As a freshman at Purdue studying Fine Arts, I spent an entire semester drawing the same structure. Three days a week. Every week. Four months. The same thing.
There is this place right in the middle of campus where a number of walkways, corridors and buildings converge into an open space. Architecturally and from a space planning sense, it is really quite stunning.
Right in the middle of the open space are these fountains, that seem to be oddly misplaced in the context of what surrounds them. To one side are the buildings that house the schools of engineering. On another side there is the pharmacy school and to yet another side are administrative buildings that house the dean of students and other official types.
But there are these fountains. They seem to spring up from nothing. Whimsical and playful and completely unexpected.
The assignment for the entire semester was to build a portfolio that showed this spot on the map from every possible perspective. To be honest, I liked the idea of spending warm afternoons out on the grass drawing rather than in the studio being lectured. I liked that part far more than I did the idea of drawing it repetitively.
It didn't take me very long to figure out that there were places that I could plant myself that made drawing the space pretty easy. Finding a spot where I could look at the fountains straight on made rendering it in perspective a breeze. Everything looked right. There was no need to measure angles and figure horizon lines and vanishing points. The view from that spot was aesthetically pleasing.
It was the perspective that mattered.
It took me just about as much time to figure out that there were places that I could plant myself that made drawing that space a nightmare. A spot where lines and angles and forms converge and twist and becomes nearly impossible to replicate. The view from that spot was gritty and tangled.
It was all about the perspective.
It could be where one sidewalk would crash into another, both coming from opposite angles. Or where the slope of the walls of the fountain would intersect visually with the overhang from the roof of a building in the background. Or looking down on them from the corner of a roof top of Schleman Hall where, when you stare for too long, your eyes begin to play tricks on you, like you have been staring at an optical illusion and soon you don't know which lines are real and which ones are imagined.
I learned so much about composition and technique and scale and art in general that semester.
I learned perspective.
Little did I know at 20 years old that the lessons that I learned sitting in the grass with some paper and a a pencil would not only encourage me later, but at times sustain me.
I learned perspective.
Perspective isn't this static thing. It's not a feeling. It's not an emotional state. It's not the way you view things.
It's the way you see them.
Objects don't change.
A building is a cube. That doesn't change. No matter where you plant yourself, that building will always have the same walls and roof and windows and doors. The angles and the slope and the pitch of things will always be the same.
If you can't make sense of what you see, closing your eyes and opening them again is not going to help. If you try it enough times, eventually your eyes may begin to play trick on you. They may begin to see things that aren't really there. Just like an optical illusion, you can think you see it a different way. But you don't. It didn't change.
There is only one way to make what you see in front of you different. You have to get up. Up from where you planted yourself. You have to stand up and move to another spot.
It doesn't change things.
The building is still a cube. The walls and roof and the windows and the doors. They didn't change. But the way you see it has.
My life is just like that spot. All around me are things that are black and white. They are schools of thinking that have only one answer. They are diagnosis and diseases and relationships that have no room for interpretation. They are what they are. That will never change.
But there are these fountains. They seem to spring up from nothing. Whimsical and playful and completely unexpected.
If you plant yourself at many spots around them, they don't make sense. You have to squint your eyes just to even begin to see where one form starts and the other stops. It's gritty and tangled and nearly impossible to reproduce in any way that would be recognizable, let alone pleasing.
But then there is this other spot. This one place where if you stand and look at just the right time and in just the right way, what you can see takes your breath away. These two concrete forms begin to take on life and they don't just exist in the same scape, they begin to interact with each other, almost as if they have this dialog that doesn't need words. The juxtaposition of the two forms as they swirl and dance around and among each other is beautiful.
You can capture that image on paper, it is aesthetically pleasing and it makes people stop to stare into it. An image that, had you not moved, would have been lost forever.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Make a Move
I am really good at being mad at other people. I am a master of placing blame and feeling frustration when other people disappoint me or let me down. I am really good at angry.
Where I am having a hard time is when the person that I am frustrated with is myself. When I am the one that let me down. That I am not good at. Not at all.
For the last several weeks I have had this feeling inside me. Frustration. Angst. Confusion. It has been building to the point where I can't pretend that I am happy. People don't do well with that version of me. The one that isn't silly and fun. I am not really sure what to do with her either.
I have been reading tons of stuff and praying a lot lately and the more I read and the more time I spend with God, the more I feel like I am failing.
