Officially out from behind the wheel, I felt heady from an adrenaline rush, realizing how afraid I had been. I always talk about how I'd be fine with dying any day now, but today I was terrified by the real potential of losing control of my car and hitting someone around me. While I'm prepared to meet my Maker, I forgot how scary it was to really face the prospect.

I sound melodramatic, but I don't have near-death experiences very often. (Only every time I get in my car! Heh. Just kidding! Mostly.)

I take the fact that I am still alive as a reminder. And, I'm not sure how theologically sound this thinking is, but I wonder if my presence on earth is an indicator that my purpose is yet unfulfilled. Which on the one hand is depressing: I have not lived so fully for Christ that I have done all that He would require me to do. I have been lazy, disobedient, and misguided. And that's convicting. On the other hand, though, I am encouraged: I must be useful for some small facet of God's plan if I'm still here! He hasn't chopped me yet! And that's heartening, that He will not let me flounder in my flaws, but will rescue me from the treacherous, snowy roads of Rhode Island because He has something yet for me to do. 

Quiet Time

In the quiet times of the morning commute: the asthmatic hum of my Altima's engine, the whooshing of the cars driving by in the passing lane, the crackly bass of the carelessly chosen playlist, the hour with my first thoughts in the morning, unblemished by the days' events that have yet to unfold. 

In the quiet times of the slowly settling sleep: the muffled intonation of Adventures in Odyssey, the regular breathing of my dreaming sisters, the unattributed creaking in the rafters and bedframe and trees, the waning time of my last thoughts of the day, laying to rest in order all the events of the day.

And for the times in between? 

While I am not altogether fond of Gertrude Stein in general, there is a sliver of attributed wisdom when she says, "It takes a lot of time to be a genius, you have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing." Quiet time is grossly underrated.

The times in between can get awfully crowded. Which is not altogether bad; I've been the recipient of many moments bursting full and I wouldn't trade them for a week by the Lighthouse shut up with my thoughts. Still, I am not particularly skilled at keeping track of my thoughts in the midst of the busyness. Like mischievous monkeys my thinking capacities run off and hide, or irritate me with clanging cymbals in my ears. I was never a huge fan of monkeys. Or very good at keeping tabs on my thoughts. 

But as he thinks so he is . . .

What does it mean to take every thought captive? What is concentration? How do I "think upon these things"? I am not yet skilled enough to focus my heart in the ebb and flow of the tasks of the day. And so I am so thankful for quiet time. These heaven-sent opportunities to dwell on truth, to refresh my mind, to strengthen my soul for these times in between. Rest is so sweet.

You're the scent of an unfound bloom—a simple tune, I only write variations to soothe the mood. A drink that will knock me down to the floor, a key that will unlock the door where I hear a voice sing familiar themes, then beckons me weave notes in between . . . This is my call, I belong to You! This is my call to sing the melodies of You! This is my call, I can do nothing else.

He makes all things new.

Four years later, what happened to the girl who went to San Francisco? Who was buoyed by her idealism and her fervent conviction?

Three years later, what happened to beautiful crushed brokenness of Vermont's starry night? That was unrivaled in its message of humbleness and healing?

Two years later, what happened to the girl who felt so keenly? With a rending message, and cathartic conversations, and freely loving one to another?

One year later, what happened to those library conversations, so organic but profound? Which made light glimmer in a crowded and desolate landscape?

Who on earth am I? And where on earth am I going? (Most telling of all, why on earth am I asking?)

We are always changing but we stay the same. I can hardly stand it. 

I hope your new year bursting full and overflowing with His grace, true regeneration, and that eternal hope that spurs us on.

Greetings from the dark annals of Christmas break

I hate break. I hate sitting on my hands while the guilt shatters over my head and rains down all around me, knowledge of all the things I should be doing with all this newfound spare time. I have an enormous to-do list, filled with ambiguous goals I have no hope of sticking to.

And the worst part is, most of it is catch-up, things I should have done before school started back in September, but couldn't do because I was working. Things like clean my room. Oh, it's a sight to behold! I have two boxes full of "junk" sitting next to my bed, things I meant to sort and take care of months ago.

You know what kind of stuff is in those boxes? Lots of random stuff. 

A pomegranate 7-Up can that Bryna wrote all over.

Assorted programs and ticket stubs from Luke's concerts.

My camcorder, one I have little use for since A Year of Questions ended, and the cable doesn't fit in anyone's computers anymore.

Paycheck stubs.

The former contents of my purse that got dumped in the boxes last time I needed to free up some room: I strongly suspect that's where my pocket screwdriver and favorite lipstick have gotten to.

Rebecca's book in hallowed print.

A stack of wonderful letters from wonderful people, gone almost entirely unanswered.

Oh friends, I have been so very negligent. I am so guilty, and my guilt overwhelms me. 

So much has happened in my little world, I feel so very different than I felt just last Christmas ago. And still, so much has happened in my family, and I'm so grateful I've been mostly close enough to see it unfold. But still worse, so much has happened in you and in your lives, and where I might have been kin in the knowning of the goings-ons, at least a supporter or an interceder or an encourager, I have been wholly absent. Too absorbed in my busyness and my meltdowns and my selfish needs. 

