I'm giving a book report tonight on an awesome book I read called Stronger Than You Think by Kim Gaines Eckert.
Scribbled in the margins is this:
"God, even as I question you, I marvel in the beauty of nature. You created a masterpiece. So why did you put us messed-up people into it?"
I don't think God makes mistakes, but he did, the first was Adam.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Spiritually Bankrupt
I'm trying to grasp what the New Perspective on Paul actually teaches. I'm light years away from understanding it, but all this time spent in Pauline thought has me thinking about faith and works, and how the two are manifested in my life.
Romans 3:23-24, "For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus."
We've all heard the first part, but its v. 24 that I find important: All are justified by God's grace as a gift.
A part of me wants to read that and say, "So do what you want! God's grace is more than enough for you. It covers a multitude of sins. Works don't matter!"
That viewpoint is reaffirmed by Romans 4:5, "And to the one who does not work but trusts him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is counted as righteousness."
So there we have it. Go, sin boldly, as Cathleen Falsani would have you believe.
But there is one problem: Romans 4:4 comes before 4:5.
"Now to the one who works, his wages are not counted as a gift but as his due."
Gifts don't work like that. If you give me a scarf, and I start knitting for you, you don't tell me that my knitting is like payment for my scarf.
Bankruptcy works like that. Bankruptcy says, "Pay what you can. It won't be enough, but I will take all of your striving and apply it to your account. In the end, I'll still handle the total balance, because you do not have enough. But do what you can."
Plenty of people don't. Plenty of people declare bankruptcy, and do not think twice about reducing their glamourous lives. Plenty of people abuse the system and serve themselves through the system.
Imagine, if instead of the government, your father was paying your balance. Your father graciously gave you all that you need and did not ask that you pay it back, but knowing you were unable, offered it freely as a gift.
Would you try, at least a little, to do better next time?
We are spiritually bankrupt. Our heavenly Father knows that our debt is more than we can handle. He does not ask that we work our way out of it. However, what we do is not something that gets us bonus points, it simply goes towards what is due. We work, not so we can boast in being better than the next guy, but so that we can show we honor our Father. So that we can declare to God that we believe in his rules. That we live by his faith. That we desire to be his.
Are we saved by works? No, of course not. But we work because we are saved.
Romans 3:23-24, "For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus."
We've all heard the first part, but its v. 24 that I find important: All are justified by God's grace as a gift.
A part of me wants to read that and say, "So do what you want! God's grace is more than enough for you. It covers a multitude of sins. Works don't matter!"
That viewpoint is reaffirmed by Romans 4:5, "And to the one who does not work but trusts him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is counted as righteousness."
So there we have it. Go, sin boldly, as Cathleen Falsani would have you believe.
But there is one problem: Romans 4:4 comes before 4:5.
"Now to the one who works, his wages are not counted as a gift but as his due."
Gifts don't work like that. If you give me a scarf, and I start knitting for you, you don't tell me that my knitting is like payment for my scarf.
Bankruptcy works like that. Bankruptcy says, "Pay what you can. It won't be enough, but I will take all of your striving and apply it to your account. In the end, I'll still handle the total balance, because you do not have enough. But do what you can."
Plenty of people don't. Plenty of people declare bankruptcy, and do not think twice about reducing their glamourous lives. Plenty of people abuse the system and serve themselves through the system.
Imagine, if instead of the government, your father was paying your balance. Your father graciously gave you all that you need and did not ask that you pay it back, but knowing you were unable, offered it freely as a gift.
Would you try, at least a little, to do better next time?
We are spiritually bankrupt. Our heavenly Father knows that our debt is more than we can handle. He does not ask that we work our way out of it. However, what we do is not something that gets us bonus points, it simply goes towards what is due. We work, not so we can boast in being better than the next guy, but so that we can show we honor our Father. So that we can declare to God that we believe in his rules. That we live by his faith. That we desire to be his.
Are we saved by works? No, of course not. But we work because we are saved.
Friday, August 27, 2010
I can't decide if today is for depth or humor.
Today, I vary between frivolous thoughts of men who might be perfect for me and deep realizations of the pain of my past, all while throwing in a philosophical discussion of subjectivity and cultural expectations.
One thing is certain: I wouldn't trade today for anything.
Here's to a year spent lying in the sun, breathing in the city pollution while pretending the air is fresh and teaching myself new lessons about God and marveling in his unfathomable grace and beauty.
