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.

I wonder if I could ever write God memoirs. I'm amazed by them. Intrigued. I sit down at Borders with a giant stack and smile. I flip through chapters, breathe in the varied writing styles, snicker at the naivety of some of their theological thoughts and contemplate the sentences of genius which follow.

I read and I wonder if I'll ever write something as pretty as I Am Hutterite. As witty as Angry Conversations with God. As profound as Confessions of a Guilty Bystander.

I want to. I want to journey with God on the page. To express my doubts and my profound thoughts of God on an ivory page, with a typeface I find flattering. I want to write things so candid that I regret publishing them. I want to pluck out my thoughts and arrange them into a story that screams for someone to read them — words that beg for someone to say "I know what you mean!"

Truthfully, I long to write solely so I can be affirmed in my doubts, in my thoughts. Somedays I feel closeted. I feel as if I am handcuffed to a set of beliefs that coincide with my school of choice. Sometimes I feel as if I have been sentenced to a life of evangelicalism and am burdened with the weight of my minority.

To be fair, most days I affirm the thoughts of my alma mater. Most days, I breathe in the truth they give me and sigh with relief that I live in a place God would be happy with.

But there are days where I wonder if that is true. Sometimes I wonder if I am too postmodern, too subjectivistic, too liberal to be happy where I am. I wonder if I simply have accepted the beliefs of my culture and am too terrified to step out on my own. I wonder if I even believe what I believe.

Today, as I flipped through Evolving in Monkey Town, Rachel Held Evans states something like, "At some point, you have to distinguish the difference between doubting God and doubting what you believe about God. One will cripple you, the other will only strengthen you."

So here I am, willfully stating that I am doubting what I believe about God, but firmly believing in God. Funny enough, there is so much comfort for me in naming my doubt, and fully indulging in it.

My Herniated Disc

This has been a week of medical firsts for me. It was the first time I saw my mother have major surgery, my first trip to the ER (that I can remember), my first panic attack, my first CT scan, my first MRI, my first herniated disc, my first major allergic reaction.
So, in honor of my lovely lower lumbar region, I have created a playlist.

The Herniated Disc:

1) Something Wrong by the Bang Gang
2) Hospital Beds by the Cold War Kids
3) What Sarah Said by Death Cab for Cutie
4) Your Rocky Spine by the Great Lake Swimmers
5) Get Back by the Beatles
6) Leaving the Hospital; I'm going home by The Dreamer and the Sleeper
7) Back Broke by The Swell Season
8) I Hurt Too by Katie Herzig
9) The Cure for Pain by Jon Foreman
10) Take Your Medicine by Cloud Cult
11) Modern Chemistry by Motion City Soundtrack
12) You Can Do It by Ice Cube
13) Dare You to Move by Switchfoot
14) I've Seen Better Days by Sublime
15) Be OK by Ingrid Michaelson

I heard tonight the most beautiful prayer.

Tears trickling down her cheeks, her voice hesitant she said, "God, you promised to be the light in the darkness, and I feel utterly in the dark. Show yourself to me."

And I thought, if God screened our prayers, this one would certainly go through.

Lord, you promised.