Do you love me?
Are you sure that you love me?
Do you?
Closure is a beautiful thing.
It makes me feel less guilty, when I finally ask forgiveness. Sometimes it makes me feel happy, because I clarify how I really felt all along. Other times it leaves me with a strange bittersweet twinge of regret, because time has vanished like sand through my fingers, impossible to retain. Although I wish I had done it differently, something inside urges me towards gratefulness, wrenching me away from condemnation. Could it all be for good?
Peter spent years of his life devoted to Jesus, making sacrifices, appearing ignorant, pushing forward. He was rash in his decisions and fervent in his devotion. He promised he would follow Jesus to the end, and I think in the deepest place of his heart, he believed he would.
But when the chains were shackled and the beatings began, Peter buckled under the questions. Of course he was not with this man. He had never been with him. Everything Jesus was experiencing—humiliation by the spiritual leaders, degradation by the mobs. This was not the promising kingdom of light and power that Jesus had spoken of! Maybe he had been wrong the whole time.
Across the courtyard, Jesus looked at Peter. Uncovered, bare and naked before the piercing glance of the Son of God, Peter knew. The depth of his betrayal was sinking in, and ashamed tears of self-hatred and bitterness fell like rain.
Three days later, Peter rushed into the sacred tomb of his fallen leader. Respect for the dead or reverence for the departed—no such thing entered his mind. He found the clothes lying there. Understanding of “I will rise again” started forming in his heart.
(I am going to insert myself here. It is a story, after all.)
Then Peter wondered. Will Jesus have anything to do with me? Will he even recognize my existence? If there was some way that I could get an audience with him, where I can talk and he can just listen… where I tell him over and over how I regret what I did. How I buckled under the pressure and all I need is one more chance to prove my extreme devotion to his cause. How I loathe the essence of my being. How I cringe at the memory of my words.
Early one morning, there Jesus was, on the shore. They were almost about to dock the boat anyway, but Peter jumped over the side, into the water, and started swimming. His desperateness obvious, his eagerness apparent. This was his chance.
And Jesus made them breakfast. Of all the spiritually-enriching, wisdom-imparting activities that could have taken place at this moment in history, one of the last times Jesus would ever walk the earth in human form—he made them breakfast.
Friends, eat with me. I know you are hungry. And so very fragile and weak. But fisherman, you are the foundation of my church that will last through generations, seeping into every fragment of human existence, preaching my life, loving my lost, beaming my light.
Peter sat and his heart bled inside. Should he start now? Was this the right time to begin his apology speech, carefully crafted and tastefully planned?
“Do you love me?”
Jesus asked and Peter affirmed, again and again.
I like to think that the third time, Peter took a step closer to Christ, contesting emotions surging through his being. Anger over the idea that Jesus so thoroughly doubted his devotion, pain since he had given Jesus reason to do so, and desperation that Jesus be convinced of his resolve.
And then it happened. Jesus said that not only would Peter be the rock of his church, but he would be crucified for his beliefs. Somehow, the man who denied Jesus in the courtyard because of possible implications arose as a leader who walked towards the same type of horrendous death Jesus experienced.
Complete reconciliation. Closure that marked the beginning.
You betrayed him, and then nails punctured your flesh because of the depth of your love for him. You feigned that you were unacquainted with him, and then the influence you had on others for him was a relentless torrent that could not be stopped.
Yes, it was all for good.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Regret
One shot is all you get.
No day can be relived. No moment can be reclaimed.
Regret and remorse are not a possibility, but a certainty. We are only human, after all.
I wonder what kind of regret it is easier to live with.
Regret that I did something, like a stupid choice, or a wrong decision. Regret that I went there and chose to say that, to release words of harshness, crudeness. Once I heard their icy hatred in the air, I knew I could never take them back.
That I formed a judgment against that person, without knowing their situation. That I treated them with the contempt and impatience of someone superior, clearly communicating that my estimation of my own value was far greater than theirs.
That I kept talking when I should have listened to her, because she was keeping it all inside. Or that I leapt when I should have paused, ignoring the voices in my head that told me to be still.
Or could it be that I will regret inaction. The times I didn’t pick up the phone and call. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so lonely if I had.
The questions I never thought to ask. I wonder what stories of my family’s past are lost forever, because they didn’t think I was interested in knowing.
The time I sat there motionless, observing the grief of loss. Even though I did not have the right words, nothing was the worst thing I could have done.