If there was on characteristic I could change about my self, it would be the speed at which I fall. Fall in love with ideas, fall in love with ideals, fall in love with programs and concepts and models and systems. But mostly, fall in love with people.
It doesn't take me very long before I meet a kid and I love them like they were my own. I worry about them. I wonder about them. I pray and plan and dream for and about them.
I want the same thing for them that I want for my own boys. I want them to be healthy. I want them to be happy. More than that, I want them to fall in love with Jesus. Not just hear about him, not just believe about him. Believe in him, with everything that they are and with their entire lives. I want them to recklessly love the one that created them.
That's is where I feel frustrated. That is where I know that I have failed. I have stood in front of a room full of kids over and over and over again and I have told them that Jesus loves them. I have told them with songs and puppets and silly games that Jesus wants to be their best friend.
I have told them. I have been working with them long enough, that for many of the kids in our church, I have told them a hundred times how much Jesus longs to to be number on in their lives. They know it because they have heard me say it.
But many of them don't believe it. The don't believe that Jesus really changes things. They don't believe that Jesus can come into some one's life that was screwed up and change them. They don't believe me, because they haven't seen me live that way.
Research shows that by the time kids turn 18, they are aren't just slowly dropping out of the church. They are running. As fast as they can, they are deserting a culture that cared more about telling them how to live right than it did showing them. They don't leave the church because we didn't tell them. They leave because we failed to show them a life that would cause them to believe us.
That makes me sick to my stomach. That keeps me up at night. That makes my heart so sad that I simply can't pretend to be happy. That makes me wanna scream and fight and more importantly, it makes me wanna change.
It means that I believe the things that I tell them are true. It means I believe that God can show up in my own screwed up life, and make it better then OK, make it right. It means that I stop living everyday as a sentence and start living it as a story. It means I let go of some things that I have become far too good at holding on to.
It means that I have to move. To be honest, I am not even sure I know what that means. But I do know that not doing it is not an option. The stakes are too high not to make a move.
Where I am having a hard time is when the person that I am frustrated with is myself. When I am the one that let me down. That I am not good at. Not at all.
For the last several weeks I have had this feeling inside me. Frustration. Angst. Confusion. It has been building to the point where I can't pretend that I am happy. People don't do well with that version of me. The one that isn't silly and fun. I am not really sure what to do with her either.
I have been reading tons of stuff and praying a lot lately and the more I read and the more time I spend with God, the more I feel like I am failing.
If there was on characteristic I could change about my self, it would be the speed at which I fall. Fall in love with ideas, fall in love with ideals, fall in love with programs and concepts and models and systems. But mostly, fall in love with people.
It doesn't take me very long before I meet a kid and I love them like they were my own. I worry about them. I wonder about them. I pray and plan and dream for and about them.
I want the same thing for them that I want for my own boys. I want them to be healthy. I want them to be happy. More than that, I want them to fall in love with Jesus. Not just hear about him, not just believe about him. Believe in him, with everything that they are and with their entire lives. I want them to recklessly love the one that created them.
That's is where I feel frustrated. That is where I know that I have failed. I have stood in front of a room full of kids over and over and over again and I have told them that Jesus loves them. I have told them with songs and puppets and silly games that Jesus wants to be their best friend.
I have told them. I have been working with them long enough, that for many of the kids in our church, I have told them a hundred times how much Jesus longs to to be number on in their lives. They know it because they have heard me say it.
But many of them don't believe it. The don't believe that Jesus really changes things. They don't believe that Jesus can come into some one's life that was screwed up and change them. They don't believe me, because they haven't seen me live that way.
Research shows that by the time kids turn 18, they are aren't just slowly dropping out of the church. They are running. As fast as they can, they are deserting a culture that cared more about telling them how to live right than it did showing them. They don't leave the church because we didn't tell them. They leave because we failed to show them a life that would cause them to believe us.
That makes me sick to my stomach. That keeps me up at night. That makes my heart so sad that I simply can't pretend to be happy. That makes me wanna scream and fight and more importantly, it makes me wanna change.
It means that I believe the things that I tell them are true. It means I believe that God can show up in my own screwed up life, and make it better then OK, make it right. It means that I stop living everyday as a sentence and start living it as a story. It means I let go of some things that I have become far too good at holding on to.
It means that I have to move. To be honest, I am not even sure I know what that means. But I do know that not doing it is not an option. The stakes are too high not to make a move.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
No one can fathom....
Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. Isaiah 40:18-31
I really love this verse. I love the comfort that it offers, the assurance that it brings, but most of all, I love that it calls me out EVERY time. The truth is I don't need anyone to feel sorry for me. I can handle that all by myself. I can throw a pity party like no one else.
No body understands how it feels.
No one understands the hurt.
No body knows what it is like to live this life of mine.
This verse shows up right in the middle of my party for one and guts me.
Today was awful. Brutal even. Isaak lost control of himself at the dentist office and we left behind a path of destruction. There were those looked on in disgust, some in pity, others in fear. His behavior goes against everything that we as adults know how to deal with. There is no reasoning, no waiting it out, no calming him down. At that minute, the most you can do is hold him so he doesn't hurt himself, me or anyone else.
I've been trained how to restrain him so that he doesn't hurt me physically. I've yet to figure out a way to protect my heart.
It hurts. More than hurts, it crushes me.
I'll be honest, in those moments it is impossible for me to think that there could be anything redeeming about the hurt. That there could be anything good that could come from it.
That God is even there at all. In my mind and in my heart, I convince myself that God has turned his face, not because he doesn't care, but because maybe he cares so much that he can't bear to watch it.
And then I read this.
Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.
His understanding no one can fathom. On the days where I just want someone to understand how I feel. His understanding no one can fathom.
Today was awful. But I wasn't alone. And I will be OK. Not because I am strong. In fact,in spite of how weak I am. The Everlasting God. The Creator of the ends of the earth. Not alone, but held. Held by The One who, in those times, doesn't turn his face but instead leans in as close as he can and just waits with me.
I am thankful to be reminded of that today. Incredibly thankful.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Paint By Numbers
Even as a little girl, I loved to create.
Paper, crayons, paint.
Anything that could be transformed.
Anything that could be made into something else.
Some of my favorite things to do were paint by numbers.
There was something magical about that white paper canvas.
Segmented into tiny shapes.
Individual boxes.
Each waiting to be filled. Waiting to be changed.
Waiting to be turned into something beautiful.
As an adult, my life mirrors that paper canvas.
Unrefined.
Blank.
Unfinished.
Numbered.
Segmented.
[63] [12] [73] [262]
[3] The age Isaak was diagnosed with Autism [6] [14]
[180] The number of pills he takes each month [9] [122]
[80] Estimated divorce rate among parents with Autistic child [2] [17]
[7] [18] The age kids go off to college...most kids...probably not ours [262] [4]
Numbers. Boxes
Segmented.
Individual.
Stand alone.
Isolated.
Sterile.
Until you begin to add color.
Each box begins to fill.
Each color merges into the one next to it.
Shapes turn into objects.
It begins to be something else.
It begins to be something different.
Cohesive.
Connected.
Interdependent.
Consecutive.
Coherent.
Transformed by the hand on someone.
One with a plan.
One who knew the color scheme.
One who took the time to color within the lines.
One that changes things.
Meticulous.
Aesthetic.
Imaginative.
Intact.
Whole.
A painting.
Not just a painting. A masterpiece.
Brush strokes that on their own are not beautiful.
In fact, some are ugly.
A piece of art created for the purpose of being shown.
Not created by someone. Created by the Creator.
Paper, crayons, paint.
Anything that could be transformed.
Anything that could be made into something else.
Some of my favorite things to do were paint by numbers.
There was something magical about that white paper canvas.
Segmented into tiny shapes.
Individual boxes.
Each waiting to be filled. Waiting to be changed.
Waiting to be turned into something beautiful.
As an adult, my life mirrors that paper canvas.
Unrefined.
Blank.
Unfinished.
Numbered.
Segmented.
[63] [12] [73] [262]
[3] The age Isaak was diagnosed with Autism [6] [14]
[180] The number of pills he takes each month [9] [122]
[80] Estimated divorce rate among parents with Autistic child [2] [17]
[7] [18] The age kids go off to college...most kids...probably not ours [262] [4]
Numbers. Boxes
Segmented.
Individual.
Stand alone.
Isolated.
Sterile.
Until you begin to add color.
Each box begins to fill.
Each color merges into the one next to it.
Shapes turn into objects.
It begins to be something else.
It begins to be something different.
Cohesive.
Connected.
Interdependent.
Consecutive.
Coherent.
Transformed by the hand on someone.
One with a plan.
One who knew the color scheme.
One who took the time to color within the lines.
One that changes things.
Meticulous.
Aesthetic.
