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.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
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.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Happy Birthday
Dear Mom,
I hope you had a wonderful birthday. You were on my mind and in my heart all day. I wish I could have been there to celebrate with you.
At times I've tried to express how grateful I am for your involvement in my life, and usually I just end up crying. The reason I get so emotional is because I feel afraid, and then usually experience this progression of thoughts in my mind: "I am not scared of dying -- there is no fear in that," I think. "But I can't live without my mom," and then I realize how blessed I am to have you in my life, and I feel sorry for every day I took you for granted. Advice and friendship, support and comfort... overwhelming love and prayers. I simply need you. Thank you so much for everything.
I'm sorry this is not a happy "Happy Birthday" note, because that is what I at first intended it to be.
It's morbid to talk about death and dying on a birthday. But you really scared me when you collapsed last month, and we went to the hospital. I thought something bad was going to happen. Just writing about it makes my chest hurt, and my eyes watery.
As I realize how much you gave, how many years you spent, how many hours you devoted to raising your family and loving your husband and kids, I wish with all my heart that you could have a break. Sleeping in, breakfast in bed, chocolate milk and snickers, velour outfits and an Alaskan cruise. A miniature reward preview, of the glorious treasures God has stored for you in His beautiful heaven.
I just want to be like you. In so many ways, and some of them seemingly pointless. I'll never knowingly send an email with a misspelled word. My mom wouldn't like that. I always lick the brownie batter, pack far too much when I'm going on a trip, and buy the salad dressing that "looks the best." I've got a-ways to go, I know. But there's no harm in trying, right?
I love you, Mom. Miss you and can't wait to see you.
Love,
Carlyn
I hope you had a wonderful birthday. You were on my mind and in my heart all day. I wish I could have been there to celebrate with you.
At times I've tried to express how grateful I am for your involvement in my life, and usually I just end up crying. The reason I get so emotional is because I feel afraid, and then usually experience this progression of thoughts in my mind: "I am not scared of dying -- there is no fear in that," I think. "But I can't live without my mom," and then I realize how blessed I am to have you in my life, and I feel sorry for every day I took you for granted. Advice and friendship, support and comfort... overwhelming love and prayers. I simply need you. Thank you so much for everything.
I'm sorry this is not a happy "Happy Birthday" note, because that is what I at first intended it to be.
It's morbid to talk about death and dying on a birthday. But you really scared me when you collapsed last month, and we went to the hospital. I thought something bad was going to happen. Just writing about it makes my chest hurt, and my eyes watery.
As I realize how much you gave, how many years you spent, how many hours you devoted to raising your family and loving your husband and kids, I wish with all my heart that you could have a break. Sleeping in, breakfast in bed, chocolate milk and snickers, velour outfits and an Alaskan cruise. A miniature reward preview, of the glorious treasures God has stored for you in His beautiful heaven.
I just want to be like you. In so many ways, and some of them seemingly pointless. I'll never knowingly send an email with a misspelled word. My mom wouldn't like that. I always lick the brownie batter, pack far too much when I'm going on a trip, and buy the salad dressing that "looks the best." I've got a-ways to go, I know. But there's no harm in trying, right?
I love you, Mom. Miss you and can't wait to see you.
Love,
Carlyn
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Halfway
I like knowing who people identify with the most, when they read a story. Is it the main character, the brave hero, the witty side-kick, the loser parent? Who do they think they are most similar to?
So there’s this story, with a rich father and two sons. The younger son demands an early disbursement of his inheritance, and after receiving it, he promptly throws it away on gambling, women, and the pleasurable life. The boy becomes a pauper, and while feeding some pigs, the light comes on. He decides to return home to his father and beg to be a family servant. Of course the father refuses to make his son a servant, but welcomes him with open arms and throws a huge celebration to welcome him home. The older son is obviously distraught over the unfairness of the situation, and complains that his hard work is never rewarded. The father tries to appease the older son, but basically, that is the end of the story.
I’ve heard plenty of sermons where we are the lost son, coming home. It’s sweet and touching, to know that we have a Heavenly Father who will throw a robe on our shoulders and a ring on our hand, and kill a cow to feed the friends.
