and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that does not beat fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. Already you are clean because of the words that I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever avbdes in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing...
As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you. Abide in my love.
If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.
Been fighting things that I can't see in Like voices coming from the inside of me and Like doing things I find hard to believe in Am I myself or am I dreaming?
I've been awake for an hour or so Checking for a pulse but I just don't know Am I a man when I feel like a ghost? The stranger in the mirror is wearing my clothes
No I'm not alright I know that I'm not right A steering wheel don't mean you can drive A warm body don't mean I'm alive No I'm not alright I know that I'm not right Feels like I travel but I never arrive I want to thrive not just survive
I'm always close but I'm never enough I'm always in line but I'm never in love I get so down but I won't give up I get slowed down but I won't give up -Thrive, Switchfoot //feeling it this semester
When I was little my sister would call me a dodo head because I was (am?) kind of a dork and most of the time my head was firmly set in the clouds. I was (am?) just sort of clueless. You know how some people are excellent at turning something dumb they've done into a story and getting other people to laugh about it with them, hence increasing their likability and coolness factor at being able to laugh at themselves and tell a good story? Yeah, that's not me. Most of the time I'm too embarrassed to tell the story, unless I know the person well enough and am confident enough to embellish and make them laugh. More likely than not, the situation is basically me defying common sense, and I'm ashamed that I have to be that girl. The one that makes people roll their eyes and dismiss under a pretense of aww don't worry about it, it's not a big deal when sometimes it kind of is, or has the potential to be.
Example from not so distant past: I was supposed to meet my cousin in NYC, but conveniently forgot my cell phone. I called my mom through a pay phone to call my cousin (instead of asking her for my cousin's # to speak directly to her) and ask her location. Then I no nonsensically told my mom to tell my cousin that I'd "meet her in the middle." Then I hung up and began to walk. I promptly realized that "meet in the middle" is an ineffective way to establish a meeting location. Hit myself on the forehead in a Doh! moment.
Example from this weekend: Went into Newark to meet up with my sister but first I had to take the bus from the train station to her dorm. There are two options to taking the bus. Option one is to buy the ticket in advance so that you do not need to worry about paying exact fare once you get on the bus. Option two is to pay once you get on. Silly me decided to combine the two options. Here's a hint: they are two different options for a reason. I got on the bus and instead of giving her my ticket showing her where I needed to go, I delivered my ticket into the slot where you're supposed to put cash. It says, "put cash here," and instead I put in my ticket. Go figure. The bus driver said, "Um, what did you just put in?" "My bus ticket," I said. She sighs, then, "You're only supposed to put money in there." Oops. Thankfully I don't think she was too mad.
Example from tonight: I went for a run and almost got hit by a car because I wasn't paying very close attention.
I guess it's kind of funny and trivial looking back, except maybe that last example, but honestly it just makes me feel bad. One day the not so big mistakes might become a huge mistake, and what then? I always feel like I'm the brink of messing up, of missing the memo, and rather than push me towards asking for help, the opposite occurs. Since I already constantly feel in a state of vulnerability and looking behind my shoulder to make sure I didn't cause any accidents, it has stunted me from admitting my need for help and putting myself in a position to receive it. I think that this includes asking God for help, which is a huge problem, because I can't do it alone. And so I dig a deeper hole for myself because I refuse to ask for help and keep messing up and struggling and isolation and loneliness kicks in. Feeling alone is the worst feeling in the world.
I just completed my first half marathon (woohoo!) and it was an awesome energy to be around the 27,000 mass of people racing in the streets. What struck me though, was the fleetingness of it all. You train, and train, and in a matter of 2 hours it's over. Fans stand near the finish to cheer their loved one on, and wait 45 minutes for a five second glimpse. After a mere six hours, everything is over, the crowds are gone, and the only remnants that 87,000+ people were in that space are the multitude of empty cups scattered across the pavement, overflowing, creature-like trash bins, and abandoned "You can do it!" signs lying near the gutter. For those few hours though, everything--the training leading up to it, the sweat, the pain, the fleetingness of the race, was all worth it. My last long run the weekend before the race was 11 miles, and because I didn't have time to do it during the day, I ran it at night. The neighborhoods near my house are really dark, because the street lights are far and in between. I mapped out an 11 mile course in advance, but I had never run down some of these roads before, and running into darkness, on unfamiliar terrain, was a bit jarring. My feet were hesitant, and every jut on the road was a surprise, because I couldn't see the ground beneath me and anticipate the cracks. It was cold, and I was operating on memory that I was going in the right direction. At one point it was pitch black and I was going down a slope in the road, the inky silhouette of a barn to my left and an empty field to my right. I felt so alone and lost, even though I knew I wasn't lost. Then I remembered in John where it talks about Jesus as the light of the world, and I have never been so thankful that Jesus is light, and not darkness. He is warm, not cold. He illuminates, even while He is a mystery. For that, I am so thankful. It got me thinking about how blessed I am--that even though I felt incredible darkness and loneliness in that moment, it was a temporary state, and the final destination was home. But is that how some people feel all the time? Like they're living in darkness and in a state of constant spiritual darkness? It must be terrifying.
That was a long babble, I know, but I figure I'd make up for the months that I haven't posted, haha. This has been one of the toughest semesters yet in terms of growing mentally, doubting myself, and discovering what kind of woman God wants me to be. I know that I have to learn to not be afraid to admit I need help and ask for it. I also know that I need to grow in compassion for people, and to desire to love others in need rather than being selfish and looking out for only myself, which I'm not doing very well either. Mostly, I need to spend more time with God. Bottom line, if I want to walk the walk I talk. And because He is the creator of the universe, all powerful, and completely deserving of worship. 'Nuff said.
and just because Tangled is awesome, I'll leave you with this video. See below the video for the highest 'liked' comment. It made me lol :) Some peoples are so funny.
Away with your noisy worship Away with your noisy hymns I stop up my ears when you're singing em I hate all your show.
- Jon Foreman
Before I start, let me first make a disclaimer that this post might be messy and rambling. I'm kind of using it to sort out my thoughts and tie things together that have been circling in my brain.
Today in community groups we were studying and discussing the different types of self-righteousness and the performances we put on for others, for God, and for ourselves to justify our actions. In the process, we are lured into a false security that completely hinders our ability to apply the Gospel to our lives and minimizes the power of the cross through incorrect thinking that what we do affects how much God loves us. One of the questions we were to ask ourselves was as God thinks of you right now, what is the look on his face? I thought I knew that answer. The look on His face would be one of disappointment because I'm not good enough in so many ways. I'm prideful, jealous, perverse, spiteful, and grumble often. Instead, the answer in the booklet read, If you imagined God to be anything but overjoyed with you, you have fallen into a performance mindset. Because the gospel truth is that in Christ, God is deeply satisfied with you..based on Jesus' work, you are God's daughter. For some reason, this caught me off guard. I know I am saved by grace, not through works, but I didn't that God is okay and even rejoices with who I am, right at this moment in time. My line of thinking was that if God is glad with who I am now, then doesn't that mean I don't need to change? I equated God's satisfaction with stagnancy, like when you're stuffed and can't eat anymore, and you don't want to eat anymore because you're full. God's love however, doesn't work that way. It doesn't work on human terms. It doesn't start off small then increase to reach some kind of quota to 100%, it's just always at full. That fullness however, has no limits. He loves me the way I am, but according to my own standards, I don't think the way I am is enough, so I need to change. But it hit me that He loves me at this moment in time because it doesn't depend on what I do. That's the whole point. It doesn't mean that He doesn't want me to change and grow; it just means that who I am, good or bad, is enough, because Jesus is enough to cover it all. His desire to see us grow in our faith isn't so that He can love us more, but rather for the sake of our own joy in finding our identity through Christ alone, and using us as a vessel to build God's kingdom (which is for His joy, and therefore ours as well).