When I did not put anything in the offering plate as it passed. When I did not tip the waitress as much as she deserved. When I did not express my appreciation for what was given me, my respect for those who led me, my adoration beyond belief for those who think I am worth their investment.
One more “I love you” wouldn’t have been that hard to give.
Any kind of regret is difficult. But perhaps at the end of my life, I would prefer to know that I tried and failed, and crashed and burned.
Instead of sitting and waiting.
No day can be relived. No moment can be reclaimed.
Regret and remorse are not a possibility, but a certainty. We are only human, after all.
I wonder what kind of regret it is easier to live with.
Regret that I did something, like a stupid choice, or a wrong decision. Regret that I went there and chose to say that, to release words of harshness, crudeness. Once I heard their icy hatred in the air, I knew I could never take them back.
That I formed a judgment against that person, without knowing their situation. That I treated them with the contempt and impatience of someone superior, clearly communicating that my estimation of my own value was far greater than theirs.
That I kept talking when I should have listened to her, because she was keeping it all inside. Or that I leapt when I should have paused, ignoring the voices in my head that told me to be still.
Or could it be that I will regret inaction. The times I didn’t pick up the phone and call. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so lonely if I had.
The questions I never thought to ask. I wonder what stories of my family’s past are lost forever, because they didn’t think I was interested in knowing.
The time I sat there motionless, observing the grief of loss. Even though I did not have the right words, nothing was the worst thing I could have done.
When I did not put anything in the offering plate as it passed. When I did not tip the waitress as much as she deserved. When I did not express my appreciation for what was given me, my respect for those who led me, my adoration beyond belief for those who think I am worth their investment.
One more “I love you” wouldn’t have been that hard to give.
Any kind of regret is difficult. But perhaps at the end of my life, I would prefer to know that I tried and failed, and crashed and burned.
Instead of sitting and waiting.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Dear Myself
Today I woke up at 9am, and made myself some coffee. Justin wanted sausage biscuits and gravy for breakfast, but we were out of milk. So I slipped on a sundress and flip flops and walked five minutes to Cupecoy Market to buy a half-gallon of whole milk. On the walk back, I searched for a cloud in the sky. I only saw blue. We had breakfast together and then Justin went to campus to study. I cleaned the dishes then packed a bag with a towel and sun block lotion. I walked ten minutes to Mullet Bay Beach, which was almost deserted. The waves were small today, gently lapping the sand and quietly crashing into the rocks. The warm sand and hot sun made me sleepy as I lay there. Just as it was beginning to get unbearably hot, I walked into the ocean. The sun was so bright that the water was literally sparkling. I dove in. I tasted salt water on my lips and felt coarse shells under my feet as I came up from under the cold waves.
Dear myself: if life ever becomes ridiculously hard or exceptionally stressful, remember today. And then smile, because at one time in your life, you had it all.
Dear myself: if life ever becomes ridiculously hard or exceptionally stressful, remember today. And then smile, because at one time in your life, you had it all.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Better Than This
“Are you excited today?” the Baptist preacher’s voice asked with exorbitant inflection in his southern drawl. With one fist raised in the air, “heaven awaits us, the only thing in this life that we can look forward to.” Several heads in the congregation nodded, and one old lady on the second pew dabbed tears from her eyes. “If you aren’t excited to see Jesus today,” and the piano started playing choppy chords of the invitation hymn, “then you come down to the altar and give your heart to him.”
I bowed my head and closed my eyes in obedience and conformity to church protocol. But I had a secret. Confused guilt was the pervasive emotion in my mind as I sat with my hands crumpled in my lap, unable to agree with any of the sentiments I had just heard. I’m sure my thoughts were not as easy to express then as they are now, in retrospective reflection, but I was thinking something like this:
If I saw Jesus today, I would be mad as hell.
Because from my understanding of our church’s teachings on Christ and the afterlife, that would mean only one of two things: either I had died, or Jesus had come back to earth to take all the Christians to heaven with Him.
Both were unacceptable options to me.
This unsettling progression of thoughts happened quite frequently in my childhood and adolescence. There was simply no way for me to join the fervent enthusiasm for and pleasurable anticipation of seeing Jesus in the immediate future, since imagining that taking place only made me feel the rush of resentment.
There was so much I still needed to do. I want to get married to a very handsome man, and have children, probably five. I will live in an elegant house with a huge bathtub and a wrap-around porch. I will pack school lunches with string cheese everyday, not just on special days. I will wear lovely expensive dresses, where my husband is just amazed when I walk out of the house because I am so beautiful, and then we will go out to eat—not at Shoney’s, but somewhere even nicer. He will help me read stories to our children at bedtime, and then we will sit on our porch drinking apple cider when it is very late, maybe past midnight…
It was breathtaking—the plans I had in store for myself. I thought it ridiculously unreasonable for God to expect me to be excited to leave.
