Bedbugs in Shalom

As she walked in the door of our theology class, I looked at her sympathetically. It had been a hard series of weeks for her, and on Monday morning, I hoped the tides had turned.

It had not. She sat down with a sigh and a smile, leaned over and said, "I have a bedbug in my purse."

This instantaneously frightened me. A bedbug. In her purse. 

For the past several years I knew of the presence of bedbugs in my city, on my campus, but never in the same room as myself. I had never been in the presence of a bedbug (knowingly, at least). My pupils dilated and my brows furrowed, terrified that my fellow RA had brought her dirty little problem into Sweeting.

"Its on a Hebrew card. A girl brought it to me this morning in a little baggie."

Her hand slipped into her purse, and shortly after emerged with a small ziploc bag with a "shalom" card within it. The card, which means peace in Hebrew, had a small critter smashed on it, with a trail of blood across the card.

Bedbugs. Something I thought was only in nursery rhymes like dragons and happily ever afters. A critter which infests itself within mattress and fabrics. A bug that spreads like a virus, able to live in walls or carpet, and seemingly impossible to kill.

The news spread wildly last year that there were in fact bedbugs on campus. As the story spread it became more urban legend than front page news and all but disappeared from small group discussion. It is funny how when something is near you but not directly affecting you, how quickly one can forget.

Like the death of a panhandler on our block 4 days ago. An event that had everyone's attention until the media took down their lights and the bullets were picked up. Just as the car with the shattered glass was towed away, our minds easily moved to another location, another event, another problem.

The bedbugs were someone else's problem. Something to mention in passing and give obligatory statements of misfortunate, but something of which none of us were too concerned. Then they crept closer.

Safely in a different dorm, the likelihood of having bedbugs infest my floor has not increased with the emergence of these critters on my friend's floor. Unfortunately for her, the problem tucked itself away behind beautiful decorations and hide under the busyness of senior girls. Then, in an instant, the problem overwhelmed the room, and then another, and then a whole floor.

The RA held steady. Certainly this added a new dynamic to her job. Not only did she have girls coming to her with bugs in baggies, but they climbed in bed with her and nibbled on her back. Suddenly a distant problem was at the forefront of her mind.

She had every right to be mad. To be emotional. To be frustrated. No one would have judged her if she came to small group ranting about her problems, screaming with agitation and expressing the unfairness of it all. Such a reaction would almost be expected. However, her poise extended far beyond our expectations. With calmness, she provided us the details and lovingly forgave the girls whose schedules and fashion sense kept them from noticing the problem sooner. Our RS was the one to tell us that this RA had been bit. It was our RS that told us how hard it had been for our friend.

Patience in Tribulation. To have hardship hit you like a ton of bricks and to remain steady. To have problems fall on you like an avalanche but to continue in hope. This friend demonstrated this exceedingly well. She is a wonderful illustration of just what it means to rest in the Lord, even when chaos surrounds us.

Patience in Tribulation. A virtue I have yet to master, but one I have seen done so beautifully.

Be Patient in Tribulation

My soul is not often deeply troubled. There are rarely moments in which I am fully consumed by grief. There are even fewer moments where I feel this way without explanation.

This afternoon was one such moment.

Maybe ten minutes into my 3:30 meeting, my heart began to sink. Gazing out the window, I felt compelled to pray for each person I saw. My uneasiness grew and I questioned my feelings. Was it caffeine-induced anxiety? Was I being paranoid about the fate of each person that walked down Wells Street? Was this the Holy Spirit bringing me into intercession for things I did not know?

Deep consternation fell over me. I could not sit still. My heart pulsated. Something was terribly wrong.

I wanted to do nothing but walk out of that room and collapse on my floor in prayer. I knew not why but I knew I had to.

I was told someone was injured. Then I was told someone was shot. Living in downtown Chicago, even that didn't startle me terribly.

Then I read someone was dead — shot by a police officer. At Chicago and Wells. On my corner.

I collapsed on my floor and cried. I know few details and am sure I do not know the person, but my soul weeps for his death and is sorrowful for the families of all those involved.

Patience in Tribulation. That's this week's theme. I am halfway done with a beautiful piece about bearing with problems patiently, but this — this is a different kind of patience in tribulation. This is the patience that has us crying out "Come Lord Come!" The patience which knows that God knows what he is doing and will come at the right time. It is the patience of 2 Peter 3:9, "The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but all should reach repentance."

God, I long for you to come. I long for the redemption of your people, of this earth. Come, Lord, Come. But, Lord, teach me patience. Fill me with your wisdom, your desires, your timing. 