Imaginative.
Intact.
Whole.
A painting.
Not just a painting. A masterpiece.
Brush strokes that on their own are not beautiful.
In fact, some are ugly.
A piece of art created for the purpose of being shown.
Not created by someone. Created by the Creator.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
I Love You Lord
There have been so many times, when in a room surrounded with 30+ kids...
kids that are loud and don't always pay attention,
kids that need to be reminded to stay in their seats, to raise their hand, reminded to use their inside voices,
kids that need reminded over and over and over again....
It's in this space that I have met God in a way that I have never experienced before.
We have been learning a new song, Children and Kings, by Gungor.
If you don't think that kids get it.
If you don't think they are grown up enough or sophisticated enough or mature enough to really get it.
If you have ever thought that what happens in a room full of kids isn't really church....
isn't really worship....
isn't really that important....
Well, you have never stood in the back of the room and watched kids sing out these words...
"I Love You Lord"...
And not just sing them.
Mean them.
You have never watched a 4 year old little girl close her eyes and lift up her hands as she sang.
Not because she saw someone else do it first.
Not because she knew she was supposed to.
But because she was made to love Him.
Because her heart knows no other way than to lose herself in a song about loving Him.
It is easy to separate us.
To divide us into groups.
Adults. Students. Kids.
And all for very good reasons.
The truth is that in the end...
we all singing the same song.
kids that are loud and don't always pay attention,
kids that need to be reminded to stay in their seats, to raise their hand, reminded to use their inside voices,
kids that need reminded over and over and over again....
It's in this space that I have met God in a way that I have never experienced before.
We have been learning a new song, Children and Kings, by Gungor.
If you don't think that kids get it.
If you don't think they are grown up enough or sophisticated enough or mature enough to really get it.
If you have ever thought that what happens in a room full of kids isn't really church....
isn't really worship....
isn't really that important....
Well, you have never stood in the back of the room and watched kids sing out these words...
"I Love You Lord"...
And not just sing them.
Mean them.
You have never watched a 4 year old little girl close her eyes and lift up her hands as she sang.
Not because she saw someone else do it first.
Not because she knew she was supposed to.
But because she was made to love Him.
Because her heart knows no other way than to lose herself in a song about loving Him.
It is easy to separate us.
To divide us into groups.
Adults. Students. Kids.
And all for very good reasons.
The truth is that in the end...
we all singing the same song.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Some Thoughts About Lent....
I gotta be honest with you and tell you that until about a month ago, I really had no idea what lent even was. I knew it was a time when people gave up things, but that was the extent of it.
I grew up in a church where the Easter season began on Palm Sunday and included Maundy Thursday foot washing and an Easter Sunday sunrise service and breakfast. It took far longer for us to pick out what we were going to wear on Easter then it did to prepare our hearts for it.
This year is different. This year I am totally embracing lent for what it is. A time to confess my sins, to make changes in my life to ensure that those bad habits and behaviors are less likely to reappear and a time to prepare for what is about to come.
I do remember when I was younger and kids in school would give up bubble gum or Coke for lent. For them, I am sure that was a sacrifice. I know lots of people who are fasting from those things in order to spend more time with God or to donate the money that they would have spent on those things to a charity. God knows their hearts and they know what God has called them to give up.
But I know me.
If I am anything, I am predictable and I know how that would play out. I would give up Diet Pepsi for lent and spend the next 40 days lamenting about my withdraw. I would complain about it on Facebook and gain some encouragement from those that would spur me on, reminding me that I was fasting from caffeine for the Lord and that he would bless me for my sacrifice.
The sacrifice of going without Diet Pepsi each day when nearly half of the people in the world don't even have clean water to drink.
Easter Sunday would come and I would spend the next few days in a caffeine induced inebriation as I binged to make up for the last 40 days.
In the end, I would not come out of lent any different than I went into it. Still the same person that resists God at every turn and is constantly looking for a way to follow God on my own terms. Looking for the easy way.
To fast from, what to most people is a luxury, just doesn't seem to be what God is leading me to do.
Trust me, I have picked enough fights with God to know better. He always wins. Always.
And so this year, I have chosen to fast on the things in my life that continue to distract me from God. Instead, I will feast on the ways that God is constantly pulling me towards him. Looking for me, searching for me, longing for me to back to him.