I realize that so often I put on a show. Even when I wish so badly it wasn't that way, my instinct is to put up a pretense. I'm ashamed to say that when I show my vulnerabilities to others, I'm still well aware of how others are perceiving me, and it affects the way I behave. I wish I could be completely stripped of pride and performance, and be completely honest and real, instead of a show. It acts as further evidence of my sinful nature, and how I cannot merely shed it by sheer human effort. It's just not possible. Putting on a performance to prove your righteousness not only undermines what Jesus did on the cross, but also underestimates God's ability to transform other people's lives. Let me explain. One of the reasons someone may put on a show of righteousness instead of honestly confronting the depths of their sin is a fear that other people will judge your brokenness. As Jesus transforms and reveals sin however, He also shows the depths of His grace, which should also transform our interactions with each other as brothers and sisters in Christ. To act righteous in order to cover up for ones sins because of shame or fear is a natural reaction, but it is also inadvertently saying that other Christians are not capable of not judging or understanding. Maybe we need to trust God more in what He's doing in other people's lives in addition to ours, so that we can trust each other with our burdens and have more candid conversations of what is really going on beneath the surface.
I hope my instinct to comfort won't hinder my duty to treat and care for the patient, even when that means hurting them temporarily for better results in the end. Sometimes caressing is not what people need. My friend Sharon wrote these words in her blog in application to her thoughts in med school, but I realize that it is also true in relationships. We imagine that comfort or "caress" is preferred, but it may not be what that person needs. In the same vein as what I said previously, we often assume things of God and of each other that aren't necessarily true. God wants to heal our brokenness and wipe away our shame, but just because he applies a little or a lot of pressure when we expect caresses doesn't mean He loves us any less or is unhappy with who we are.
I know that this post was a little sloppy, so feel free to challenge if any of this rings untrue or doesn't make sense. If you got through it all, thanks for reading and following along :)
Everything feels wet today. The air is pregnant with unshed tears, and where is the release? Us mere mortals cannot hold this pain that overflows in the woven baskets we carry. Through the crevices and cracks, hiding in the shadows of interlocking braids of grass. The basket sighs and sags sadly. It begins to leak. But still, we pretend (pride?), that it is dry. The air stinks of sour denim drying, drying, always damp, from this wet air.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
EF Educational Language Center has created a series of short films called "Live the Language" to promote studying abroad in different cities around the world. All of the films have beautiful lighting, camera angles, and an excellent and creative use of typography to showcase different experiences in each city. Different remixes of the same song are used, but the music shifts subtly to go along with each scene. Visit EducationFirstCampaign to see the rest of the videos. I loved the Paris one for its quirkiness and colors, but Los Angeles, Vancouver, and Bei Jing were my favorite. It was especially funny to see a white guy attempting Tai Ji Quen, a form of Chinese dancing meant to boost your health and steadiness. I will say though, that all the characters in the films are super attractive, and in a couple of them the girl just happens to meet a cute guy, whether she oh, 'just bumped into him' or 'just happened to ask him for directions.' He accompany her around the city and of course, romance blossoms. Hah puhleeze, so unrealistic. But nevertheless beautifully shot. Check 'em out.
I have this image I can't get out of my head. She's dressed in white, the cloth falling around her feet, which are unswollen and whole. Her eyes are closed, but you know she's alive even though her chest is still. He sits at her bedside, looking into a face he knows so well, and takes her hand. He takes her hand, and her fingers instinctively close around his, as he gently shakes her awake. She smells sweet rice cakes and steamed egg, and knows that they are for her, so she opens her eyes and smiles at what she sees. His face is hidden but the air around him glows a hazy yellow, like the slant of the yellow sun in the late autumn afternoons. "Talitha koum," he says. "My precious daughter wake up. You're home at last."
When there's a death in the family, life changes somehow. Nothing sudden or big, but a subtle shift of what life was and what life is now. My grandma's death, still so fresh in my mind, is a testament to how fragile life really is, and how in the span of a couple of minutes, the heart stops pumping, and the body goes cold. The last time I heard her speak, she was in a state of half sleep half wake, and she opened one eye to look at me. Just one eye. Her eye was a soft gray, muted and softened with age and bleary from too much time. Too much time on the bed, and from not remembering.
What I remember of her from my childhood is opening my mouth to be fed, like a baby bird waiting for the silver spoon--a shallow bowl of Grandma's dumplings and yams and meat buns. Her words came out in a slow sweet way, happy. Once when I was five or so, I was crying, most likely over something inconsequential, when my grandpa took out the camera. He had a strange amusement with documenting us while we were crying. It was the same when my mother was little. When the camera came out I cried even harder, as I lay across Grandma's lap and she traced circles on my back. I could see her other hand shooing my grandpa away, her head tilted towards him to give him her fiercest look, which was never very fierce. Looking at the pictures now make me laugh instead of cry. I remember pulling on her wrinkled skin, a soft and never ending topography of lines. I rubbed a red dot on her arm, wondering why it wouldn't go away. I think it was a birthmark. She called me her treasure, xiao bao bei.
I was in my advertising class when I found out. My phone was on silent, and 6 missed calls from my mom, and 5 missed calls from my cousin later, I received a text from my cousin: "Grandma passed away :(" I thought I could sit through the last 15 minutes of class, but. instead I left and I drove home, gave my mom a hug. She asked if I wanted to pray with her for Grandma, who is now with Jesus. For a while, I had felt a little numb in my faith, and of all prayers I didn't want this one to be an insincere one, so I said no. The disappointment on her face though, made me wish I hadn't said that word, so I took her hand and said, "Okay lets pray." So we prayed--her first, me second. I don't know what I said but I know that I meant every word, that it was honest, and that's what matters. God felt more present than He had in a while. I'd like to think that that was Grandma's gift to me, to shake me awake a little and remind me that I should be sad, but not too sad, because she's in a better place--that she is God's beloved, and that I am too.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Something silly I made in my video editing class. Hopefully it will make you laugh, or make you feel super embarrassed for me. Please, don't judge.