From the Book of Common Prayer by Shane Claiborne, a prayer for the "death of someone killed in the neighborhood" as they phrase it:

Lamb of God,
you take away the sins of the world.
Have mercy on us.
Grant us peace.

For the unbearable toil of our sinful world,
we plead for remission.
For the terror of absence from our beloved,
we plead for your comfort.
For the scandalous presence of death in your creation,
we plead for the resurrection.

Lamb of God,
you take away the sins of the world.
Have mercy on us.
Grant us peace.
Come, Holy Spirit, and heal all that is broken in our lives, in our streets, and in our world. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Rejoice in Hope

I've stenciled it on the edges of my class notes since I was a freshman. I have perfected my script, bowing the H just the right about and extending the E just far enough to look carelessly perfect.

Hope.

The word at this point is almost meaningless. Hope in what? What is hope? A beautiful word that makes my heart pound and my eyes water, but a word reduced to emotion, lacking truth or validity.

I have thought much about hope this week. I have let it sit idly in my mind as a pretty word. I have dissected it like a fetal pig, (Isn't that the worst analogy you've heard in a long time) seeking to understand it by destroying it.

I'm not sure I have any real answers. Hope is an expectation. It is a desire. It is uncertain. We hope for what we do not see. We hope for what would be best. We hope because we do not know and cannot know. We hope because our hearts do not let us give up. We hope in faith because we trust and love the one who gives us hope.

Rejoice in hope.

Not rejoice in the things you hope for or in your answered hopes, but rejoice in hope. Rejoice for what you do not have.

It seems so... wrong to me. It seems contrary to my nature. When I hope I do not rejoice, I fret. I worry. I grow anxious.  To rejoice in hope means to have joy merely for the expectation. It means to rejoice in the relationship. I prefer to rejoice in receiving. To rejoice in answered prayers. To celebrate having — the contradiction of hoping.

Rejoice in hope, saints. Celebrate the one who gives you hope; who follows through; who answers. Rejoice in his divinity, his awesome glory, his strength. Rejoice in the hope you have received — the hope of eternity.

On Comedy

Mockery: scornfully contemptuous ridicule; derision. As Cornelius Plantinga phrases it in Not the Way It's Supposed to Be, "mockery takes dead aim at our staunchest natural defense and tries to blow it away. Mockery aims to shred human dignity and therefore to despoil its victim in a specially devastating way."

Satire: the use of humor, irony, exaggeration or ridicule to expose and criticize people's stupidity or vices, particularly in the context of contemporary issues.

Good comedy is not mockery; it is satire. The line is terribly thin and mostly has to do with the subject matter.

Tonight, informal, you disappointed me. To be fair, you had beautiful satire on gossip in the church and a hilarious sketch about Scooby Doo that took us back to our living rooms from third grade, but the moment you thought schizophrenia was funny was the moment you moved from comedy to mockery and the moment you stripped dignity from a set of people who bear the image of God.

You should be ashamed of yourselves.

Silent Words and Lonely Walks

Romans 12:11 -- Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord.

Yesterday I was terribly conflicted. I knew that my blogging time was limited this week, but I never wrote the blog I needed to for last week on "do not be slothful in zeal" but a new week had begun and I needed to focus on the proper week. I needed to "be fervent in spirit (serve the Lord)."

Then this morning, as I stood in chapel worshipping alongside my amazing floor and our awesome brothers, I realized that my two blog posts are really the same thing. Thus, let the story begin with last Friday, trudging home alone from Founder's Week, sick, voiceless and cold:

I thought about leaving with friends. It would seem the logical thing to do, but unable to talk, I felt more like a leech than I did a part of a group. I planned to catch a bus, but just barely missing it, decided that walking would be warmer than standing at the bus stop and started on my way home through the sludge that was once snow and salt.

It was lonely and depressing — the kind of thing one does when she has no friends and no one to confide in.

I stepped in a puddle. It was unavoidable really, the small ocean that had formed at the junction of a driveway and the sidewalk. A puddle too large to jump, I simply had to sink into it, letting my boots fill with cold water, while I marched on in the winter wind.

Angry and annoyed, I began to talk to God, aware that without a voice and all alone, I really had no other option. My theme for the weak was "do not be slothful in zeal," a great theme, I thought, considering it was Founder's Week. A whole week of sermons and worship services — plenty of opportunities to demonstrate my zeal.

Except when you're so sick you can't stand up and you have lost your voice to the point that a whisper is painful — and you start to feel sympathy for the lifelong smokers who now use a small box to speak since they have so thoroughly destroyed their vocal chords — demonstrating zeal isn't exactly easy.