This is senior year, part 2.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Identity.
I remember the exact moment I decided I was a runner. It was a Saturday in late October, and I in my brand new running jacket, when out for an 8 miler. It was barely 40 degrees and the rain was trickling out of the sky, allowing my bangs to absorb the moisture until they simply couldn't take it anymore and began to drip cold rain drops on my nose. The wind was bitter on the lakefront, and for one of the first times in my running experience, the shore line wasn't beautiful. The clouds looked angry and ominous, falling closer to the ground, threatening to make me blind as my visibility dropped to only inches in front of my face.
Four miles in, I smiled between heavy breaths and thought this was a beautiful way to spend an ugly morning. I looked at my feet extending one in front of the other and told myself today I was not just a girl out for a run, but I was a runner.
That day in late October, I allowed myself to be identified. To put myself in a category and to embrace it warmly.
To be fair, others had called me a runner for months, but a label only matters when you accept it.
Over the course of my brief life, I have chosen to be called any number of things. I am a teacher's pet, an honors student, a speech nerd, a math geek, a Bible school student. I am an RA, a nanny, a librarian and a barista. I am cute. I am intellectually inclined, vintagely appareled, and utterly un-athletic.
So when my identity is wrapped up in the things I do or the people I see, it is possible for me to lose myself entirely.
16 days ago, I went to the hospital with immense pain in my lower back. After a few tests were run, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc and an inflamed SI joint. I would recover without surgery, but I would forever need to modify my lifestyle. There would be no more carelessly lifting children or quickly grabbing gallons of milk at a coffee shop. There would be significantly fewer runs, and even fewer on the concrete lakeshore path that I had grown to love. I was also warned that it might be several months before I could even go for a light, short jog. I would not be able to decorate my floor unassisted. Not be able to enroll in dance classes. Unable to even unpack my own boxes in order to move from one place to the next. Who I was – the things that I did – were taken from me.
For that, God was to blame. It was his fault that this happened so abruptly. His fault that I could not be who I was designed to be. I was hurt and angry and had no one to blame but God and my father's bad genes.
My floor theme for this coming year is all about identity and being complete. At first I explained it as the need for women to be independent. The idea that they deserved to be their own person. A woman needed to have an identity apart from who they might be, and embrace who they are.
It sounded more like a self-help book than a Christian dorm theme.
After my disc herniation, I hobbled my way into my parents' glamorous church for Celebration Sunday. The pastor preached no sermon, and we sung few hymns. The short service consisted mostly of recognizing the growth of the church and the way that congregation had learned to love others. In between clapping for new baptisms and mission trips, the pastor would read Bible verses that seemed unconnected.
Annoyed by the lack of context, I began looking up the verses for myself. One absorbed my attention. John 15:5 -- [Jesus speaking] "I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing."
Verse 6 continues the thought -- "If anyone does not remain in me, he is like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire, and burned."
In the winter, branches on the tree look about the same as branches off the tree. Both have leaves that have withered away. Both are barren and ugly. For those who abide, they are not granted constant foilage; they must sit for a season cloaked in ice and being threatened with death. Before they can produce new leaves and begin to bear fruit, they must remain empty.
It may be August, but I am in the middle of winter. I have remained barren long enough and begun to grab a hot glue gun and bedazzle my tree. I have started to add my own beauty to my life and started to give it new meaning and purpose. One shiny red gem for my great ability to make A's. A blue one for my stellar job as a barista, and a huge pink stone for my impeccable gift of leading in a posture of humility.
My branch glistens in the sun and anyone who walks through this forest, will see me standing out in the dead of winter.
The problem is, my branch is so heavy with these plastic jewels, that its starting to break away from its source. Worse yet, even if I could cling on until Spring, there is no room for me to blossom. I have no space for fruit. No availability for God to produce in me something new and beautiful. When Spring comes, I will be the one without leaves. The one that looks misplaced, that has failed to be naturally beautiful.
You see, God has a plan for my life. He has a way he wants to use me, and it requires me placing my identity in him. It requires that I be who he desires me to be, and not some cheap flashy product that no longer resembles the tree.
In order for me to grow, I need to pull off what makes me who I am and allow myself to be barren and empty and open for God to produce new fruit. The problem is, I am not strong enough to detach these things from me on my own. Problem is, I like my gems. I know they are worthless. I know that being a good RA isn't all I'm supposed to be. It may be something that is true of me, but it is not who I am. The same is true of my extracurriculars, of my workout habit, of the clothes that I wear. Truth is, I like who I've made myself into.