I will fast from becoming so absorbed in this life of mine, from being the center of my own world. Instead of texting or talking on the phone while I am in public, I will stop and have a genuine conversation with the person behind the checkout counter. I will feast on human interaction. I will feast on the power of eye contact. Of a smile. I will feast on connecting with people, not because I think I have something to give to them, but because that is how God created us. I will feast on hearing other people's stories.
I will fast from being so busy or selfish that when someone shares a need with me, I tell them I will pray for them. Instead, I will feast on spending time with them and with God in that moment. Not praying for them. Praying with them.
I will fast from the words that cut people. Words that, even when whispered and in private, shred away at who a person is. Instead, I will feast on speaking loud. Letting everything that comes from my mouth be an encouragement and not a slap in the face. I will chose my words carefully at times and at other times, I will not censor what God is telling me to say simply because I don't want to overstep my boundaries or get something started.
I will fast from using God. From going to him after my own best efforts have failed. For treating him as that person that only gets an occasional update from me, not because I want them to know about my life, but because I feel obligated to. Instead, I will feast on spending time with God. Instead of reaching for my iPhone in the morning to see what I missed during the night, I will feast on going first to my Heavenly Father, to thank him for the safety of another night and the blessing of another day.
I am looking forward to this time of intentional disruption in order to make changes that are long past due.
What about you? What are you getting rid of in your life during lent in order to make room for the life God has planned for you?
I grew up in a church where the Easter season began on Palm Sunday and included Maundy Thursday foot washing and an Easter Sunday sunrise service and breakfast. It took far longer for us to pick out what we were going to wear on Easter then it did to prepare our hearts for it.
This year is different. This year I am totally embracing lent for what it is. A time to confess my sins, to make changes in my life to ensure that those bad habits and behaviors are less likely to reappear and a time to prepare for what is about to come.
I do remember when I was younger and kids in school would give up bubble gum or Coke for lent. For them, I am sure that was a sacrifice. I know lots of people who are fasting from those things in order to spend more time with God or to donate the money that they would have spent on those things to a charity. God knows their hearts and they know what God has called them to give up.
But I know me.
If I am anything, I am predictable and I know how that would play out. I would give up Diet Pepsi for lent and spend the next 40 days lamenting about my withdraw. I would complain about it on Facebook and gain some encouragement from those that would spur me on, reminding me that I was fasting from caffeine for the Lord and that he would bless me for my sacrifice.
The sacrifice of going without Diet Pepsi each day when nearly half of the people in the world don't even have clean water to drink.
Easter Sunday would come and I would spend the next few days in a caffeine induced inebriation as I binged to make up for the last 40 days.
In the end, I would not come out of lent any different than I went into it. Still the same person that resists God at every turn and is constantly looking for a way to follow God on my own terms. Looking for the easy way.
To fast from, what to most people is a luxury, just doesn't seem to be what God is leading me to do.
Trust me, I have picked enough fights with God to know better. He always wins. Always.
And so this year, I have chosen to fast on the things in my life that continue to distract me from God. Instead, I will feast on the ways that God is constantly pulling me towards him. Looking for me, searching for me, longing for me to back to him.
I will fast from becoming so absorbed in this life of mine, from being the center of my own world. Instead of texting or talking on the phone while I am in public, I will stop and have a genuine conversation with the person behind the checkout counter. I will feast on human interaction. I will feast on the power of eye contact. Of a smile. I will feast on connecting with people, not because I think I have something to give to them, but because that is how God created us. I will feast on hearing other people's stories.
I will fast from being so busy or selfish that when someone shares a need with me, I tell them I will pray for them. Instead, I will feast on spending time with them and with God in that moment. Not praying for them. Praying with them.
I will fast from the words that cut people. Words that, even when whispered and in private, shred away at who a person is. Instead, I will feast on speaking loud. Letting everything that comes from my mouth be an encouragement and not a slap in the face. I will chose my words carefully at times and at other times, I will not censor what God is telling me to say simply because I don't want to overstep my boundaries or get something started.
I will fast from using God. From going to him after my own best efforts have failed. For treating him as that person that only gets an occasional update from me, not because I want them to know about my life, but because I feel obligated to. Instead, I will feast on spending time with God. Instead of reaching for my iPhone in the morning to see what I missed during the night, I will feast on going first to my Heavenly Father, to thank him for the safety of another night and the blessing of another day.
I am looking forward to this time of intentional disruption in order to make changes that are long past due.
What about you? What are you getting rid of in your life during lent in order to make room for the life God has planned for you?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Everyday
Some people wake up to the sunshine. Some people wake up to the smell of coffee. Some people wake up the sound of giggling kids.
