Somewhere, tucked away in the recesses of my brain is a lovely blog post entitled, "Reciprocal Emotions."
In my head, it is a pretty fantastic little post about rejoicing with those who rejoice, weeping with those who weep, laughing with those who laugh and being absolutely ridiculous with the absurd.
But other things keep getting pressed to the front of my mind and cannot be gotten rid of until something is said:
I have a job offer. A job offer, two weeks ago, I said I would accept if it were offered to me.
I have another job offer. A job offer, 8 months ago, I said I would accept if I were offered it and it was paid — last week it went from unpaid to paid.
I stand between two wonderful opportunities, two amazing chances to grow and change and represent Christ. I know not which to choose.
Do I stay or do I go?
A few days ago, I told a friend I was sick of God choosing "stay." For 5 years, I have stayed. I have been offered opportunities in Alabama, in Europe, New York, Oregon. Each time, I choose Chicago. Each time, I choose what was right.
Is this like all the others? A chance to go so that God makes it clear that it is he and not fate which keeps me here, or is this the time that he has prepared me for, to take flight and go?
I know not what to do.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Failing Gracefully or Failing to be Graceful?
Ah, precious blogging time. Who am I kidding? I have no time, but time I have made, for I am eager to divulge of the adventures of this week.
Last night, I started dance class. I was consistently terrified on our trek out west to the Lou Conte Dance School and I feared I was getting myself into a mess. Afraid that I would be asked to make a fool of myself or worse, make a fool of myself when I was asked to perform.
And with unexpected accuracy, I found myself fuddling through dance moves I had never learned, merely mimicked. I dougied — or attempted to at least. I lunged left, I waved imaginary dirt off my hand, I leaned back and drove my imaginary car and I thought, "I look ridiculous."
Twenty minutes into class, I was ready to be done. I leaned over to Danica and informed her that I would have more fun, and get more exercise in, if I simply ran laps around the building.
An hour into the class, I had given up on the learning the steps, realizing that their definition of "beginner" and my own were worlds apart. I chose a few favorites — the side lunge to high kick, the shoulder pops, the wheelchair. I performed my version of my favorite moves and laughed the whole way through, deciding resiliently, that I would not step foot into another beginner dance class without more basic help. At which point, Danica leaned over and said, "We came. We saw. We did not conquer."
With smiles on our faces and laughter pouring out of our mouths, we headed home — the long way — and decided to try again the next day.
Tonight, we knew we would look foolish. We knew we were far behind the class, and we knew that this was our last hope of succeeding in our pre-purchased dance classes.
We didn't get the steps right consistently. We didn't know how to prance. We turned the wrong direction on our solitary spin and we did our pikes seconds after the count. But we had fun and we learned something. We sighed with relief as we watched our fellow classmates make the same errors and we knew that this was going to be a good course for us.
One thing our teacher told us tonight, came as no surprise, but was nevertheless enlightening: "You have to let go. Modern dance is about freeing yourself and dancing like no one is watching and letting your body move without restraint."
Another friend of mine is in improv classes and is consistently learning that she must loosen up and have fun. She has to be herself and be freed from expectations for the second your humor becomes about response, is the second it falls.
Step out. Do something you'll fail at, and love every moment of it.
I could spend hours telling you about how rare it is for me to do something which I might fail at. I could tell you hundreds of stories of giving up on things that were hard or that I had a low chance of success in. But there is something for me in this next season of life. There are a lot of limbs I must step out on and a lot of places where failure is imminent. And I have never been more excited.
To failing along the way, to knowing that this journey won't end in fame or glory, to freeing myself from the expectations of those around me — here is a big sigh of relief, followed by a gasp of fear.
Let's do this.
Last night, I started dance class. I was consistently terrified on our trek out west to the Lou Conte Dance School and I feared I was getting myself into a mess. Afraid that I would be asked to make a fool of myself or worse, make a fool of myself when I was asked to perform.
And with unexpected accuracy, I found myself fuddling through dance moves I had never learned, merely mimicked. I dougied — or attempted to at least. I lunged left, I waved imaginary dirt off my hand, I leaned back and drove my imaginary car and I thought, "I look ridiculous."