Sometimes, when I'm really honest, I tell God that. I tell him that I know that who he wants me to be is better than anything I have for myself. I tell him that I trust that he will use me for his glory and my good. But, with tears trickling down my cheeks, I tell him I'm not willing to be that person yet. I tell him that I'm pretty comfortable right here.
Sometimes, God helps me out, and not always very gently. When I herniated my disc, God was making it easier for me to let go of my false identity. He took a razor blade and removed all that was flashy from my branch, and left me exposed, bark and gems removed. Laying on the couch, unable to even tie my shoes, God asked me to remain empty for a while.
You see, the thing about winter is that it prepares you for Spring. If we didn't have a season with nothing, we wouldn't be able to grow anew. We'd be left with rotting apples hanging from our branches, stifled from new growth. Right now, I feel more vulnerable and removed from God than I have in a long time. But truth is, in this period of unknown, in this longing for purpose, God is preparing me to be a new creation. He's allowing me to start over in forming my identity.
I have a choice. I can choose to be a model student, a fantastic RA, a dutiful librarian. Or, I can choose to be a child of God, redeemed by the blood of the Cross, who has been given abounding grace and mercy from the Father so that he may perform a good work in me – one who just happens to be an RA and work at a library and loves school. It is less about what I do, and more about what I identify myself as. Right now, as hard as it, I'm working on abiding in Christ and letting myself be His.
I am a work in progress, a sculpture being modeled by the Father.
Who are you?
Four miles in, I smiled between heavy breaths and thought this was a beautiful way to spend an ugly morning. I looked at my feet extending one in front of the other and told myself today I was not just a girl out for a run, but I was a runner.
That day in late October, I allowed myself to be identified. To put myself in a category and to embrace it warmly.
To be fair, others had called me a runner for months, but a label only matters when you accept it.
Over the course of my brief life, I have chosen to be called any number of things. I am a teacher's pet, an honors student, a speech nerd, a math geek, a Bible school student. I am an RA, a nanny, a librarian and a barista. I am cute. I am intellectually inclined, vintagely appareled, and utterly un-athletic.
So when my identity is wrapped up in the things I do or the people I see, it is possible for me to lose myself entirely.
16 days ago, I went to the hospital with immense pain in my lower back. After a few tests were run, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc and an inflamed SI joint. I would recover without surgery, but I would forever need to modify my lifestyle. There would be no more carelessly lifting children or quickly grabbing gallons of milk at a coffee shop. There would be significantly fewer runs, and even fewer on the concrete lakeshore path that I had grown to love. I was also warned that it might be several months before I could even go for a light, short jog. I would not be able to decorate my floor unassisted. Not be able to enroll in dance classes. Unable to even unpack my own boxes in order to move from one place to the next. Who I was – the things that I did – were taken from me.
For that, God was to blame. It was his fault that this happened so abruptly. His fault that I could not be who I was designed to be. I was hurt and angry and had no one to blame but God and my father's bad genes.
My floor theme for this coming year is all about identity and being complete. At first I explained it as the need for women to be independent. The idea that they deserved to be their own person. A woman needed to have an identity apart from who they might be, and embrace who they are.
It sounded more like a self-help book than a Christian dorm theme.
After my disc herniation, I hobbled my way into my parents' glamorous church for Celebration Sunday. The pastor preached no sermon, and we sung few hymns. The short service consisted mostly of recognizing the growth of the church and the way that congregation had learned to love others. In between clapping for new baptisms and mission trips, the pastor would read Bible verses that seemed unconnected.
Annoyed by the lack of context, I began looking up the verses for myself. One absorbed my attention. John 15:5 -- [Jesus speaking] "I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing."
Verse 6 continues the thought -- "If anyone does not remain in me, he is like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire, and burned."
In the winter, branches on the tree look about the same as branches off the tree. Both have leaves that have withered away. Both are barren and ugly. For those who abide, they are not granted constant foilage; they must sit for a season cloaked in ice and being threatened with death. Before they can produce new leaves and begin to bear fruit, they must remain empty.
It may be August, but I am in the middle of winter. I have remained barren long enough and begun to grab a hot glue gun and bedazzle my tree. I have started to add my own beauty to my life and started to give it new meaning and purpose. One shiny red gem for my great ability to make A's. A blue one for my stellar job as a barista, and a huge pink stone for my impeccable gift of leading in a posture of humility.