And there are preachers who think the congregation in full of older brothers, and preach about hypocrisy and harshness. We need to let God work, they say. We can’t think of our lives as less godly or less deserving, just because God chooses to forgive someone less worthy than us.
But I just wonder if we might be missing the whole point.
Could it be that we are meant to identify ourselves with the Father? The rich one, the successful patriarch, the stable character full of wise words of wisdom. Let me explain.
The father saw the son from afar, while he was just entering the city limits, but hadn’t even made it to the driveway yet. He recognized him as his own. The resentment and anger that he had every right to harbor against his son was non-existent. Not diffused, not set aside, not pushed into a corner for discussion on another day. There simply was none.
The sight of his boy lit up his face, his mouth dropped open. Tears flooded his eyes and he started running.
No preparations of what to say, or how to behave, or how to handle the potentially awkward family tension. Before the son even arrived, before he even had a chance to experience the degradation and humbling sensation of returning with shame, the boy was met. In essence, he saw his son coming, and met him halfway.
Open arms of grace. Shouts of excitement and thrilling reunion. You are back, and I can’t believe it. I’ve missed you. I thought I lost you. Give me a hug, he says, and don’t leave again.
Stay forever this time.
I wish I knew how to do that.
To see someone who has hurt me, abandoned me, someone who has knowingly inflicted pain in my life. And to experience a sensation of love so deep that I am swept away by its resounding current. I can’t help myself. I see them coming towards me, thinking about reconciliation, wondering about forgiveness.
And I meet them halfway.
What kind of mind-blowing grace is that? You belong here, and I never wanted you to leave. Welcome back.
So there’s this story, with a rich father and two sons. The younger son demands an early disbursement of his inheritance, and after receiving it, he promptly throws it away on gambling, women, and the pleasurable life. The boy becomes a pauper, and while feeding some pigs, the light comes on. He decides to return home to his father and beg to be a family servant. Of course the father refuses to make his son a servant, but welcomes him with open arms and throws a huge celebration to welcome him home. The older son is obviously distraught over the unfairness of the situation, and complains that his hard work is never rewarded. The father tries to appease the older son, but basically, that is the end of the story.
I’ve heard plenty of sermons where we are the lost son, coming home. It’s sweet and touching, to know that we have a Heavenly Father who will throw a robe on our shoulders and a ring on our hand, and kill a cow to feed the friends.
And there are preachers who think the congregation in full of older brothers, and preach about hypocrisy and harshness. We need to let God work, they say. We can’t think of our lives as less godly or less deserving, just because God chooses to forgive someone less worthy than us.
But I just wonder if we might be missing the whole point.
Could it be that we are meant to identify ourselves with the Father? The rich one, the successful patriarch, the stable character full of wise words of wisdom. Let me explain.
The father saw the son from afar, while he was just entering the city limits, but hadn’t even made it to the driveway yet. He recognized him as his own. The resentment and anger that he had every right to harbor against his son was non-existent. Not diffused, not set aside, not pushed into a corner for discussion on another day. There simply was none.
The sight of his boy lit up his face, his mouth dropped open. Tears flooded his eyes and he started running.
No preparations of what to say, or how to behave, or how to handle the potentially awkward family tension. Before the son even arrived, before he even had a chance to experience the degradation and humbling sensation of returning with shame, the boy was met. In essence, he saw his son coming, and met him halfway.
Open arms of grace. Shouts of excitement and thrilling reunion. You are back, and I can’t believe it. I’ve missed you. I thought I lost you. Give me a hug, he says, and don’t leave again.
Stay forever this time.
I wish I knew how to do that.
To see someone who has hurt me, abandoned me, someone who has knowingly inflicted pain in my life. And to experience a sensation of love so deep that I am swept away by its resounding current. I can’t help myself. I see them coming towards me, thinking about reconciliation, wondering about forgiveness.
And I meet them halfway.
What kind of mind-blowing grace is that? You belong here, and I never wanted you to leave. Welcome back.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)