Twenty minutes into class, I was ready to be done. I leaned over to Danica and informed her that I would have more fun, and get more exercise in, if I simply ran laps around the building.
An hour into the class, I had given up on the learning the steps, realizing that their definition of "beginner" and my own were worlds apart. I chose a few favorites — the side lunge to high kick, the shoulder pops, the wheelchair. I performed my version of my favorite moves and laughed the whole way through, deciding resiliently, that I would not step foot into another beginner dance class without more basic help. At which point, Danica leaned over and said, "We came. We saw. We did not conquer."
With smiles on our faces and laughter pouring out of our mouths, we headed home — the long way — and decided to try again the next day.
Tonight, we knew we would look foolish. We knew we were far behind the class, and we knew that this was our last hope of succeeding in our pre-purchased dance classes.
We didn't get the steps right consistently. We didn't know how to prance. We turned the wrong direction on our solitary spin and we did our pikes seconds after the count. But we had fun and we learned something. We sighed with relief as we watched our fellow classmates make the same errors and we knew that this was going to be a good course for us.
One thing our teacher told us tonight, came as no surprise, but was nevertheless enlightening: "You have to let go. Modern dance is about freeing yourself and dancing like no one is watching and letting your body move without restraint."
Another friend of mine is in improv classes and is consistently learning that she must loosen up and have fun. She has to be herself and be freed from expectations for the second your humor becomes about response, is the second it falls.
Step out. Do something you'll fail at, and love every moment of it.
I could spend hours telling you about how rare it is for me to do something which I might fail at. I could tell you hundreds of stories of giving up on things that were hard or that I had a low chance of success in. But there is something for me in this next season of life. There are a lot of limbs I must step out on and a lot of places where failure is imminent. And I have never been more excited.
To failing along the way, to knowing that this journey won't end in fame or glory, to freeing myself from the expectations of those around me — here is a big sigh of relief, followed by a gasp of fear.
Let's do this.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Windowsills and Final Straws
I wrote this last Fall. If I remember correctly, I was struggling with the wrath of God. Of the tragic end of those who do not know Christ. I was angry with God for eternally punishing people who have already had enough pain in their lives. Angry with a God who I understood so little about. Hell has always been a hard doctrine for me. The wrath of God has been a fighting point in my life of faith. Its funny that right now I'm knee deep in my senior thesis on the necessity of the wrath of God.
How does this fit in my theme week, you ask? How is this about "bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse"? Well, when I can think of no new words to blog, no blessings amid persecution to reflect upon, I resort to releasing old drafts of posts written more as a journal than journalism. In my mind it links. You're welcome to disagree:
She sits in her window on the cold afternoons, talking to God or herself or whoever might hear her.
At first her voice is happy and quiet as she flips through the brittle pages of the Bible she's had since she was a teen.
She finds the right page and squints at the text written in a tiny font on fragile little sheets.
She reads through the Scripture, each word getting louder, each sentence getting angrier.
She reads the words loudly, hoping that the force of her words will change their meaning, asking — no, demanding— that God not mean what he says.
She reads the words over again, now so loudly and with such force that everyone can hear her and when she's said all she can say, she collapses into the window and her voice and body fades.
Her head falls back into the wall while tears trickle down her cheek, and with all the force she can muster, she mouths to God, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken us?"
And with that she closes her eyes and hopes against hope that she's gotten him all wrong.
How does this fit in my theme week, you ask? How is this about "bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse"? Well, when I can think of no new words to blog, no blessings amid persecution to reflect upon, I resort to releasing old drafts of posts written more as a journal than journalism. In my mind it links. You're welcome to disagree:
She sits in her window on the cold afternoons, talking to God or herself or whoever might hear her.
At first her voice is happy and quiet as she flips through the brittle pages of the Bible she's had since she was a teen.
She finds the right page and squints at the text written in a tiny font on fragile little sheets.
She reads through the Scripture, each word getting louder, each sentence getting angrier.
She reads the words loudly, hoping that the force of her words will change their meaning, asking — no, demanding— that God not mean what he says.