Monday, July 4, 2011
fickle |ˈfikəl| adjective changing frequently, esp. as regards one's loyalties, interests, or affection
It's funny how fickle we can be as a collective society. I think I used to equate being fickle with little kids who can be easily swayed by whatever emotion is being worn on their sleeve at the given time, but I've begun to see how maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the opposite is true. When you're a child, the color you like remains so for a long time. It's not pink one day and green the next. It's pink pink pink, a fully committed decision that manifests itself in pink shoes, dresses, wallpaper, backpack, pens, hairbands, etc. When you're a child, the person you love remains the person you love, regardless. The person you hold dear to your heart may do something wrong that hurts your feelings, but at a young age, almost nothing can hinder that deep-rooted love and loyalty towards that individual. Some may call it being naive, but there is something so beautiful about that child-like faith. A child-like faith in God is the simple acceptance that God can do anything--and He can. Somewhere along the way though, we put on our fickle glasses that skewed how we see the world, and how we view God. Somewhere along the way we decided that we sprouted a second brain that understands the ways of the world and since we're so smart then of course! our thinking must be right. And even if this line of thought isn't voiced, it's demonstrated in our actions and our words, that we know better than our Creator.
"See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the elemental spiritual forces of this world rather than on Christ." -Colossians 2:8
We've become fickle beings ready to chase a butterfly through a field one second, then the chipmunk to its hole the next, and all the while a snake lies in hiding ready to bite. As C.S Lewis put it, we are far too easily pleased in our pursuit for happiness. We settle for fickle joys that are as fleeting as a piece of chewing gum. You chew and chew until all the flavor is gone, then spit it out unsatisfied looking for another piece. So it continues. Fickle.
I'm struggling not to be fickle and to carefully examine my motivations to make sure that it's for the long run, for Christ and His righteousness. More often than not my motivations are convoluted with my own selfish desires and the temptation to please the world. Help me God because I can't do this alone.
Recently I've caught a glimpse of how hard it is to raise a child. Children don't miss a thing. I'm helping to babysit my neighbor's daughter and most of the time she doesn't listen to me. I know part of it is because I don't put my foot down firm enough, and end up trying to convince her to do things. I'm giving her attention, which she wants, only it's negative attention. I try to speak calmly, minding my pleases and thank yous, but there is just no reasoning with a child. The other day she wanted to paint a flower petal, but then refused to paint it because she didn't think she could paint a good one. When I suggested we do something else, she insisted on painting, yet she wouldn't pick up the brush to paint. I could feel the craziness coming on. When my patience is tried to its last, I can hear my voice getting louder in frustration, and I put on the face. Even the most trivial tasks become commands. "Brush your teeth, now." *cue ferocious look.* And still, still that doesn't work. To hear a child say, "I don't like you" or "this is no fun" or even, "I hate you." Oh my gosh, it's horrible. Can you even imagine your own child saying that to you? It makes me on edge just writing it.
I've also been struck by how often we demand our children do things that we grown ups don't even do consistently (or at least I don't). Things like picking up after yourself, wiping the sink clean, brushing your teeth in the morning, putting your shoes away, etc. We expect our children to do these things, yet the example is not set. The kids are watching y'know, and they hold you to your own standard. How do you speak in love while disciplining someone, which sometimes requires picking up the screaming, kicking child and taking them to wherever they need to be? How do you be sensitive with your words, making sure not to dismiss their feelings when their ultimatums are irrational and purposely testing? As you're asking yourself all these questions in the moment, the child is suddenly okay again, holding your hand and saying sweet words. What the? It's a 180 degree turn around, so fast that I can't wrap my head around it.
Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.
Last Sunday was Father's day and this year I tried to make it special by painting a photograph of my dad, sister, and me. It was taken in 1994 when Dad was stick skinny sporting the way thick glasses, my sister was still developing her fashion sense (plaid on plaid is not so advisable), and I was, as my sister graciously put it when I showed her the photo last week, "such a little dork." My face is familiar but my expression is not. Where did that rambunctious, carefree grin wander off to? Do I ever wear that expression on my face anymore? I hope it's not lost, and if it is, that I can find it again.
My father is flawed, as you and I are flawed, but I have never doubted his love. Has he been harsh in the past? Yes. Incredibly hard to please? Yes. Cruel? Sometimes, seemingly, yes. But in spite of all that, I am reminded of my earliest memory of my father. It's a good one mixed in with some tough love. From my journal:
"I think Dad had a soft spot for me when I was younger. My first really clear memory of him was being held while I was crying. Big gentle hands wiping my tears and holding me and walking in circles around the West Virginia house living room. I think it was dinner time. This memory blurs with another one so I'm not sure if it's part of the same memory or a different one. I'm crying, he's holding me, but then he tells me that I shouldn't cry anymore--to be stronger and that in the future when I do cry, he won't be there to wipe away my tears."
When I was little, that last part confused and upset me. Not there to console me? Did that mean he would stop being Dad? It was his brand of tough love, and sometimes it tasted bitter, but I think he recognized early on that I needed to be less dependent and more willing to stand up on my own. It still rings true. At church on Father's Day, there came a point in the service when we were supposed to greet the people around us. I shook hands with a couple of men, but for one man I decided to wish him a happy father's day, even though there were no children with him. He was an older gentleman with what appeared to be his wife, so I assumed that perhaps he was a father. When I said it, he didn't say thank you. He just kind of looked at me and then sat down. During the sermon the pastor congratulated the fathers, and then said this: "For some of you Father's day is not a happy day. Perhaps you never had a father, or memories of your father are not good ones." The wife of the man turned to her husband eying him, and he tilted his head knowingly. Later in the sermon the pastor shared a statistic that children with the mere presence of a father living in the house were less likely to become juvenile delinquents (or something like that) and again they eyed each other in agreement. It made me sad. Here was obviously not a very happy father's day. I don't know the story, but I recognized their glances of acknowledgment. This statistic had somehow been proven correct in his life. It made me grateful for my own father, and it made me realize that what I thought was cruel isn't really cruel. What's really cruel is being deprived of a father, period. I'm glad that this injustice doesn't have to be a permanent condition, and that Jesus is a comfort for the widow, a shepherd for the lost, a father to the fatherless.
Our basement has always been a half-hearted mess of decaying boxes and musty air. It is not exactly dusty, but after touching and breathing in that damp space, my fingers feel like they have wiped a chalkboard, a result of the unfinished cement ground leaving a barely detected but always present layer of white powder. In one corner are empty suitcases, some empty, others holding winter clothes in the summer, summer clothes in the winter, and still others are randomly filled with old childhood books. The basement flooded two years ago after a storm, soaking the bottom of unfortunate cardboard boxes lying on the floor, leaving soggy pages and bleeding ink in its wake. The various notebooks and binders were left open to dry, then forgotten about, and continue to lie there, blossoming mold and other curious fungi. Alongside my 1st grade drawn dog is a line of fuzzy mold from the damp.
The other day my dad became fed up with the mess (even though a good part of it is his as well), and the feeble excuse of, "there was a flood! Things are strewn about to dry!" no longer suffices. It has been two years since that floor. No excuses. Laura could never take being down there for long. The dense air triggers her ever reliable gag reflex. But ah, I guess I'm made of tougher stuff. I breathe in those dusty particles like nobody's business. Oh, and the sewage pipe was leaking two days ago onto the ground, so who knows what kind of brown residue is still there...no big deal. So tonight I trudged downstairs and began to sort out the boxes with my name on them.
