So Poorly Made…

“John, I counted myself so plain, so poorly made, no honest love could come to me! Suspicion kissed you when I did; I never knew how I should say my love. It were a cold house I kept!” *

These are the words of Elizabeth Proctor, a character from Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, which is one of my favorite plays in the whole history of the world for its portrayal of those hard moments in life when a person must choose something more difficult, more noble, and more self-sacrificing than he’s ever imagined himself capable of…

“It is a far better thing I do than I’ve ever done before” … I’m evidently feeling very literary.**

For being a primarily secular play that depicts the evils religion can and has wrought on this world, The Crucible is surprisingly sensitive and insightful when it comes to the individual’s battle for his own goodness and soul.

In the play, Elizabeth Proctor struggles to forgive her straying husband – not because she can’t allow for his imperfection, but because she never believed herself loved by him to begin with and never allowed her marriage to become a true and real romance. She didn’t trust John Proctor even before he cheated because she didn’t believe herself lovable. Although Elizabeth isn’t our protagonist, I’ve come to admire her story, because it’s so much closer to my own than John Proctor’s is. He knew himself to be a fraud from the very beginning because his sin was against the letter of the law, and obvious. Elizabeth lived self-righteously next to him because her vice was hidden – even from her; it was against the heart behind the law, and therefore, more difficult to identify; her sin was a crooked pride in self-loathing.

How often is this our story with Christ?

When I was a baby Christian, I was certain of my own value. I was a star athlete, honors-college kind of girl, and I believed that God wanted me. As I grew up a bit in my faith, I began to realize that I’m actually a wicked, selfish sort of girl, and I couldn’t believe anyone would ever want me.

And all of the theology in the world can’t mend that wound.

Because believing that God loves sinners is so much more difficult than the pamphlets portray. Believing Brennan Manning’s words of: “Ignorant, weak, sinful person that I am, with easy rationalizations for my sinful behavior, I am being told anew in the unmistakable language of love, I am with you. I am for you. I am in you. I expect more failure from you than you expect from yourself.”*** How could God possibly expect my failures and still love me. How can He not be holding it over my head. I write those questions without question mark because they are statements. They’re rhetorical, with the cynical answers embedded within them.

No Father continues loving after all the things I have (and we) have wrought in this world.

The forces of evil in this world are too great. Just last week, I discovered the news story of those boys in Ohio who raped a sixteen year-old-girl again, and again, and again. They peed on her, dragged her from party to party, videoed their drunken giggles about the situation, then dumped her on her parents’ lawn. And I can’t, no matter how hard I try, keep from seeing those boys’ faces in the faces of my students. I hear their sickening laughter in the quiet moments between thoughts.

And I can’t think of them as human… as anything but the embodiment of depravity. They are sinful little boys, who I don’t know, who didn’t do anything to me, but I want them to be punished. I want them to be taught empathy in an unrelenting manner.

How on earth could God love them? And if that’s my reaction to the sin of some kiddos I have never, and will never come into contact with, how much angrier must the King of all kings be! How much greater His right to unforgiveness and unmerciful justice.

Why, of course! Theology to the rescue! The substitutionary atonement of a spotless lamb makes it possible! In Him, there is an astonishing paradox of justice and grace! For God is so much higher than I am that His thoughts are not my thoughts and His ways are not my ways. For He is God.

But I write that with such “obnoxious familiarity” and “studied professionalism” that guilt fills the space between me and the walls until the air I breathe is thick, like butter.

And the only hope I have is a fearful prayer, not of “forgive me” because my theology tells me that I’ve been forgiven, but of, “Remove my guilt from me as far as the East is from the West, because I can’t escape it; it haunts me.” And while I treasure the hint of humility in that prayer, I also know myself too well. I have an unfortunately good mind that has yet to be tamed. It hates myself for not knowing what I know, because as I simultaneously see the simple solution to Elizabeth Proctor’s troubles, and yet, remain a sad replica of her.

*THE CRUCIBLE was written by Arthur Miller and the quote is from Act 4… line 200 ish.

**You should already know this one, but I’ll give it to you regardless. It’s from the end of A Tale of Two Cities by Dickens. I’m relatively certain the quote comes when one character sacrifices himself for another (possibly a man who was previously an enemy, but remember that I haven’t read it).

***These last three quotes come from Brennan Manning’s The Ragamuffin Gospel. You can find the first quote on page 174. The phrases “obnoxious familiarity” and “studied professionalism” are from 166.

 

The Return of an Idealist

Image via tumblr… tagged by http://andshespeaks-andshebreathes.tumblr.com/

I’ve been in one of those long-lasting, unhappy funks that sometimes determinedly grasp our hearts and refuse our attempts at forward motion. Mine started a little over two years ago with the living situation I was in, because I had roommates who wanted more of me than I had to give. My funk progressed into depression and despair as my dad had a heart attack, my church dissolved, my family disowned me (sort of), the boy I loved refused to take the risk, great aunts and uncles died, family scandals were uncovered, and so on and so on…

Prior to all of those dominoes tipping into one another, I was growing and content to greater degrees than I’d ever experienced. I was the idealist who trusted in the truth of invisible, sovereign blessings, and couldn’t believe anything unfortunate actually existed in this world. I saw all obstacles as opportunities; all storms as springtime showers; all of life’s difficulties as misunderstood blessings.