My branch glistens in the sun and anyone who walks through this forest, will see me standing out in the dead of winter.
The problem is, my branch is so heavy with these plastic jewels, that its starting to break away from its source. Worse yet, even if I could cling on until Spring, there is no room for me to blossom. I have no space for fruit. No availability for God to produce in me something new and beautiful. When Spring comes, I will be the one without leaves. The one that looks misplaced, that has failed to be naturally beautiful.
You see, God has a plan for my life. He has a way he wants to use me, and it requires me placing my identity in him. It requires that I be who he desires me to be, and not some cheap flashy product that no longer resembles the tree.
In order for me to grow, I need to pull off what makes me who I am and allow myself to be barren and empty and open for God to produce new fruit. The problem is, I am not strong enough to detach these things from me on my own. Problem is, I like my gems. I know they are worthless. I know that being a good RA isn't all I'm supposed to be. It may be something that is true of me, but it is not who I am. The same is true of my extracurriculars, of my workout habit, of the clothes that I wear. Truth is, I like who I've made myself into.
Sometimes, when I'm really honest, I tell God that. I tell him that I know that who he wants me to be is better than anything I have for myself. I tell him that I trust that he will use me for his glory and my good. But, with tears trickling down my cheeks, I tell him I'm not willing to be that person yet. I tell him that I'm pretty comfortable right here.
Sometimes, God helps me out, and not always very gently. When I herniated my disc, God was making it easier for me to let go of my false identity. He took a razor blade and removed all that was flashy from my branch, and left me exposed, bark and gems removed. Laying on the couch, unable to even tie my shoes, God asked me to remain empty for a while.
You see, the thing about winter is that it prepares you for Spring. If we didn't have a season with nothing, we wouldn't be able to grow anew. We'd be left with rotting apples hanging from our branches, stifled from new growth. Right now, I feel more vulnerable and removed from God than I have in a long time. But truth is, in this period of unknown, in this longing for purpose, God is preparing me to be a new creation. He's allowing me to start over in forming my identity.
I have a choice. I can choose to be a model student, a fantastic RA, a dutiful librarian. Or, I can choose to be a child of God, redeemed by the blood of the Cross, who has been given abounding grace and mercy from the Father so that he may perform a good work in me – one who just happens to be an RA and work at a library and loves school. It is less about what I do, and more about what I identify myself as. Right now, as hard as it, I'm working on abiding in Christ and letting myself be His.
I am a work in progress, a sculpture being modeled by the Father.
Who are you?
Friday, August 6, 2010
Stalking God
I finished Evolving in Monkey Town today. Somewhere near the end, she says something along the lines of "Faith is like a book in a foreign language; sometimes, you just have to hold onto the mystery." (I'm terribly annoyed that I didn't get that quote right, or even particularly close, just so you know).
It reminded me of a Death Cab for Cutie song, which tells you more about my pseudo-emergent, hipster roots than anything else, but the link was important.
I will Possess Your Heart starts out: "How I wish you could see the potential, the potential of you and me. Its like a book elegantly bound but in a language that you can't read, just yet."
I wonder, if God is like the antique Swedish book my grandmother gave me, with its fine gold-leaf scrolling and letters I can't identify, I wonder what I'm supposed to do with him.
I have grown up being asked to dole out answers. And I like doing it. I like sounding like the authority, being the one who always will steer you in the right direction. In high school, I would never admit to not knowing something. Instead, I would simply make something up, and see if anyone ever doubted me (They rarely did).
Lately, I think I've started to do the same thing with God. To be perfectly honest: I have no idea if God elected us before we were born. I don't know how God speaks to us, or if he has a clear cut will for my life. I'm not sure when or how the world was created and I do not know how the world will end. Yet, there are papers floating around academia with my name attached to particular trains of thought. There are people who can without a doubt assure people that I believe in literary framework theory for Genesis or that I am a staunch Pre-Trib Dispensationalist.
I've grabbed my red ink pen and inserted English characters over the Swedish writing, creating my own novel and telling everyone that this is what truth is.
The song by Death Cab is the greatest stalker song of my generation. The man is suggesting that he will learn the language of this book that seems so nice on the outside -- he will win over her heart.
Am I playing the same game with God? Am I forcing myself to learn his novel at the expense of knowing him?