But something happened.
It’s a little difficult to express—the words get all jammed up in my throat when I try to articulate them. I definitely do not have a desire to leave this life.
But at the same time, if I was to leave, I just wouldn’t mind so much.
Perhaps it’s because I found the love of my life. He was still with me in the morning when I awoke, holding me close.
It could be that I witnessed betrayal. I am now beginning to comprehend the risk of human relationships, and how trusting made her vulnerable.
It could be that so much done here is so very temporary and futile. They wasted tears and blood and sweat, and at the end, had nothing to show for it.
Or maybe it’s because time passes and age advances. I saw her stare, stranded with only memories in a hallway of detached nurses and metal wheelchairs.
Maybe it’s the fact that I saw a fraction of a glimpse of real suffering, and realize how full of shit this world is. Jesus, the 2 year old baby girl, raped by her uncle and now HIV positive. Despair so strong that merciful relief means ultimate escape.
Regardless of the agent of change, I am different now. Sometimes I even want to join the old lady at the front, expectant eyes raised to heaven…
…thank you that I am alive. But it must get so much better than this.
I bowed my head and closed my eyes in obedience and conformity to church protocol. But I had a secret. Confused guilt was the pervasive emotion in my mind as I sat with my hands crumpled in my lap, unable to agree with any of the sentiments I had just heard. I’m sure my thoughts were not as easy to express then as they are now, in retrospective reflection, but I was thinking something like this:
If I saw Jesus today, I would be mad as hell.
Because from my understanding of our church’s teachings on Christ and the afterlife, that would mean only one of two things: either I had died, or Jesus had come back to earth to take all the Christians to heaven with Him.
Both were unacceptable options to me.
This unsettling progression of thoughts happened quite frequently in my childhood and adolescence. There was simply no way for me to join the fervent enthusiasm for and pleasurable anticipation of seeing Jesus in the immediate future, since imagining that taking place only made me feel the rush of resentment.
There was so much I still needed to do. I want to get married to a very handsome man, and have children, probably five. I will live in an elegant house with a huge bathtub and a wrap-around porch. I will pack school lunches with string cheese everyday, not just on special days. I will wear lovely expensive dresses, where my husband is just amazed when I walk out of the house because I am so beautiful, and then we will go out to eat—not at Shoney’s, but somewhere even nicer. He will help me read stories to our children at bedtime, and then we will sit on our porch drinking apple cider when it is very late, maybe past midnight…
It was breathtaking—the plans I had in store for myself. I thought it ridiculously unreasonable for God to expect me to be excited to leave.
But something happened.
It’s a little difficult to express—the words get all jammed up in my throat when I try to articulate them. I definitely do not have a desire to leave this life.
But at the same time, if I was to leave, I just wouldn’t mind so much.
Perhaps it’s because I found the love of my life. He was still with me in the morning when I awoke, holding me close.
It could be that I witnessed betrayal. I am now beginning to comprehend the risk of human relationships, and how trusting made her vulnerable.
It could be that so much done here is so very temporary and futile. They wasted tears and blood and sweat, and at the end, had nothing to show for it.
Or maybe it’s because time passes and age advances. I saw her stare, stranded with only memories in a hallway of detached nurses and metal wheelchairs.
Maybe it’s the fact that I saw a fraction of a glimpse of real suffering, and realize how full of shit this world is. Jesus, the 2 year old baby girl, raped by her uncle and now HIV positive. Despair so strong that merciful relief means ultimate escape.
Regardless of the agent of change, I am different now. Sometimes I even want to join the old lady at the front, expectant eyes raised to heaven…
…thank you that I am alive. But it must get so much better than this.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
This moment
This is as good as it gets.
Right now. This moment. The pinnacle of what I will become, what my life will mean for future generations, the imprint I will leave on the world when my flesh has rotted and my name evaporated into the thick, putrid air of humanity.
I’ve been deceived, up to this point. Not necessarily consciously misled, but consistently tricked. Daily existence is not valleys and mountains, rough terrain and flower-filled fields. It is a treadmill.
The illusion of traveling somewhere, with the reality of standing absolutely still.