I wake up to Autism. We wake up to Autism. To loud, screeching, screaming, pounding Autism. To furious, fists clenched, teeth grinding Autism. To a hundred reasons why that day isn't worth even fighting for.
Everyday.
Everything is wrong. The room is too dark. The light is too bright. The house is too warm. The chair is too cold. The cereal is too crunchy. The bowl is too full. The pants are too tight. The shirt is too scratchy. The socks are too stretchy. The coat is to hot.
Everything is too much. Every single day.
The first hour of my day is hell. I begin everyday like this. Every single day.
Every single day we fight over just getting out of bed. Everyday I fear this might be the day when he stops threatening to hurt me or himself and actually does.
Everyday I wake up with this monster that lives inside of a little boy that never asked for this. Everyday I watch as the medicine kicks in that will tame that monster, if even for a little while. Every morning I watch him eat and then throw up because his stomach is a mess after the chaos of the first few minutes of the day. Everyday. Every single day.
Everyday we struggle just to get out the front door and into the car. Every morning we drive to school as I watch the color drain out of his face as the medicine begins to take him captive. Every morning I drop him off at school, knowing that the next
6 hours could go well or he could fall apart at every chance.
Everyday I take a deep breath as I drive out of the parking lot and remember that in that last hour I have been held. Through the chaos, through the noise, through the darkest hour of my day, I have been held by the One that understands.
With out fail. Everyday I am held. Every single day, when I don't even have the words to ask Him for help. Every singe day when I am so mad at Him that rather then trust Him, I want to scream at Him. Every single day.
Everyday.
I wake up to Autism. We wake up to Autism. To loud, screeching, screaming, pounding Autism. To furious, fists clenched, teeth grinding Autism. To a hundred reasons why that day isn't worth even fighting for.
Everyday.
Everything is wrong. The room is too dark. The light is too bright. The house is too warm. The chair is too cold. The cereal is too crunchy. The bowl is too full. The pants are too tight. The shirt is too scratchy. The socks are too stretchy. The coat is to hot.
Everything is too much. Every single day.
The first hour of my day is hell. I begin everyday like this. Every single day.
Every single day we fight over just getting out of bed. Everyday I fear this might be the day when he stops threatening to hurt me or himself and actually does.
Everyday I wake up with this monster that lives inside of a little boy that never asked for this. Everyday I watch as the medicine kicks in that will tame that monster, if even for a little while. Every morning I watch him eat and then throw up because his stomach is a mess after the chaos of the first few minutes of the day. Everyday. Every single day.
Everyday we struggle just to get out the front door and into the car. Every morning we drive to school as I watch the color drain out of his face as the medicine begins to take him captive. Every morning I drop him off at school, knowing that the next
6 hours could go well or he could fall apart at every chance.
Everyday I take a deep breath as I drive out of the parking lot and remember that in that last hour I have been held. Through the chaos, through the noise, through the darkest hour of my day, I have been held by the One that understands.
With out fail. Everyday I am held. Every single day, when I don't even have the words to ask Him for help. Every singe day when I am so mad at Him that rather then trust Him, I want to scream at Him. Every single day.
Everyday.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A Note
I recently started this little box that I keep at the church where kids can leave me notes. These can be comments, questions, prayer requests, really anything they want to tell me. I was sure to let them know that what they write to me isn't something that I am going to share with the other kids or their parents. It's really just meant to be a way for kids to share things with me in a space where they feel totally safe.
It is just a box. A plain cardboard box with a slit cut in it.
In the last two weeks I have gotten some really sweet notes from kids telling me that they had fun or what their favorite part of Kid's Worship is. I love reading them and it always makes me smile. There is one little girl who just leaves me notes with her name on them, because that is all that she knows how to spell.
It blows me away how much these amazing little kids just want to be connected to someone that loves them. Someone who isn't their parent or a family member. Someone that doesn't love them just because they are supposed to, but because they want to.
This morning when I got to the church I found a little piece of folded up paper in my box that I must have missed on Wednesday night. I unfolded it to read this...
It was signed Love and then the girls name.
Wow.
I have developed a relationship with this little girl over the last couple of months since they started coming to church. I knew that her father was not living, but I don't know any of the details. I have never asked her about it because, honestly, when is the best time to bring something like that up.