Some of it is obvious junk-- school work that I'll never look at or use ever again, pages of doodles. Other stuff seems like junk but I keep for nostalgia or pride's sake. Like that A++++ (hah, kidding. Just an A+) on my 3rd grade Heidi book report, or my broken abacus, or the scripty comment on my Call of the Wild essay, "Tiffany, this is very deep." If not for myself, at least I need to show my future kids that I was at the least A) a mathematician ( I'll tell them "I practiced so hard on my abacus that it broke!" aka a flagrant lie), B) An A+ writer, and C) a deep thinking eleven year old. Right? So I keep the book report, the essay, the splintered abacus. And the Japanese picture books I can no longer read nor understand. And the National Geographic for Kids! magazines from 1998-2002. And the stick with the shark on the end that can open and close its mouth, nom nom. So on and so forth. Maybe one day they will become collectibles. Or just collect dust. Who knows? A few dug up items make me cringe, like the middle school gossip notes that unexpectedly drop out of a folder, as well the page full of doodled signatures I created for myself. In retrospect, these only highlight my inflated need for self-importance, but really, has much changed? Yes, but also no. I find the wind chime a friend gave me in middle school that had accompanied a letter apologizing and explaining why she had stopped being my friend. Two of the four chimes fell off within the first couple of days. The only two chimes remaining are the ones on opposite ends. No contact, broken.
The worst items are the miscellaneous ones. The ones that don't fit into KEEP or TRASH or DONATIONS. Things like the leather fanny pack from some obscure conference years ago. I don't want to keep it, yet what stranger would want a fanny pack?!, but throwing it away when I know my parents will probably still use it if given the chance. Like when they go to Europe this fall. Shoot, maybe I should throw it away and save them some outdated embarrassment that they will no doubt be oblivious to. It's still sitting on the shelf.
Now that I've given you a thoroughly useless account of the basement happenings, I'll end with this: In a heap of mostly forgotten items, what will you keep? What will you throw away? Why do you hold on to what you do? I tell myself I'll keep it for myself, for my future family to look at, but maybe, well maybe they won't care. Won't care about how Mommy wrote her alphabet when she was four, or about Fudge from The Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Nothing. After all, it all does become nothing. "Do not store up for yourself treasures on earth where moth and rust can destroy". I find myself wanting to keep my accomplishments, my "treasures"--the trophies, the A+ paper, the carefully colored fifty states diagram. I want to throw away the college rejection letters, the D's (yes, plural) on my biology, chemistry, physics, algebra, calculus tests (can you tell I'm not a math/science person?). Yet rejection and failure are also a part of who I am because I am imperfect and broken and have too many weaknesses to count. Can I admit them to myself, to my kids, my spouse, my Christ? I have to at some point, so maybe I need to keep some of those D's as evidence in case said imaginary kids and spouse don't believe me (hahaha as if that could happen). Now Jesus I can't fool. Jesus knows all.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
My grandpa loves to see things grow. Fruit trees in particular, nice and tall and thick. Oranges, peaches, figs, persimmons, loquats. Cacti too, of the tall and taller variety. Big straight limbs that tower over human height. Notice I didn't say my grandpa loves to 'garden.' He doesn't care much for the overall layout or beauty of the garden. Empty milk cartons line the walkway, loyal soldiers recruiting and collecting rainwater. An empty box that once held a dozen asian pears is turned upside down and used as a stool. He sits hunched over a big metal bowl holding scissors and snipping avocado skins, eggshells, moldy orange peels, into small fragment to deposit into the compost bin. In the spring, he carefully mixes Miracle grow powder with water into plastic cups, and the liquid glows Koolaid blue. Other times he is crouched over, pulling pesky overgrown weeds, and occasionally the momentum of pulling up a difficult weed sends his ninety-four year old body teetering backwards, almost falling. "Stop doing things in the yard," they say. "You could get hurt. You could get hurt."
When my mom went to visit last month, she made it her personal project to eliminate the weeds once and for all. She bought forty bags of mulch to cover the weed laden ground and she and my aunt went to work. Grandpa protested. "Don't do that! If you kill the weeds then I won't have weeds to take out when I go into the garden." The garden is his playground. He picks out the weeds because he doesn't want them, but at the same time they are part of the scene, consistent and reliably there. If the weeds aren't there, it leaves precious little else to do that his body can handle. So I wish they had let his weeds be, and let his playground remain a place of his control. To every one else the garden looks untame and maybe a little sad, but Grandpa is happy with the way it is. He knows its ins and outs, from the glass greenhouse transformed into a storage for mismatched garden gloves and cobwebs, to the tomato plant held upright against a stick with a shoelace. Stop doing things in the yard," they say. "You could get hurt." Is the alternative better? Is it not better to have felt free in a world you understand rather than looking out a window into a garden you love but being afraid that a crack in the pavement will betray you?
My grandpa loves to see things grow, because he is a farmer, not a gardener. He loves to cultivate and sustain life, even as Christ sustains his.
What do you do when a non-believer asks you what Jesus says about hell, and you tell him what the Bible has to say about it, and he feels condemned and angry for saying what it's saying? Anger is the right response...if the person didn't feel condemned and judged then I would think that there is something wrong. But dang it if there was an easier way, if the truth were easier...but truth is never easy. It's not easy to look into your heart and acknowledge all of the sin that is there. I'm having a really hard time sharing the gospel with my neighbor. If we were peers then it might be easier, but he is a father, very intellectual, giving, kind, and very critical of Jesus and my beliefs. I feel small and inadequate, naive about the world and not sure of what I can do to help or make a difference. When he asks me about what Jesus says about hell, what else can I do but give an account of what I believe? There is no sugar-coating hell, though sometimes I wish there were. In his blog, Michael C Patton off of the GospelCoalition says it well:
"I have gone on record saying that I hate the doctrine of Hell. If there is anything in my theology that I could discard—if there was a theological “burn card”—it would be the doctrine of eternal punishment. It causes me great anxiety and disillusionment. I am sorry if that makes some of you uncomfortable, but that is just the way it is. That is me.
That is why I am somewhat jealous of people who can find their way out of this doctrine. That is why, in one sense, I am envious of those who have found ways to adjust or deny the existence of the eternal punishment of the unredeemed. Would that I could follow them, but my conscience will not yield to my emotions and allow me to."
So God give me faith to stand firm in my faith while speaking in compassion and love. Show me my own sin to convict me further of the great depravity of human nature, and that truly "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God," and that by grace alone we are saved. Help me to only be satisfied with pleasing Christ, not man, and to pursue truth in every circumstance. Give me wisdom and insight beyond my years to be able to speak your truth, and if I am hated for it then so be it.
I pray that I can claim the promise written in Romans 5:2-4, "Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope for the glory of God. More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us."