Waiting to breathe until the stage is set, the audience is assembled, and the curtain rises—this is tragically pathetic. For most, that scenario will never be apparent. For some, it will arrive and then depart without an ounce of the fulfillment and gratification it dangled in front of our eyes, with tempting sparkles and magical pledges.
If the flicker of a candle waited to burn until it thought it would be the brightest…
I refuse to suffocate under the mantle of a materialistic culture with socialistic ideals. I claim responsibility for no life but my own. I don’t exist to improve a less-fortunate soul than me, as hypocritical charity to maintain my self-obsessed security. I don't wake up in the morning to contribute pennies of copper to my bank account, or to pay off a student loan. The glory of Christ is in this disgustingly frail shell of a being, where today I find myself alive.
I live this moment, and only God knows how many seconds I will burn.
Right now. This moment. The pinnacle of what I will become, what my life will mean for future generations, the imprint I will leave on the world when my flesh has rotted and my name evaporated into the thick, putrid air of humanity.
I’ve been deceived, up to this point. Not necessarily consciously misled, but consistently tricked. Daily existence is not valleys and mountains, rough terrain and flower-filled fields. It is a treadmill.
The illusion of traveling somewhere, with the reality of standing absolutely still.
Waiting to breathe until the stage is set, the audience is assembled, and the curtain rises—this is tragically pathetic. For most, that scenario will never be apparent. For some, it will arrive and then depart without an ounce of the fulfillment and gratification it dangled in front of our eyes, with tempting sparkles and magical pledges.
If the flicker of a candle waited to burn until it thought it would be the brightest…
I refuse to suffocate under the mantle of a materialistic culture with socialistic ideals. I claim responsibility for no life but my own. I don’t exist to improve a less-fortunate soul than me, as hypocritical charity to maintain my self-obsessed security. I don't wake up in the morning to contribute pennies of copper to my bank account, or to pay off a student loan. The glory of Christ is in this disgustingly frail shell of a being, where today I find myself alive.
I live this moment, and only God knows how many seconds I will burn.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Bible tells me so
Why are we harshest with our friends and most forgiving with strangers?
When it is someone we hardly know, the excuses come to mind so quickly. Maybe they were having a bad day, going through something rough. Or maybe they didn’t mean those words to sound so critical, or that rebuke to be so stern. I’m sure they don’t realize how they come across to people. We assume they need room to be themselves. We give them permission to breathe.
But when a friend doesn’t call back, a sister makes a wrong choice, a brother stumbles in front of us: suddenly they have committed the greatest sin of all. They know what they are doing. They are fully informed, completely knowledgeable, and yet persisting in their obnoxious behavior. Even if they admit it, we should remind them of it once more. To be sure they don’t think we have forgotten. To provide incentive for them to never mess up again.
And we push away the people that we are supposed to always love. We say love must be tough, over and over in our minds, allowing for our reactions to be reconciled. But tough love is not retribution. It is not estrangement. The reason “tough love” became a buzz word among Christians was to help the beaten wife, the drug-addicted teenagers, the alcoholic husband, who need people around them to whisper that because they are loved so much, they will be helped. Love them through the withdrawals, through the distorted pain, through the therapy.
As if in some delusional world our disapproval will change their behavior, or withdrawal of our support will bring them to their knees. As if their wrongdoing was against us, instead of Jesus.
But we can’t let people get off easy! That would be too much. More than they deserve. It would be unfair, unjust. It would be grace.
Stop shoving me away. Love me through my imperfections and grotesque flaws, forgive my mistakes and doesn’t punish me with your eyes. I confuse your rejection with my standing before Christ, something that hell itself could never take from me. I am loved by Him, this I know. The Bible, the precious words of Christ, tell me so.
When it is someone we hardly know, the excuses come to mind so quickly. Maybe they were having a bad day, going through something rough. Or maybe they didn’t mean those words to sound so critical, or that rebuke to be so stern. I’m sure they don’t realize how they come across to people. We assume they need room to be themselves. We give them permission to breathe.
But when a friend doesn’t call back, a sister makes a wrong choice, a brother stumbles in front of us: suddenly they have committed the greatest sin of all. They know what they are doing. They are fully informed, completely knowledgeable, and yet persisting in their obnoxious behavior. Even if they admit it, we should remind them of it once more. To be sure they don’t think we have forgotten. To provide incentive for them to never mess up again.
And we push away the people that we are supposed to always love. We say love must be tough, over and over in our minds, allowing for our reactions to be reconciled. But tough love is not retribution. It is not estrangement. The reason “tough love” became a buzz word among Christians was to help the beaten wife, the drug-addicted teenagers, the alcoholic husband, who need people around them to whisper that because they are loved so much, they will be helped. Love them through the withdrawals, through the distorted pain, through the therapy.