She reads the words over again, now so loudly and with such force that everyone can hear her and when she's said all she can say, she collapses into the window and her voice and body fades.
Her head falls back into the wall while tears trickle down her cheek, and with all the force she can muster, she mouths to God, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken us?"
And with that she closes her eyes and hopes against hope that she's gotten him all wrong.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Failing or Forgetting?
Last week's theme, Romans 12:13 -- Contribute to the needs of the saints; seek to show hospitality.
I could make excuses. Lots of them. But I dislike excuses greatly, so I'll save you the pain of reading them all and cut to the chase: I didn't do it.
I thought about writing a lovely piece about my open door policy and the girls who streamed into my room this week, girls who I talked with when I easily could have been busy with other things — tell you all the ways that I am, in fact, a great RA.
But it would be half of the story. A truthful exposition shows for every moment of genuine hospitality, I also told girls that I was tired and it was time to leave. Or, in a particularly fine moment, stuck a "SHHH... napping" sign on my door, turned off all the lights and hid in my room with the door locked asking one of my Min Team girls to make sure that no one bothered me for twenty minutes while I "breathed."
Its funnier because biblical hospitality is my selling point. Its my battle cry in evangelicalism — that we reach beyond ourselves to genuine love for others.
Last week, I don't know what happened. Either I failed or I forgot, or possibly both, but I did not show hospitality, and with it demonstrated the opposite of biblical love: selfishness. Last week, I was absorbed in my own studies, in my own wants. Not entirely, but enough to be problematic.
I can't fix last week. I can't redo it and try to be more hospitable this week. But I can strive to do my best with this week's theme, although I have little hope of success, "Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse."
I'll try.
I could make excuses. Lots of them. But I dislike excuses greatly, so I'll save you the pain of reading them all and cut to the chase: I didn't do it.
I thought about writing a lovely piece about my open door policy and the girls who streamed into my room this week, girls who I talked with when I easily could have been busy with other things — tell you all the ways that I am, in fact, a great RA.
But it would be half of the story. A truthful exposition shows for every moment of genuine hospitality, I also told girls that I was tired and it was time to leave. Or, in a particularly fine moment, stuck a "SHHH... napping" sign on my door, turned off all the lights and hid in my room with the door locked asking one of my Min Team girls to make sure that no one bothered me for twenty minutes while I "breathed."
Its funnier because biblical hospitality is my selling point. Its my battle cry in evangelicalism — that we reach beyond ourselves to genuine love for others.
Last week, I don't know what happened. Either I failed or I forgot, or possibly both, but I did not show hospitality, and with it demonstrated the opposite of biblical love: selfishness. Last week, I was absorbed in my own studies, in my own wants. Not entirely, but enough to be problematic.
I can't fix last week. I can't redo it and try to be more hospitable this week. But I can strive to do my best with this week's theme, although I have little hope of success, "Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse."
I'll try.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Ashes
It is prove of my exhaustion when I blog while under the weight of classes and life. Words are my refuge — they are what I cling to for my salvation when the only place I want to be is hiding under my desk in the dark, hoping no one will notice me.
Its been one of those weeks. I long for Friday, for 2 weeks off, and yet fear it. I will have fun. I will be freed of deadlines, but I will still carry these burdens with me. I will be exhausted and I will feel guilty for my exhaustion.
Today is Ash Wednesday — a day of repentance and fasting. Two things I have not done, and don't really plan on doing. Tonight, I go to church and have the ashes from the burning of last year's palm branches placed on my forehead while I chant "Lord, have mercy on us." Tonight, I fall before the feet of Jesus and begin the journey to the Cross of placing my sins and my burdens before him, knowing that he has already taken care of them.
I am grateful for today. I am grateful for liturgy which reminds me of the awesomeness of my God and the lowliness of me.
On the Reformed Church of America website, it has a wonderful outline of the Ash Wednesday liturgy. I want to share with you this prayer:
Its been one of those weeks. I long for Friday, for 2 weeks off, and yet fear it. I will have fun. I will be freed of deadlines, but I will still carry these burdens with me. I will be exhausted and I will feel guilty for my exhaustion.