For this little 5 year old girl, that is such a huge part of her story. The idea that she feels so loved and so safe in this space, safe enough to share that with me, means more than I have words for.
There is a reason why I spend my Saturdays in this building. There is a reason why I am here late at night during the week once my own kids have gone to bed. There is a reason why I would give my life for this church, not 5 or 10 years down the road when it is perfect, but today.
This morning I was reminded what that reason is.
It is just a box. A plain cardboard box with a slit cut in it.
In the last two weeks I have gotten some really sweet notes from kids telling me that they had fun or what their favorite part of Kid's Worship is. I love reading them and it always makes me smile. There is one little girl who just leaves me notes with her name on them, because that is all that she knows how to spell.
It blows me away how much these amazing little kids just want to be connected to someone that loves them. Someone who isn't their parent or a family member. Someone that doesn't love them just because they are supposed to, but because they want to.
This morning when I got to the church I found a little piece of folded up paper in my box that I must have missed on Wednesday night. I unfolded it to read this...
I want to tell you that my Dad is not alive.
It was signed Love and then the girls name.
Wow.
I have developed a relationship with this little girl over the last couple of months since they started coming to church. I knew that her father was not living, but I don't know any of the details. I have never asked her about it because, honestly, when is the best time to bring something like that up.
For this little 5 year old girl, that is such a huge part of her story. The idea that she feels so loved and so safe in this space, safe enough to share that with me, means more than I have words for.
There is a reason why I spend my Saturdays in this building. There is a reason why I am here late at night during the week once my own kids have gone to bed. There is a reason why I would give my life for this church, not 5 or 10 years down the road when it is perfect, but today.
This morning I was reminded what that reason is.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Quiet Time
The more I think I have everything figured out, the more I realize that I really don't even have a clue. Now I know that is going to be a shock to most of you, so take your time getting over that, and read on at your own pace.
I could go on for days and days listing all the ways that I have been proven wrong over the past year, but you would get bored after the 213th one, so I decided to narrow it down to a bit and share a few of them, one at a time. These are in no way ordered by philosophical importance, just things that finally cracked through this stubborn brain of mine.
Quiet Time
I have grown up hearing that term, but I'll be honest and tell you that I have never been really sure what "quiet" time is. I was fairly sure of a few things. First, it always took place before the sun woke up and was best acquired if you traveled to some sort of mountain top each morning. On the way to the mountain top you would listen to Sandi Patty and after a few hours of prayer God would lean down and kiss the earth, the sun would then break the horizon line and angels would sing and you would know that you had spent time with the Creator.
Another favorite term I remember from my childhood was going to your "prayer closet". Now this one really freaked me out. I imagined the old people of my church climbing in their closet each morning to have their quiet time with God. As I got older it made me chuckle a little to think that each morning they then "came out of the closet".
Anyway, there have been so many times in my life when I have made the decision to wake up before the sun and spend time reading the bible and praying. To do what real Christians do, the kind that not only get to live in Heaven, but get to live in the part that is a gated community past the standard pearly gates, the diamond studded gates. Like the houses that are down the street from Max Lucado and Carmen, where Ray Boltz sings every night at the all you can eat buffet. Super Christian territory.
As many times as I had tried it, I had failed. The reasons are varied. Sometimes quiet time....early morning....in the dark ....in the quiet....would often turn to sleeping time. When I was able to stay awake I would play that Bible game that everyone has played at sometime in their lives, where I would close my eyes and open it up to a random page and expect pixie dust to fall out and angels sing as God reveals something special that only my eyes would ever see. That never happened. I tried doing devotionals or "just" praying, but it never seemed to have the power that everyone else talked about. It was like maybe I was just so close to God that He really didn't need a special time with me. He was busy moving in the lives of the other sinners and he just wanted me to sleep an extra hour. In my delusional mind it all made perfect sense.
And then something changed. Committed to figuring this whole thing out, I began to experiment a little with quiet time. I usually spend an hour or so every evening reading through the lessons that I am going to teach to the kids on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. Slowly, what happened is that I started to not just see them but to look into them in a way that I had not before. Those same scriptures that were part of the lesson to be taught to 2nd and 3rd graders had an all new meaning for me. I had found a space to do my quiet time, it just looked nothing like I had expected.
At 5 am in the morning, I still think that I can do it all on my own. In the quiet darkness of a new day, Matthew 5 was written for someone else, someone less fortunate than me. Before the day starts, I have a plan in place for how and where I will allow God to work and be seen.