The Swedish novel my grandmother gave me has sat on my shelf since I was 12. I have never once thought about learning Swedish or getting rid of the book. Instead, every now and then, I pull the book off the shelf, and wipe the dust from its cover. I gently flip through the brittle pages and run my finger over the slightly raised text. I smile and breathe in the memories that I've had with my grandmother, imagining her mother reading this book in a land that seems wholly imaginary to me.
The point is not to read the story but to embrace my heritage: to soak in who I am and where I came from. And I think, increasingly lately, that may be the point of my faith as well.
Instead of living in the presence of God and using his word as a tool to grow deeper in love with him, I've turned it into a textbook to give me the history of the world. I've used it like a crystal ball to determine my future. I've used it as poison to shove down the throats of those who theologically disagree. I've tried to learn the language, missing the beauty of the unknown. I've started to stalk God, determining to know all of his details, demanding that I find out the truth.
It reminded me of a Death Cab for Cutie song, which tells you more about my pseudo-emergent, hipster roots than anything else, but the link was important.
I will Possess Your Heart starts out: "How I wish you could see the potential, the potential of you and me. Its like a book elegantly bound but in a language that you can't read, just yet."
I wonder, if God is like the antique Swedish book my grandmother gave me, with its fine gold-leaf scrolling and letters I can't identify, I wonder what I'm supposed to do with him.
I have grown up being asked to dole out answers. And I like doing it. I like sounding like the authority, being the one who always will steer you in the right direction. In high school, I would never admit to not knowing something. Instead, I would simply make something up, and see if anyone ever doubted me (They rarely did).
Lately, I think I've started to do the same thing with God. To be perfectly honest: I have no idea if God elected us before we were born. I don't know how God speaks to us, or if he has a clear cut will for my life. I'm not sure when or how the world was created and I do not know how the world will end. Yet, there are papers floating around academia with my name attached to particular trains of thought. There are people who can without a doubt assure people that I believe in literary framework theory for Genesis or that I am a staunch Pre-Trib Dispensationalist.
I've grabbed my red ink pen and inserted English characters over the Swedish writing, creating my own novel and telling everyone that this is what truth is.
The song by Death Cab is the greatest stalker song of my generation. The man is suggesting that he will learn the language of this book that seems so nice on the outside -- he will win over her heart.
Am I playing the same game with God? Am I forcing myself to learn his novel at the expense of knowing him?
The Swedish novel my grandmother gave me has sat on my shelf since I was 12. I have never once thought about learning Swedish or getting rid of the book. Instead, every now and then, I pull the book off the shelf, and wipe the dust from its cover. I gently flip through the brittle pages and run my finger over the slightly raised text. I smile and breathe in the memories that I've had with my grandmother, imagining her mother reading this book in a land that seems wholly imaginary to me.
The point is not to read the story but to embrace my heritage: to soak in who I am and where I came from. And I think, increasingly lately, that may be the point of my faith as well.
Instead of living in the presence of God and using his word as a tool to grow deeper in love with him, I've turned it into a textbook to give me the history of the world. I've used it like a crystal ball to determine my future. I've used it as poison to shove down the throats of those who theologically disagree. I've tried to learn the language, missing the beauty of the unknown. I've started to stalk God, determining to know all of his details, demanding that I find out the truth.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Lessons for Smart Kids
I have always been smart. Stick me in a classroom or hand me a book, and I will spout out information to you as if I were born with a brain full of theology and mathematics.
Funny then that I am not a quick learner. In life, I take my dear sweet time learning lessons. I rarely learn from my mistakes, and more frequently repeat them leisurely.
This week, I am packing up my small set of belongings and preparing to move back to Smith 423, to my quiet little room with the view of a stairwell in Crowell hall. I'm sad for summer to be over and to be adding four miles to the commute to visit one of my closet friends who I've had the joy of sharing a room with for the past 3 months. Yet, I am the happiest packer you've ever met. As I sit putting hefty philosophy books back in boxes for a few days, I dream of the Fall and all it will bring. I think of my big plans: a floor with small groups, two ministry teams, Bible studies at Loyola, a new RA small group, elaborate cro-sis retreats, volunteering at my wonderful Covenant Presbyterian, running another 15k. I giggle with joy at the tasks I've lined up for myself and stifle any emerging fear of overcommitment.
Overcommitment is my recurrent sin. I am great at doing things. Horrible at moderating things. I run on overdrive until I kill my engine, get the flu and lie in bed unmovable for 4 days. Its my preferred method of control.