Today is Ash Wednesday — a day of repentance and fasting. Two things I have not done, and don't really plan on doing. Tonight, I go to church and have the ashes from the burning of last year's palm branches placed on my forehead while I chant "Lord, have mercy on us." Tonight, I fall before the feet of Jesus and begin the journey to the Cross of placing my sins and my burdens before him, knowing that he has already taken care of them.
I am grateful for today. I am grateful for liturgy which reminds me of the awesomeness of my God and the lowliness of me.
On the Reformed Church of America website, it has a wonderful outline of the Ash Wednesday liturgy. I want to share with you this prayer:
- Gracious God,
you created us out of the dust of the earth
and breathed into us the breath of life.
By your hand we live and to your hands we return when all our days are done.
Grant that the awareness of our mortality may lead us not to fear, but to faith.
In our weakness teach us to look to you for strength,
in our failures to turn to you and find forgiveness,
and in our dying to await the gift of everlasting life;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
May this prayer be on my lips and these words taken to heart so that I may seek and find my Savior in my times of utter helplessness and my moments of great personal victory. To Him be the glory and the honor and the power for ever and ever.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Apology in 6/8 time
There are few things I love more than a good apology. The ones free of excuses, the kind that accept blame and try to make amends for it.
The kind that do not take away the hurt but assure you the pain had purpose and hopefully will not return.
This morning, I issued one of those apologies.
This afternoon, I awaited one of those apologies and was left with a sorry — a far cry from an apology.
Thus, my thirty minute commute to Cafe Mustache on the northwest side for a good cup of free coffee, I listened to Vampire Weekend's "I Stand Corrected" on repeat. Nothing better than a musical apology:
You've been checking on my facts
And I admit I have been lax
In double-screening what I say
It wasn't funny anyway
I stand corrected
No one cares when you are wrong
But I've been at this far too long
To act like that when we should be
In perfect harmony
I stand corrected
Lord knows I haven't tried
I'll take my stand
One last time
Forget the protocol
I'll take your hand
Right in mine.
Here's to many more apologies: honest ones and ones faked; musical and not; for big things and small; given and received.
The kind that do not take away the hurt but assure you the pain had purpose and hopefully will not return.
This morning, I issued one of those apologies.
This afternoon, I awaited one of those apologies and was left with a sorry — a far cry from an apology.
Thus, my thirty minute commute to Cafe Mustache on the northwest side for a good cup of free coffee, I listened to Vampire Weekend's "I Stand Corrected" on repeat. Nothing better than a musical apology:
You've been checking on my facts
And I admit I have been lax
In double-screening what I say
It wasn't funny anyway
I stand corrected
No one cares when you are wrong
But I've been at this far too long
To act like that when we should be
In perfect harmony
I stand corrected
Lord knows I haven't tried
I'll take my stand
One last time
Forget the protocol
I'll take your hand
Right in mine.
Here's to many more apologies: honest ones and ones faked; musical and not; for big things and small; given and received.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Day of Prayer
I have never had high aspirations for Day of Prayer. Truthfully, I rather begrudgingly attend, wondering if God likes forced prayers very much.
Today, I was awed and amazed by God's presence. I was thrown out of my comfort zone in our first corporate session — audibly praying my heart next to people who I love and trust, but not to the extent that I share my innermost prayers with them.
I traveled on to my 11 o'clock class which, for the first time all semester, I was unhappy about because it meant I had no break in my schedule. Sitting in a circle, my heart broke for the requests laid out before us. From William, an 8 year old boy with a cyst on his brain, to Jeff and Debbie who just gave birth to their stillborn son. Their needs still weigh heavily on my heart. I still fall before the Lord petitioning him to reveal himself in these hardships. It is these stories of so little hope that make me long for it the most. These sorrows that make me cling to the joy of the Lord. With a sense of longing for the Lord's return, I prayed, and still pray for healing and justice in this world.