God, I began, this is not fair. How am I to be zealous when I can't share what I am thinking? How am I supposed to have energy to praise you when I hardly have the energy to get out of bed? How am I supposed to praise when the only person I can talk to is you?


When you have no voice, the only conversations you are able to have are with God.

When you have no voice, prayer is the only means of communication.

I know I'm repeating myself. My epiphany last week was that freezing cold, silent moment, when God pointed out to me that zeal is not about other people; it is about him. God does not want me to be zealous so I look good in a sanctuary. God wants me to zealous for his sake alone.

Romans 12:11 -- Do not be slothful in zeal. Be fervent in Spirit. Serve the Lord.

They go together. It is not three separate commands but a string of related actions. Our zeal is to be for the Lord. It is not done through our own strength but through the work of the Spirit. We need the Holy Spirit to enable us to serve God. We are fallen, depraved, selfish people. Be passionately in love with God, be filled with the Holy Spirit, and in so doing honor God.

This week, or more aptly, today, I have realized the blessedness of being filled with the Spirit. I have been in prayer continually as of late. I am up late praying, I am praying when I rise, and I am standing in chapel telling God that I have run out of words but still need to pray. Truthfully, I have never felt like this before. I have never stood before God and felt a true communion with him. A theoretical one, an intellectual one — yes. But not like this.

This week I am being fervent in Spirit and I hope it is serving the Lord.

May God received glory through all that I do. May the joy of my salvation be ever present; may the Holy Spirit enable me to honor God in my thoughts and prayers and actions. To him who was and is and is to come, may all glory and honor be.  Amen.

Apology

On an RA panel months ago, I made the comment that being an RA has taught me how to apologize.

I meant it, and in some ways, I had learned about apologies during my year and a half on Smith 4. I learned it on a casual, one on one level. I learned to see myself as less than perfect and make amends when I had failed to do as I had promised, or as was expected of me.

If I thought I knew anything about apologies then, I had no idea what this semester would hold.

This semester, I've missed the mark a lot. I've spoken out of turn. I've been off color. I've not loved people the way I should. I have made decisions without fully comprehending the ramifications of my actions.

And I apologize.

It is always hard. It is always emotional. It is also heart-felt, and it is always consumed with a fear that it will not be received.

Tonight, I go to bed thinking of an apology letter I must write in the morning. It grieves me to write it, not because I do not feel like I have wronged anyone, but because I know I have. It saddens me that my knowledge of my poor decision comes after I have already acted.

Lord, forgive me for the sins I commit unintentionally. Grant me grace to conquer them through you. Give me the words to apologize rightly, to make amends where necessary. Give me the wisdom to not make the same fumbles in the future.

Do not be slothful in zeal

"I want something old." She declares in a thick Russian accent as she brushes her finger over our collection of former Founder's Week messages.

"Old." I repeat, looking around the booth filled with old things taken from the dusty back storage room of the library.

"Well... these are... old..." The words barely held together through my confused pauses as I point to a 1920 student handbook.

"2 dollar is too much."

Right, this was going to be a worthless sale.


"Your hair is pretty. Shiny like metal."

Shiny like metal? This conversation only gets more interesting, I think as I kindly thank her for what I hope was meant as a compliment.

Twenty minutes later, she decides on two pamphlets of poor quality to purchase because they "felt" old.

"2 dollars." I tell her.

Leaning over to write her receipt, another wonderful compliment flows from her mouth:

"You're pregnant!"

I stop writing mid-letter, and look at her confused.

"No. No, I'm not." I say with a smile, trying to hide my confusion and repulsion at the suggestion.

"Soon? You trying, yes? With your husband?"

I discreetly look at my left hand — still bare.

"...no. Um, I'm... not married."

I look down, ashamed, embarrassed, self-conscious. Not pregnant. Not married. Not even close.

Single.

The word reverberates around my skull, bouncing off the walls and remaining steadily at the center of my attention.

Do not be slothful in zeal.


Zeal for what?

Do not be slothful in zeal. The idea repeats in my head.

Be zealous for what?
For marriage?
For contentment?

What God, does zeal have to do with this moment?

"You student?" She asks unaware of the flood of emotions and the argument aflame inside of me.

"Yes.  I am a senior." I say and smile, while looking nonchalantly at my ring finger, for the first time feeling like it is missing something.

"Good."  With a giddy smile glued to her face, she reaches into her pocket, grabs a penny, and places it in my hand.

"Come to America for education," she says, "Not money."

And with that she left, taking her "old" things with her.

Zeal for what?

Zeal for this moment, for this time of life.

Do not grow weary of the circumstances in which God has placed you.

He has me here: in school, single — and it is beautiful.