As if in some delusional world our disapproval will change their behavior, or withdrawal of our support will bring them to their knees. As if their wrongdoing was against us, instead of Jesus.
But we can’t let people get off easy! That would be too much. More than they deserve. It would be unfair, unjust. It would be grace.
Stop shoving me away. Love me through my imperfections and grotesque flaws, forgive my mistakes and doesn’t punish me with your eyes. I confuse your rejection with my standing before Christ, something that hell itself could never take from me. I am loved by Him, this I know. The Bible, the precious words of Christ, tell me so.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The Face
Did you see the most recent “Chronicles of Narnia” movie? Some call it an allegory for children—stories where magic, witches, talking animals and whispering trees are led by the brilliant imagination of C.S. Lewis on an incredible journey that relates to the Christian faith. Some say the books are better than the movies, but I personally think the films have done a fair job at being faithful to the original work.
There is a scene near the end of the latest movie (“Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian”) where a river foams up, gathers its waves, and you can faintly see a face in the water. Then the water gushes forth, collapsing the bridge where the enemy was crossing, and saving all the wonderful people of Narnia. When watching this scene, I saw the obvious link between the face in the water being God, and him saving his people. It was inspiring, I thought.
Sometime later, my ten year-old brother found out I had seen the movie, and we launched into an animated discussion about each of our favorite parts.
“Remember when the river stopped, and the waves got bigger, and then the water was huge?” Johnathon asked, his eyes sparkling.
I nodded.
“Well, did you know…” he continued, and then paused for effect. “That was really God.”
I know, I answered. He continued, unfazed by my response. “That was God’s face in the water” he repeated, with a sense of astonished reverence.
Suddenly, it hit me.
Had I really known it was God in the water? It didn’t amaze me. It hadn’t made me stop in awe. Somehow Johnathon had become wrapped up in the heart of the story, while I had merely stopped at an inspirational feeling. I had known it was God’s face. Allegory. Symbolism. Got it.
But God?! The Savior of the world, the lover of my soul. The roaring lion, and the bleeding hands on the cross. He was there, in the very midst of the battle, and used the most powerful force on earth to crumble the enemy and save the lost.
To crush my enemy and resurrect my life.
That wasn’t just water—it was the face of God! I’m not just catching a break. It is the grace of Jesus falling around me. I’m not just surrounded by safety. It’s the arms of Christ that refuse to ever let me escape. That email from a friend, was an “I love you” from my Father. The tears from yesterday’s fight were forgiveness from Jehovah. The song on the radio was a hug from God.
I want to see things for what they really are.
And after I see them, after I see Him, I want to be awestruck.
There is a scene near the end of the latest movie (“Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian”) where a river foams up, gathers its waves, and you can faintly see a face in the water. Then the water gushes forth, collapsing the bridge where the enemy was crossing, and saving all the wonderful people of Narnia. When watching this scene, I saw the obvious link between the face in the water being God, and him saving his people. It was inspiring, I thought.
Sometime later, my ten year-old brother found out I had seen the movie, and we launched into an animated discussion about each of our favorite parts.
“Remember when the river stopped, and the waves got bigger, and then the water was huge?” Johnathon asked, his eyes sparkling.
I nodded.
“Well, did you know…” he continued, and then paused for effect. “That was really God.”
I know, I answered. He continued, unfazed by my response. “That was God’s face in the water” he repeated, with a sense of astonished reverence.
Suddenly, it hit me.
Had I really known it was God in the water? It didn’t amaze me. It hadn’t made me stop in awe. Somehow Johnathon had become wrapped up in the heart of the story, while I had merely stopped at an inspirational feeling. I had known it was God’s face. Allegory. Symbolism. Got it.
But God?! The Savior of the world, the lover of my soul. The roaring lion, and the bleeding hands on the cross. He was there, in the very midst of the battle, and used the most powerful force on earth to crumble the enemy and save the lost.
To crush my enemy and resurrect my life.
That wasn’t just water—it was the face of God! I’m not just catching a break. It is the grace of Jesus falling around me. I’m not just surrounded by safety. It’s the arms of Christ that refuse to ever let me escape. That email from a friend, was an “I love you” from my Father. The tears from yesterday’s fight were forgiveness from Jehovah. The song on the radio was a hug from God.
I want to see things for what they really are.
And after I see them, after I see Him, I want to be awestruck.
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