This time, my engine quit before I even took off. I had only recently started my upward climb to heavenly busyness when my back broke, and I was left screaming in pain in the ER and crying at the realization that I wouldn't be running for a long time.
I had made a lot of plans. I had charted my course for the following day, week, semester. I was scheduled, but my body chose to ignore it. Lying on the couch, sedated by heavy narcotics, I watched as my agenda cleared itself out. I lied there wondering what I would still be able to do. I cried everyday, realizing that my life was over.
I told Talia last night that I was sad — an emotion I usually deny I am capable of having. I told her that I felt like who I was had been stripped from me. I couldn't run – I couldn't even shave legs without help. I had no appetite, I had to give up my coffee shop, I had to spend my days lying in bed, I didn't want to talk to anyone. I have no idea what she said in response. In fairness, it was probably sweet and thoughtful. But admitting how I was filling was enough to trigger something — relief. I'm not happy to have chronic pain, but I am grateful.
Every day has been a lesson for me. I am learning about margins – slowing realizing that I need to be able to have the flexibility to collapse without everything falling apart in my life. I'm learning that I was not designed to be self-sufficient, but designed to rely on others. I was designed to live in community — which means asking for help moving and even asking for help to grab a book from the top shelf at Barnes and Noble. It means having the willingness to let someone else handle something without needing to perfect the details. I'm also learning about humility, as I hobble to the el and have to wait on the elevator while innocent passer-bys glare at me for being lazy. It means finding a sense of humor when the girl next to you on the train looks mortified by the grotesque bruise on your arm that looks like you've been abused, when really you just had a nurse with bad aim.
So, maybe this time I'll learn my lesson. We'll see.
Funny then that I am not a quick learner. In life, I take my dear sweet time learning lessons. I rarely learn from my mistakes, and more frequently repeat them leisurely.
This week, I am packing up my small set of belongings and preparing to move back to Smith 423, to my quiet little room with the view of a stairwell in Crowell hall. I'm sad for summer to be over and to be adding four miles to the commute to visit one of my closet friends who I've had the joy of sharing a room with for the past 3 months. Yet, I am the happiest packer you've ever met. As I sit putting hefty philosophy books back in boxes for a few days, I dream of the Fall and all it will bring. I think of my big plans: a floor with small groups, two ministry teams, Bible studies at Loyola, a new RA small group, elaborate cro-sis retreats, volunteering at my wonderful Covenant Presbyterian, running another 15k. I giggle with joy at the tasks I've lined up for myself and stifle any emerging fear of overcommitment.
Overcommitment is my recurrent sin. I am great at doing things. Horrible at moderating things. I run on overdrive until I kill my engine, get the flu and lie in bed unmovable for 4 days. Its my preferred method of control.
This time, my engine quit before I even took off. I had only recently started my upward climb to heavenly busyness when my back broke, and I was left screaming in pain in the ER and crying at the realization that I wouldn't be running for a long time.
I had made a lot of plans. I had charted my course for the following day, week, semester. I was scheduled, but my body chose to ignore it. Lying on the couch, sedated by heavy narcotics, I watched as my agenda cleared itself out. I lied there wondering what I would still be able to do. I cried everyday, realizing that my life was over.
I told Talia last night that I was sad — an emotion I usually deny I am capable of having. I told her that I felt like who I was had been stripped from me. I couldn't run – I couldn't even shave legs without help. I had no appetite, I had to give up my coffee shop, I had to spend my days lying in bed, I didn't want to talk to anyone. I have no idea what she said in response. In fairness, it was probably sweet and thoughtful. But admitting how I was filling was enough to trigger something — relief. I'm not happy to have chronic pain, but I am grateful.
Every day has been a lesson for me. I am learning about margins – slowing realizing that I need to be able to have the flexibility to collapse without everything falling apart in my life. I'm learning that I was not designed to be self-sufficient, but designed to rely on others. I was designed to live in community — which means asking for help moving and even asking for help to grab a book from the top shelf at Barnes and Noble. It means having the willingness to let someone else handle something without needing to perfect the details. I'm also learning about humility, as I hobble to the el and have to wait on the elevator while innocent passer-bys glare at me for being lazy. It means finding a sense of humor when the girl next to you on the train looks mortified by the grotesque bruise on your arm that looks like you've been abused, when really you just had a nurse with bad aim.
So, maybe this time I'll learn my lesson. We'll see.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)