Even though I know I am saved by grace, and grace alone, sometimes I still fall back into the works based attitude. This is the way our society functions, this kind of give and take consumerism mentality. Rewards are given for good behavior, and punishments for bad. Or if I give to and love someone, he or she will instinctually know how to give and love me back. I walk in with an unspoken expectation of how I should be treated once I give my share of affection to a person. Expectations can be both good and bad. Few expectations can mean that you think little of a person and don't expect much from the relationship while too many expectations can be too idealistic and seriously damage the relationship. Too many expectations also calls into question whether you're setting this person up on a pedestal to take God's place. The problem here is not necessarily the expectation, but the unspoken expectation. This is especially true between family members. Because they're your family, they should just KNOW, right? Wrong. My way of dealing with conflict is avoidance, not confrontation, so when I feel like I have been wronged, I hold it inside rather than expressing my hurt. I think that there are two reasons for this: 1) I don't want to cause trouble, and in a way it's easier to just (try) to let it go. 2) I have the wrong thought that sucking in my pain is the more noble path to take than mentioning it and possibly damaging the relationship beyond repair. 3) I've seen explosive anger before and it's horrible for everyone involved. I'm afraid of being that way.
Each time my feelings are hurt it accumulates in a self-righteous bank account that I bring to God and say, this person has hurt me in this way when I've tried so hard to be good to them. Help me to forgive, but also help them to realize what they did without me having to say anything so that I can avoid confrontation and makes this whole thing easier, okay? Okay, Amen.
Surely, God can convict individually, but in some situations it's like asking God for food when bread is right there on the table. Often times the person has no clue that they offended you. The person is right there, so why not express your feelings and try to reconcile? When hurt builds up and is not talked about, it can easily become resentment, and more sin is heaped on. People lash out in anger over inconsequential things because of the acquired hurt. Reconciliation is a huge part of fully forgiving someone, because each side knows what the other person did wrong, mutually acknowledges it, and forgives. The words, "I'm sorry," and, "I forgive you," are so incredibly neglected. When did we reduce the words "I'm sorry" to the half whine of a reluctant five year old forced to say sorry by monitoring adults? The power of these simple words and the meaning of it is manifested in Christ on the cross. It is my salvation. It's essential to practice sorrow and forgiveness not only to God but to fellow brothers and sisters and non-Christians. It's so hard, but often the way out is through. Through being hurt and talking about sin and being reconciled with one another. Christ never promised that it would be easy, but in the toughest parts of life, He promised to get us through them, and that we will never be alone. He's there to show us the way.
You turn ashes into beauty You are for me, not against me now You found me somehow You turn mourning into dancing You turn weeping into a joyful noise Oh rejoice!
I was dead in my sin You came in yeah
You made a way when there was no way You covered heaviness with garments of praise You wrote a song and You're singing it over me I feel a dead heart beating now This revelation makes me wanta shout (HEY!) that Jesus has been sent and everything is different.
"There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death. For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do. By sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, he condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit. For those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit. For to set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace. For the mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God, for it does not submit to God's law; indeed, it cannot. Those who are in the flesh cannot please God.
You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if in fact the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you. Heirs with Christ
So then, brothers, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh. For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live. For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him."
-Romans 8:1-17
Humanity has forgotten the meaning of the word "good." We have replaced it to mean watered down adjectives like "nice" or even worse, distorted the meaning of the word for our own purposes. In Genesis when God was creating Earth and all its inhabitants, he saw that "it was good." When He made Adam He said that he was "very good." In Hebrew "good" is "tov," is best translated to mean "functional," or "to serve a purpose." Good is the opposite of evil, and is made to please God because He is the founder of all things good. On "Good" Friday, Jesus died and paid the ultimate penalty to serve the purpose of reuniting humanity with Himself. It pained the Father to see Christ die, but it was for our good. Our good.
Today I was listening to the radio and the person said, "Today is good Friday, or as I like to say, good thing it's Friday because it's been a long week." I wanted to yell at her over the radio that "uh, no, you don't get to make this about you. Jesus died for you on the cross!" But Jesus was completely omitted and she made it about herself instead. But I do it too. I somehow find a way to make it about me. It was that way in Jesus' day and it's the same today. Oh what mercy has been granted me. I don't want to take this mercy for granted.
Today was a good day. It was full of music and friends, laughter and dreams. I went to see Kina Grannis at World Cafe Live and got to hear her beautiful voice sing stories of heartache and doubt, fear and love. She is lovely. One of her songs was about her desire to be a certain kind of person and about the struggle in understanding that it doesn't just happen, even if you go through the motions of being the person you want to be. For some reason it reminded me of The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud Montgomery (of Anne of Green Gables fame). In the book, the main character Valancy is afraid to be herself, and is surrounded by family that put her down and treat her like a vase about to be broken. She spends a lot of time in her imaginary blue castle, a place where she is loved and is free to be herself. It exists only in her daydream, but unforeseen circumstances help her to overcome her fear and she finds her blue castle. For Valancy, it is a tangible place, but it is also a symbol of hope for what's to come and an anchor of peace and all things beautiful. My ultimate 'blue castle' is heaven, where a room is being prepared for me by my heavenly Father. My future blue castle on earth though, is a home with my own family where I can love and be loved, and a place to worship and serve God together. I'm so excited for that. For now it remains a blue castle, but a girl can hope right? At the same time I know I need to be cautious not to let it become an idol or a romanticized version of reality. Relationships are tough I know. I wrote a little poem to try to capture what I was feeling today. I hope it's not too sappy haha. The poem is inspired by Montgomery's book and today's music, but somewhere along the way I inserted myself into it too.
My Blue Castle
Wrapped in misty veils atop a hill sits the blue castle. Her face peeks through the window, curled toes and jasmine tea. The pane is glazed with rain, rain glazed with glints of light from her blue castle.
She was afraid of something, but she can’t remember what as she dreams of blue castles where a room awaits with a crackling fire and a whimsy smile.
Where did that scared child go, of the pale face and fearful eyes, wide awake but sleepwalking through life, barely staying afloat?
Where did that scared child go, of the vacant smile and downward gaze? In her place is you, and you’re beautiful.
I used to be a china doll, porcelain skinned with shadows etched beneath the glass. If you hugged me I would break, because I didn’t know how to live.
My love, you brought me to my blue castle, held my hand and led me through the gate. You hummed a tune and I fit in the curve of your arm, and hummed along. In my room are violets and bluebells, tinkling chimes of laughter. And I know I am home, home at my blue castle.
I ran a race on Saturday in Titusville on the D&R canal path. I didn't go into it with much confidence because it has been cold these days and I should have run more to prepare but lacked the motivation. Yes, even the anticipation of a race wasn't enough to motivate me to run long distances. But nevertheless I went, because I said I would. The starting horn blew and off we went, at first slowly because of the thick crowd, but eventually the bottleneck effect diminished and the pace became more steady. Focus on breathing, I kept telling myself. In through the nose out through the mouth to avoid cramps. Stay behind this girl, right behind her on her heels. Not to her side or halfway between side and behind. Directly behind. Don't waste energy on extraneous steps. Swing the arms back in forth, relaxed. The girl in front of me kept an even steely pace, and whether she eventually sped up or whether I slowed down, I'm not sure. I didn't stay with her, not because I was really that tired but because I figured I had enough distance left in the race to catch up eventually. So I decided to pace with the next girl after her. I wasn't clear how much distance had been covered already, but the end came faster than I had anticipated. And the girl I was pacing with sped up, but I figured I had time to catch her and was storing up my energy for the very last stretch. But what I didn't realize was that I was already in the middle of the last stretch. Shoot, is that the finish already? Why is there a crowd? Oh my gosh it's the finish! I quickly sped up because I had energy left, and I closed the gap between me and the girl in front of me, but it was too little too late. The fight ended before it had started. You're not supposed to have energy left at the end. You're supposed to expend it all in the final fight. Another 30 meters in the race and I could have caught up to her and passed her, I think. But it was over.