With a stomach growling consistently, I left that classroom for another and hoped my professor simply would not attend. I hoped he would have us pray in small groups and let us go when we finished so I could get my fill of "delicious" cafeteria food. As this professor listed our prayer requests on the board, I resonated with each prayer offered to the heavens. "Selfish prayers" for guidance and direction as we graduate and seek to serve God with our vocations as well as our leisure. Prayers for zeal again, as my fellow classmates express exhaustion that leaves them unmotivated even to do the things they love. The story of Kaila, a girl I will likely never meet, who has turned from the Lord and whose brother longs to protect her. My heart overflowed with longing for things to be made right. For shalom. For the day in which we will be like Him, for His face to shine upon us.
Each session I attended gave me more of a longing for God. Each time I heard a request, my heart cried out for God's glory to be present in these moments. For a friend on the brother floor whose family is going through hard times and feels burdened by these circumstances. For a girl on my floor who is grieving the death of a good friend.
There are no words that satisfy these deep wounds of the body of Christ. There is no prayer I can offer that will magically make life easier, and no cosmic eraser which will wipe away one's troubles, only leaving a touch of pink dust. These requests, these burdens, can only be lifted by the blood of the Cross and the presence of the Holy Spirit.
This week's theme, ironically, is persevere in prayer. This commission by Paul in Romans 12:12 is the final of a trio that necessarily goes together: rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering and persevere in prayer. It is because of the glorious hope we have in Christ that we are able to patiently suffer, offering up our prayers to God. We can only persevere through troubles if we cling to the hope we have and if we continually kneel before God.
How grateful I am that I go to a school that allows me to spend a day filled with the Spirit and praying for the needs of the body. May I diligently serve the Lord through my prayers.
Today, I was awed and amazed by God's presence. I was thrown out of my comfort zone in our first corporate session — audibly praying my heart next to people who I love and trust, but not to the extent that I share my innermost prayers with them.
I traveled on to my 11 o'clock class which, for the first time all semester, I was unhappy about because it meant I had no break in my schedule. Sitting in a circle, my heart broke for the requests laid out before us. From William, an 8 year old boy with a cyst on his brain, to Jeff and Debbie who just gave birth to their stillborn son. Their needs still weigh heavily on my heart. I still fall before the Lord petitioning him to reveal himself in these hardships. It is these stories of so little hope that make me long for it the most. These sorrows that make me cling to the joy of the Lord. With a sense of longing for the Lord's return, I prayed, and still pray for healing and justice in this world.
With a stomach growling consistently, I left that classroom for another and hoped my professor simply would not attend. I hoped he would have us pray in small groups and let us go when we finished so I could get my fill of "delicious" cafeteria food. As this professor listed our prayer requests on the board, I resonated with each prayer offered to the heavens. "Selfish prayers" for guidance and direction as we graduate and seek to serve God with our vocations as well as our leisure. Prayers for zeal again, as my fellow classmates express exhaustion that leaves them unmotivated even to do the things they love. The story of Kaila, a girl I will likely never meet, who has turned from the Lord and whose brother longs to protect her. My heart overflowed with longing for things to be made right. For shalom. For the day in which we will be like Him, for His face to shine upon us.
Each session I attended gave me more of a longing for God. Each time I heard a request, my heart cried out for God's glory to be present in these moments. For a friend on the brother floor whose family is going through hard times and feels burdened by these circumstances. For a girl on my floor who is grieving the death of a good friend.
There are no words that satisfy these deep wounds of the body of Christ. There is no prayer I can offer that will magically make life easier, and no cosmic eraser which will wipe away one's troubles, only leaving a touch of pink dust. These requests, these burdens, can only be lifted by the blood of the Cross and the presence of the Holy Spirit.
This week's theme, ironically, is persevere in prayer. This commission by Paul in Romans 12:12 is the final of a trio that necessarily goes together: rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering and persevere in prayer. It is because of the glorious hope we have in Christ that we are able to patiently suffer, offering up our prayers to God. We can only persevere through troubles if we cling to the hope we have and if we continually kneel before God.
How grateful I am that I go to a school that allows me to spend a day filled with the Spirit and praying for the needs of the body. May I diligently serve the Lord through my prayers.
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