At the end of the day I am beaten up, I am drained of every ounce of feeling like I could ever control this life. At the end of the day Matthew 5 is not only for me, it often is the only thing that makes doing it all over again the next day a possibility. At the end of the day I am able to look back over the last 12 hours and know that none of it was of my own strength, to see all the places where I was held.
So it's not in the morning, it's not structured, I never go into my closet, but it's our time. I'm ok with not living down the street from Billy Graham in heaven. Hopefully I will be able to hear the Winans from my chic little studio apartment.
I could go on for days and days listing all the ways that I have been proven wrong over the past year, but you would get bored after the 213th one, so I decided to narrow it down to a bit and share a few of them, one at a time. These are in no way ordered by philosophical importance, just things that finally cracked through this stubborn brain of mine.
Quiet Time
I have grown up hearing that term, but I'll be honest and tell you that I have never been really sure what "quiet" time is. I was fairly sure of a few things. First, it always took place before the sun woke up and was best acquired if you traveled to some sort of mountain top each morning. On the way to the mountain top you would listen to Sandi Patty and after a few hours of prayer God would lean down and kiss the earth, the sun would then break the horizon line and angels would sing and you would know that you had spent time with the Creator.
Another favorite term I remember from my childhood was going to your "prayer closet". Now this one really freaked me out. I imagined the old people of my church climbing in their closet each morning to have their quiet time with God. As I got older it made me chuckle a little to think that each morning they then "came out of the closet".
Anyway, there have been so many times in my life when I have made the decision to wake up before the sun and spend time reading the bible and praying. To do what real Christians do, the kind that not only get to live in Heaven, but get to live in the part that is a gated community past the standard pearly gates, the diamond studded gates. Like the houses that are down the street from Max Lucado and Carmen, where Ray Boltz sings every night at the all you can eat buffet. Super Christian territory.
As many times as I had tried it, I had failed. The reasons are varied. Sometimes quiet time....early morning....in the dark ....in the quiet....would often turn to sleeping time. When I was able to stay awake I would play that Bible game that everyone has played at sometime in their lives, where I would close my eyes and open it up to a random page and expect pixie dust to fall out and angels sing as God reveals something special that only my eyes would ever see. That never happened. I tried doing devotionals or "just" praying, but it never seemed to have the power that everyone else talked about. It was like maybe I was just so close to God that He really didn't need a special time with me. He was busy moving in the lives of the other sinners and he just wanted me to sleep an extra hour. In my delusional mind it all made perfect sense.
And then something changed. Committed to figuring this whole thing out, I began to experiment a little with quiet time. I usually spend an hour or so every evening reading through the lessons that I am going to teach to the kids on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. Slowly, what happened is that I started to not just see them but to look into them in a way that I had not before. Those same scriptures that were part of the lesson to be taught to 2nd and 3rd graders had an all new meaning for me. I had found a space to do my quiet time, it just looked nothing like I had expected.
At 5 am in the morning, I still think that I can do it all on my own. In the quiet darkness of a new day, Matthew 5 was written for someone else, someone less fortunate than me. Before the day starts, I have a plan in place for how and where I will allow God to work and be seen.
At the end of the day I am beaten up, I am drained of every ounce of feeling like I could ever control this life. At the end of the day Matthew 5 is not only for me, it often is the only thing that makes doing it all over again the next day a possibility. At the end of the day I am able to look back over the last 12 hours and know that none of it was of my own strength, to see all the places where I was held.
So it's not in the morning, it's not structured, I never go into my closet, but it's our time. I'm ok with not living down the street from Billy Graham in heaven. Hopefully I will be able to hear the Winans from my chic little studio apartment.
Friday, January 7, 2011
One Word
One Word. Not a list of the things I wish I could change, but probably won't. Not a list of resolutions that will last through January. Not a list of unreachable goals. Just one word.
One word that will guide and shape the decisions that I make. One word that I will live out everyday. With lots of contemplation and even more prayer, I have decided on my one word.
Story.
I have a story. I actually have many stories.
I have an inner story. The story in my heart. The one that is an improvisational portrayal of what it looks like to be completely loved and adored by a God that lavishes favor upon me despite my despicable behavior.
I have another story. The narration that is told through my actions. The story that is ever changing to fit in with my surroundings. Fiction. Sarcasm. Slander.
In 2011, I want to live an authentic story. I am not even completely confident that I know what that means at this point, but it is my one word.
Story.
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