Prizes were awarded for 1st, 2nd and 3rd place of each age group, and the girl right in front of me ended up getting 3rd place for our age group (20-29). It could have been me. I was at once frustrated and annoyed, but it was my own fault. I tried to justify it, telling myself that it's no big deal. It's only a race, and there's always next year right? True. In life we're given a lot of second chances for each situation, but when it comes down to it, we only have one life on earth. I don't want to get to the end of my life and realize that it wasn't a life well lived, a race raced without a clear purpose. I was so concentrated on getting the details down right that I forgot the bigger picture of racing for the prize. To do the best that I can do and not get bogged down by the trivial things. And what exactly does a good life, a good race look like?
1 Corinthians 9:26 Therefore I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating the air.
1 Corinthians 9:25 Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.
I believe that this training involves a lot of discipline, which I severely lack, and a lot of love, which I am in not great abundance of either. If I do, it's only through Christ and not by my own nature. And the prize, oh the prize! Run in such a way as to get the prize, the crown that would last forever. One that does not tarnish or collect dust like my old xc and track trophies, packed away in a shoebox in the back of the closet.
Acts 20:24 However, I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me--the task of testifying to the gospel of God's grace.
I admit I haven't been testifying, fully attesting to the power of the gospel and how it has changed me in my own life. But I am so encouraged that at my weakest moments, despite my greatest efforts to thwart or disobey, or rebel against a God who loves me, nothing can separate me from Christ. I may be running at a crawl (okay, that's not really running haha), but I'm not lost on the wrong trail. The most important picture, an illuminated path, the gospel, is unchanging.
Charis-Kairos (The Tears of Christ) by Makoto Fujimura
Contemporary artist Makoto Fujimura is a Christian and well known in both Christian and secular artist circles. In celebration of the 400th anniversary of the King James Version Bible, he was commissioned, in a sense, to present abstract art alongside the four gospels. It is the merging of modern art with Scripture and is carefully crafted to illuminate the Bible in a creative way while still staying true to God's word. The typography and layout are beautiful as well, and I'm surprised something like this wasn't done earlier. It makes me really excited. Fujimura speaks beautifully about being beauty, the artist's place in the church, and being an artist and Christian, and how these two worlds came together to make the artist he is today. Some excerpts from his interview which can be viewed in full here:
On becoming a Christian and what changed before and after in his art work "I knew that I had this awareness of brokenness that I didn’t have a solution for. The problem of an artist is that you create beautiful things and the beauty of it can haunt you because you don’t have a place inside for that transcendence. So an opera singer singing the best performance of her career will go backstage and weep because you know that you’ve been touched by something, but you don’t know what that is. I had this profound awareness that the beauty I am able to create, I’m alienated from. How do you bridge that gap? I felt that in that passage by William Blake, and the Gospel, this reality that was literally a bridge between heaven and earth, between my sense of alienation and what was happening inside and outside. That allowed me to hold everything together, to see that Christ indeed could bring those things together in my life."
What do you say to artists who feel a tension between creed and creativity and feeling like their creative artistic gifting prevents them from being boxed in with orthodoxy? How can you encourage artists that there is great joy and freedom according to the standards of Scripture?
"We take the word ‘discipline’ to be negative, but there is training that goes on in any form and you really have to deal with limitations of expression and those who make it are the ones who have recognized and began to create out of those limitations. So these boundaries actually have become your friends rather than your enemies, and that’s when your artist journey really begins. This idea of total freedom, untethered free expression is really a myth, and every artist knows that. I talk about all these words, ‘discipleship’ or ‘authority’ that have negative connotations because we’re so immersed in this freedom language, but are actually there to give us the ultimate freedom. You know the word ‘authority’ has the word ‘author’ in it. It’s authorship. When we realize that we have authority over our artwork because we’re the authors, that makes sense. On the flip side, if there is an author who authors our lives for the better, then it makes sense to allow yourself to accept the limitations given so that we can be liberated from ourselves. And so part of this discipleship is also this ability to understand from the macro perspective that we’ve been given the limitations, and even suffering that we go through, are ways in which we can become ourselves in the purest sense be sanctified to reveal what we have been given to do."
I'm still trying to understand what it means to be an artist, to be immersed in an artistic community, yet be set apart and have my work be glorifying to God. How to be a witness and show that my faith is not a limitation, but rather a liberation of the standards, limitations, and ugliness that sin has entangled the world. And to be all this while being relateable and genuine, honest, and steadfast. I guess that's kind of every Christians struggle. Gosh, it's difficult.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
There are many different types of rain, and today's is a cold rain. Not the mind numbing sort that hurries you to your next destination without time to think because your hand is shaking and your shoes are squeaking. It's the head clearing kind of cold.
Sin is a slippery thing. One action in isolation may not be a sin, but repeat it a ten times, twenty times over, and it begins to take control. It becomes a gnawing hunger, a bottomless pit that is insatiable. God takes the backseat and the addiction takes the steering wheel. Things begin to feel unsafe but you keep driving anyway. I run red light after red light an it becomes reckless, but still it continues. Until I crash hard. It's inevitable. My head snaps back, whip-like, and the airbag promptly punches me in the face. And then Jesus is there securing my neck and wiping my shocked tears away, but I can't even look at Him because I feel so ashamed. It would be perfectly in His right to sit there, arms folded like so and a smug I told you so look on His face. But that's not who my Jesus is. I ask Him why He's doing this. He, who made the universe and painted the skies and exists in all eternity could crush me with His fingernail. Instead, He chooses to attend to this dumb sheep who, despite being free to roam the pastures, chooses to chase after wolves in the woods.
I understand what temptation is, and what it does to me when I succumb, but I don't understand why I keep going back to it. Why, when I'm free in Christ, I often choose to go back to being in bondage, a slave to sin. It's ridiculous. Yet you see it so often in humanity. There's the abused wife that leaves her husband but then goes back to him, the child sex slave that escapes from the brothels but returns later voluntarily. It's frightening. And that's just it. I think it's fear that drives humanity back to it's shackles because they see the light but feel so unworthy of it and are scared to be seen after being unseen for so long. So they run. Back to what they know, not to what could be.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
I feel anxious, on edge. Here but not there, there but barely here. Restless.
Why do I feel restless? ..and reading Life of Pi is not helping much.
It's easy to walk away from someone when they're angry.
"Just let him blow off steam." "She doesn't mean what she's saying." "Ignore him. He'll get over it."
But remember when that table flew, not of its own accord, and broken glass was everywhere--a mosaic of white dishes and bok choy and sesame bread and aching hearts? Remember when the door slammed and the engine started and the empty black pavement felt darker than the night sky? Or when fear moved in and decided to stay, even though I begged for it go away? I remember, and I can't ignore it, because I won't get over it.