I am so limited. God, be infinite!

I hear there is grace for these things, but grace is not easy. I used to really hate Christmastime. I mean, I guess I didn't violently or vocally hate it, but I didn't really enjoy it very much. It made me feel sick to my stomach: all the waste, the excess, the indulgence. Blasted commercialism! Pathetic. It didn't seem fair that I was warm and happy and well-fed while others were shivering and miserable and hungry. This is an injustice year-round, but it's just so particularly heinous at Christmastime. And how could I celebrate a baby sent to this miserable earth to die? How is that a cause for joy? His coming brought the slaughter of numerous infant Hebrew boys and the wise men brought Him gifts fit for burial. This "tidings of comfort and joy" business always seemed so counter-intuitive to me.

And somewhere along the way I grew and learned and came to appreciate . . . hope. This is what we celebrate! In all the sorrow: a broken world necessitating God in flesh to humble Himself in crying, naked, vulnerable humanness . . . He came! God's promise rang true! A Messiah finally to save us all, hope for the conquer of sin and the death it breeds. Hope for abundant and eternal life. He came to live amongst us, to know the world as we knew it, to feel the pain as we felt it, to save us as one of us. His is a gift not just of salvation, but of the truest empathy, and does any hope speak more fully to the human soul? I've heard this truth my whole life; it's hard to speak in words that do it justice, but I see Christmas not in cynicism, but in hope.

That is to say, in grace, in forgiveness, in empathy I am armed. I have neglected people, that which is most important! But I can stand up under the guilt that convicts me, because hope is real and grace is coming.

That's just the way it is?

I watched When Harry Met Sally, probably because Katie told me to or something, and I remember thinking it was okay, but the central theme was a little to stressful for me to consider, so I told myself I'd revisit it at some much later date. Now that I'm older I feel (unjustifiably :P) it's like it's safer to talk about, or something. So it's time to tackle the age old question, one I've previously read about on a few of my friends blogs and now have a little opinion of my own to contribute. Yeah. 

Can boys and girls be friends?

Duh. I'm going to offer a tentative yes. 

I think of it this way: friendship teaches you how to interact with people. How to love people, how to resolve conflict with people, how to work well with people. And I think similarly, friendship with members of the opposite gender teaches you a lot about how to love, have conflict with, and work with people of that gender. Which is kind of something that's useful to know before going into marriage! 

I mean, as much as I am a proponent of treating people like people and not like gender identity scripts, the fact remains that there are some differences, especially when it comes to friendships and communicating. (What I'm about to regurgitate can be cited from Ronald Adler's interpersonal communication textbook Looking Out, Looking In.) Women are more relationally-oriented, whereas men are more action- and activity-oriented. With women, it's about what's said while men are into how much time has been spent. Women look for quality, men trend toward quantity. Women listen with "minimal encouragers" and are more likely to offer an empathetic response, whereas men generally listen more stoically and are more likely to offer advice and solutions. 

But don't let all this destroy the real similarities that exist! (My textbooks says, instead of men being from Mars and women being from Venus, it's more accurate to say men are from North Dakota and women are from South Dakota. So.) I mean, both men and women talk about the same amount per day. (But men talk more about sports, the news, and activities, while women talk more about relationships and other people! I digress . . .) Anyway, learning how to deal with these differences is an important skill whether you're going to get married or not, so why not take advantage of this convenient awesome thing that's friendship? Amirite?!

Okay. So that's about what my thought process was. But then, one of my coworkers showed me the video below at work this past week.

Well, I'm a girl. So apparently I just don't know anything. Thoughts?

But, okay, I think there's an important caveat here. The biggest difference between the people in that video and the people I know is faith. In Christian "culture", the emphasis on guarding your heart and brotherly/sisterly unity makes it a lot safer to interact on a platonic level, because theoretically all that stuff is less of a distraction. Jesus came to set relationships right, and maybe that also means unifying the genders. Yeah, that's right, I like to think Jesus makes it possible for girls and guys to be friends! I would argue that you see more successful, appropriately modeled platonic cross-gender friendships in the church than anywhere else. (Not proven, but it's a nice speculation, eh?) In a world with Jesus, rather than men and women always trying to domineer and manipulate each other, we are instead beginning to learn from each other.

(Hm, still too rosy-glassed?)

Do I think I have quality platonic relationships with boys because I'm naive, or because I actually do? Well, when all else fails, my default defense is that the exception proves the rule. (That's basically what I've applied to all of my abnormal world experiences ever.) I feel like this is one of those things where asking the question is more important than the answer, because it forces you to reflect on the way you behave. Are you honoring the friendships you have? Are you protecting yourself, and them? Loving people is so challenging, and multifaceted, and complicated. Doing it right is not easy! And so it's worth it to ask, "What am I doing here? What is this supposed to be? Is this okay?" Forcing yourself to reflect on your friendships is the first step to being a better friend. 

My mom was all, "You can be friends with boys. Until they get married. Or you do." And that sounds okay to me.

P.S. I really hate disclaimers, and being excessively meta, but I feel compelled to reassure my guy friends that I didn't put them under a microscope.  That's all.