I picked up the broken glass, bewildered and afraid. I whispered prayers into that night, hoping God would hear. How do I read between the lines of anger and sadness, anger and fear. How do I know it's 'just steam' and 'anger talk' when I've seen anger speak and it rocks me to my core? Tomorrow may be a new day but old habits die hard and scabbed wounds are still fresh and fragile. You brush it under a rug but what happens when the rug can't contain all of the hurt and madness and pain. It's not enough to pretend it never happened. It did. What now? Oh Lord, what now?
We are stones skipped over a frozen lake. Skeetskeet then stop. The sky holds its breath and sighs, it's steamy snout spraying icicles in the air; daggers that fall on the frozen lake. Ice on ice collide like shrapnel. I wait for the frozen lake to become unfrozen, the way chicken defrosts in the microwave on five minutes HIGH. If I were frozen underneath the ice, face up looking at the sky, I would beg the sun to stretch its arms just a bit further, just a bit further. But maybe just a bit further is too far. Its flames will engulf me and scorch me until all that's left is charcoal dust. Maybe I need to get over the sun. Through my ice paned window the world is fractured--a broken jigsaw puzzle of distorted colors and shapes. So I wait for the crack, the thaw that drips life into my frozen limbs. I wait for the skipped stone to collapse into water, to sink down slow.
So this was a lot of fun, if a little belaboring to try and get all the details right. I wanted to parallel the two apples and use words to capture that through one act we were separated from God, but through one death of Jesus on the cross, we are restored to a right relationship with Him. The repetition of the apple becomes a kind of symbol for our hearts. Sin is our human nature, a part of us, but when we accept Christ, we are changed and given an entirely new heart. Everything is outwardly the same (note the same setting for each apple), but at the same time everything is different.
The verse in the background of the 'sin' apple is a verse from Genesis three during the fall, when God tells Adam and Eve that there will be enmity between husband and wife, animals and humans. In turn, the verse for the 'joy' is John three "For God so loved the world that he gave his only son." Aesthetically I like how the green apple turned out better, because of the way the light hits the carved out letters, giving them a more three dimensional appearance. The lighting for the red apple is sepia, warmer and (I hope) more inviting.
Needless to say I ate a lot of apples today, haha.
The father of lies Coming to steal Kill and destroy All my hopes of being good enough I hear him saying cursed are the ones Who can’t abide He’s right Alleluia he’s right!
-Embracing Accusation Shane and Shane
Monday, January 31, 2011
I almost never design for the heck of it. It's always for a school project or for work, and I'm always trying to meet some deadline. So I'm starting a series where I use actual food as typography. For this one, I ate my pretzels in a way that spelled "Hello." It took about an entire bag to get this one down right. I hope you enjoy.
I can only imagine how many countless sentences have begun this way, ranging from the profound to the ridiculous, probably mostly the latter. Mine certainly falls in the latter. Yesterday I had a dream that the cast of How I Met Your Mother: Ted, Robin, Lily, and Barney attended a Barney (the dinosaur) themed birthday party. Everyone either dressed in all purple (Barney), green (Baby Bop), or yellow (B.J.)<--please believe me when I say I do not remember the names of Barney's sidekicks. I had to look it up on Wikipedia just now. To further prove this point, Baby Bop's name in my dream was Fala or something--Anyway, everyone on the cast of How I Met Your Mother was dressed in all purple, except for Barney, who was wearing his typical suit. When all the kids at the party found out his name was actually Barney, they all proclaimed that he dress like Barney the dinosaur as well, much to his chagrin. He was finally convinced by Ted to dress as Barney to attract the ladies who easily fall for men who will act the fool in order to entertain a kid. So not only did he dress in purple, but he rented out the full Barney the dinosaur costume. He instantly became the party favorite, and popular among the women, but he forgot that all the women there were already married. Bummer.
So what does it all mean?! How can I find the meaning of life through this dream? ...I can't. Sometimes a dumb dream is just that. Or maybe it just comes to show further withdrawal symptoms. Or maybe I'll just treat it as an ode to Barney, whom I haven't seriously thought of since I was six. Hah.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
I'm on a solid media fast for the next month. The only things I'm keeping are my blog and Top Chef and a youtube video here and there. Good-bye to facebook, twitter, Grey's Anatomy, How I Met Your Mother, The Office, random rewatches of Alias and other chick flicks, movies, and novels. This is a huge deal because I have relied on television and novels to the point where I don't rely on God. When I'm feeling sad, I read a book or watch a movie. Tired? Movie. Frustrated? Book. Bored? Tv show. Want excitement/adventure/romance/mystery? Book. Not only has it become an idol, but I think that media has been putting these messages in my head that sin is okay. In fact, sin is better then okay, it's grrreat. A lot of the tv shows and books I read glamorize and romanticize lying, adultery, premarital sex, cursing, etc etc. without showing the serious, long lasting consequences that sin has on the individual as well as everyone around you. And a part of me has come to believe it. I find myself more immersed in the ways of the world and less immersed in Christ. A problem? Yes, I think so. It has only been a day and a half and I'm already facing withdrawal symptoms. I'm not even kidding. I had a whole long sequence of strange, disturbing dreams that I would be ashamed to tell anyone about. I have been cranky and downcast all day for no apparent reason, snapping at my parents and feeling sorry for myself. I find myself going in to type "facebook.com" but stop myself just in time. I feel disconnected from the world--like the world is moving on without me and I'm stuck in some kind of limbo. It comes to show that when you try to refocus and really put God first, Satan is right there to try to counteract it, and works in small ways to try to distract you. But he will not win! No he won't.
When I deactivated my facebook a day ago, a handful of profile photos of friends popped up, and above each photo it said "_______ will miss you." And I said, "hah," yeah right! You miss someone when you really value someones friendship, and of the 700+ friends I have on fbook, I'm only good friends with a small percentage of that. Maybe they'll miss me. But if they do, they'll shoot me an email or call me up or ohmygoodness! come hang out with me. I thought that this distant feeling from God was because I don't love God enough. This is true, and I think will always be true, but the seed of the problem is that I love the world too much. I don't even allow any room for God.
"Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, love for the Father is not in them. For everything in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—comes not from the Father but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever."
-1 John 2:15-17
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
I just finished reading "Columbine" by Dave Cullen which was published in 2009, close to ten years after the Columbine massacre on April 20, 1999. I was only nine when Columbine happened, and the only memories I have of it is that it was a massive high school shooting by two or more people, the shooters had been bullied, and a certain girl named Cassie had answered "Yes," when asked if she believed in God, and had promptly been shot to her death. Everything I had thought was wrong, shrouded in lasting impressions of media and confused students and being too young to understand what was going on.
I picked up the book because of a book blog recommendation, and was surprised to see that it had been published just last year in 2009. Wasn't ten years kind of late to be writing a full fledged account? But it took that long to get all the facts straightened out amidst the misinterpretations, cover ups, and to digest the aftermath of the horrible shock Columbine would inflict on the nation and world. At first I questioned why I wanted to read this book. Was it merely out of curiosity? I wasn't interested in getting to know all the intimate details about the killers and their warped, perverse minds. But I wanted to know why. What could compel two teenage boys to kill so brutally. Were they insane, driven mad with rage, trying to get back at people they hated? This book answered a lot of these questions, and also left me with more.
Cullen is an extremely detailed and engaging writer, and I had to remind myself that this was not just a story. It was real; It had happened. It documents the actual day, but also the build up to April 20 and what prompted the downward spiral that ended in murder. It follows the killers in bursts, alternating between their thoughts and plans with the stories of those that died or were critically injured. By midway of the book, it was almost 4 AM and I was reading in my bed, feeling physically sick. It might have been because it was so late, but part of it was my disbelief at Eric Harris' view of the world: of his cool hatred towards all of mankind, his desire to obliterate people, undiscriminating, in mutilating, tortured deaths. Worse was his delight in it all. It was really hard to read. After years of poring over his journal, leading psychologist determined that Eric was a psychopath. There are many symptoms, but ultimately psychopaths have a lust to kill, considering everyone inferior to themselves. They are also excellent and studied liars to cover up this desire, and often conscious of their own malice but lack the normal emotions to care or show any remorse or compassion. The other killer, Dylan Klebold, was more complicated. Unlike Eric, he was not charming and rather shy, and wanted more than anything to be accepted. Eric saw uniqueness as superiority, Dylan saw it as a weakness, enough to take his own life. In Dylan's journal up to the end, he wrote constantly about wanting to belong and about love. Yes, love. Eric had been the leader, Dylan the follower. While Eric invested his time making bombs and figuring out his master plan, Dylan made little contribution but went along, and only took on a murderous outlook towards the end.
Contrary to popular belief, Eric and Dylan were not really picked on. They were the ones picking on other people. They were not loners; they had friends. The night before the shooting, they went out to eat a steak dinner with friends. Their parents were supportive of them, loved them, and disciplined them when appropriate. There had been warning signs. A former friend of Eric's had made death threats to Eric on Eric's website, and a police report was filed, but an investigation that should have continued was somehow halted. On April 20th both killers committed suicide 45 minutes into the shooting, but the SWAT team did not know this, and it took another three hours for everyone to be evacuated. Amidst all of the accounts of students, some were at first hazy, then solidified upon repetition, but unreliable. These accounts are what made it into most news stories and repeated again and again. One story was that of Cassie Bernall, who was shot and died after presumably proclaiming her faith. In fact it was another girl, and she had been shot but survived. It's true that Cassie was a Christian, and right up to her death a witness said she had been praying, but she never got a chance to utter a word to her killers. Even after the facts were set straight, Cassie's pastor declared her heroic story to be immovable. It was the story that the church stuck to, and her mother wrote a book about Cassie, entitled "She Said Yes."
And here I'll add in another opinion about Cassie's death. When the real story came out, people who had believed the previous depiction were resistant and had a hard time accepting truth. Understandable. People wanted to paint an ideal picture of her death, and to make her a martyr for Christ to bring some kind of comfort to themselves. By feeding into a lie however, it is dishonoring to Cassie herself and how she died. Cassie hadn't answered a question and said "yes" to a killer on the day of her death, but she had testified in life to becoming a Christian and saying yes to her Savior, Jesus Christ. I think that that is more than enough.
The facts were at times sickening to read, but the stories of the murdered, the injured, the families, and even the killers were heart wrenching. Sometimes I shuddered in disgust, other times I cried. I finished the book knowing a lot more about Columbine and the details around the incident, stripped of its mystery. But more then anything, I finished the book with a burden in my heart that this is not how things should be. The book carried many stories of hope, but I acutely felt the helplessness and brokenness of humanity. More then anything this book reminded me of how much we need a Savior.
So I almost always make new year resolutions, but I also almost always forget them before the month is even over. This is a cycle that repeats itself, so while I'm making the new year resolutions, I'm very aware that soon it will be a distant memory, which makes me take them less seriously. But I want this year to be different. For a while now I've known that there is something very un-joyful about myself. Yes, I smile a lot and generally laugh a good deal, but that does not necessarily equal joy. Real joy is found when you put all of your hope, all of your identity, in God, and He gives you his heart in return--to see through His lenses and shed, no, die, to yourself. It's really hard, but I'm hoping that God will give me the strength to fight for joy. I'm thankful that I read Grace's blog about this, and that a minute later, coincidentally, I saw a short video clip off Jenna's blog about the importance of prayer. Since I know if I make a long list, I won't be able to focus on any of them, I'm going to keep my 2011 new year resolution list short and to the core of things.
1) Have a prayerful life 2) Rediscover Joy 3) Stop slouching.
Notice that for the first resolution I didn't say pray more. I don't want prayer to be separate from life. I want my life to be a prayer such that in everything I do, it wouldn't be just to do for the heck of it, but with God behind it in my thoughts and in my heart. Rediscovering joy involves prayer and doing devotionals, but ultimately asking God to fill me up with His Joy. I think the rest: loving people, serving, wanting to fellowship, etc. can flow from this Joy. and the third one...well. it's just not very attractive, plus I don't want a bad back. Posture is important!
So that's it. Those are my two new year resolutions. Now on to things that I am thankful for, which is a much longer list (Not because I am a very thankful person, because I complain way more than I should, but because I'm forcing myself to recognize the things in my life I should be thankful for). I am thankful for:
MY FAMILY. I got to spend time with my grandparents, aunts, cousins, sister, and mom in Los Angeles for a week, and it was a blessed time. I am so grateful to have a family who loves and supports me and feeds me good food. Itadakimasu!
FRIENDS. I know I am not a very good friend sometimes, and it amazes me that people still want to be friends with me! I thank God for my current friendships and my past friendships, because through those I learned how to be a better friend, even if I'm sad that those friendships died.
FELLOWSHIP. I don't spend enough time in fellowship with people at school, or people at home. To be honest a part of me doesn't want to sometimes because it can be uncomfortable if I don't know the people that well, and I'm afraid of not belonging. But this is very selfish of me because it's not about me. It's about God. And he does not withhold fellowship so I should believe Him and make myself more available.
MY FUTURE HUSBAND. I've been thinking about this a bit over the last month, and I can't wait to meet my future husband, whoever and wherever he might be. He already has my love even though I don't know him yet! Sorry of that is overly sappy. But I just hope that I'll be patient and not be careless with my heart in assuming/jumping to conclusions as to who my future husband is.
GARLIC & ONIONS & SALT. Oh my what would we do without these three foods? Garlic is delicious and infuses food so yummily. Onions taste so good and smell wonderful too. And salt. SALT! I had completely saltless soup at one point last week and it wasn't so great. So yes, salt definitely makes my thankful list this year.
VEGETABLE PEELERS. I was peeling carrots today and really enjoyed the exact, neat way in which the peeler peeled those carrots. In straight lines, getting the job done so efficiently. I bet that carrot was grateful too. No unnecessary nicking of orange flesh to cause it pain. I remember when I was little and I didn't know how to use a knife to peel apples and pears. The peeler was so easy that even my six year old self could use it!
and of course, I am thankful for Jesus Christ my Lord and Savior, who embraces me each and every day and tells me I am forgiven. I am forgiven.
d.