Now, even though I’ve spent the last two to three years climbing out of mild depression and fear certainty that I’m a disappointing sort of person, I’m not sure that a truly optimistic heart ever loses its sense of hope. I may have been consumed with the task of putting out life’s fires and solving its problems, but I don’t think I have it in me to forget that the tunnel will end… even if I can’t see that light we all search for, I’m confident that if I only put one foot in front of the other, I’ll eventually come out on the other side (if my students read this, they would be highly disappointed in my reckless use of cliches here, but too bad).

This weekend, the lovely Eucalyptus Biscuit said some vows and got hitched, which was beautiful and wondrous, and I’m so happy she included me in her day.

Eucalyptus Biscuit is one of the previous roommates, and while her wedding was so important for her and her fella’, I think it may have been equally important for the people it brought together.

As one of those friends who I felt wanting more than I had to offer, Eucalyptus Biscuit has been a looming concern of my funk. There were times when I knew she was frustrated with me for one reason or another (sometimes my fault, and sometimes not), and then there were people stirring the pot with hearsay I was trying to ignore. And it was an odd stresser in my life to know that things weren’t quite right with her, so I’ve slowly been trying for a happy ease for our friendship, and being able to love her through her wedding gave me a nice sense of peace with that.

Additionally, the other roommate was in town to witness the nuptials and I also got to see that young man who didn’t take the risk. With Amy, I was glad to hear about friendships she’s been forming in Germany and to know that she and I can still talk about Assassin’s Creed with fond humor. With him, I was blessed with several moments of quiet confirmation that I’m okay with how things worked out, like when I hugged him without that sense of annoyance that he never lets go when he ought to. He’ll come around for the HIlst/Katie bday party, stirred up by the wedding with renewed affection for the friends he once chose, and then I suspect he’ll slowly fade from our lives, only to pop up again as each of us singles tie the knot.

Because that’s one of the beautiful things weddings do for us. They remind us of a time of yore, way back when so-and-so was the best friend we’d ever had, and things were simpler. For a brief moment in time, weddings reunite scattered elements that meant so much. We dance and forget, much as if we’re living a beautiful masquerade inside a snow globe… with the the enchanting goblin king weaving a reality much better than the true battle through the labyrinth.

(Twelve points to those of you who understand that last allusion, there.)

 

A Chosen Race and Royal Priesthood

In a sermon from a few months ago, Matt Chandler described the question, “Who are you?” as a psychological trap, and that’s what it feels like to me.

But he continued on to explain how he used to struggle with the difference between who he is and what he does, and while I’ve been aware of this same struggle within myself since way back when the Disney Channel first aired Brink’s dad telling him that “skating is what you do; it’s not who you are,” I think I’m still stuck in the sludge of expectations.

My friend Melissa once said that it would be nice just to exist, but the concept of letting my self be is very mystical and abstract to me, and it’s also one of the most difficult tasks on my to-do list. My expectations of myself border on the obsessive-compulsive and perfectionist sometimes, and the expectations others have for me seem only slightly less rigorous.

But Matt Chandler’s point was that we are a royal priesthood, and that identity isn’t based on what we do.

The other day, Shasta and I were talking, and she said something that reminded me of that passage in 1 Peter

She was feeling like she didn’t have anything to offer in our friendship; she and I have been a bit more distant than usual, and she was discouraged by some of the differences in our personalities that have felt amplified in recent weeks, namely my need to read every book and know everything… and her need to have fun and be silly.

Of course I like to have fun and be silly too, and she likes to read and know things, but she was feeling as if I prefer friends who talk books and teaching, and have lots in common with me.

While I do have friends who read and geek out with me over the classics, I’ve never really thought about wanting that specific brand of friendship more than I want any other. Shasta had unfortunately been around me and a teacher friend a few too many times and observed us celebrating our classrooms, followed quickly by discussions of ComiCon and Eureka.

But those parts of my personality have never been defining factors in my understanding of myself. If anything, I’ve thought of myself more as an athlete, and accepted the fact that most of my friends will never be able to understand how completely softball consumed me.

But, you know, my previous roommates also mentioned feeling like I didn’t need them, and actually observed the goofy version of myself I fall into when I’m with Shasta, or the slower, gentler way I am in my friendship with Lauren, and they weren’t sure what they could or should do as my friends. One of them said she understood that Lauren was the one I confided in, but wished I would choose to confide in her. The other believed that she and I should have been closer than we were, because we matched each other pretty well intellectually.

And while I admit, I really do need to get better at needing people, I also think there’s something to be said for friendships being unmerited, because the thing I most enjoy with friends… is just existing. Sometimes we all need that, and maybe it’s weird, but I’d rather spend a chill time sitting with friends and not talking than share hours of fun interacting with our common interests.

I’m so freaking tired lately. Working 6/5ths is taking its toll, and while Shasta fears she may not have anything to offer me, I know I don’t have anything to offer anyone. I don’t have anything brilliant to say, and Bible Study is a perfect example of that; I’ve noticed that a lot of us have lost our get-up-and-go, so we’ve been fumbling through our discussions, sort of like the droopy clocks in that Dali painting.

But I think/hope we all still claim each other, which is a beautiful living picture of God’s grace for each of us. I haven’t been doing much in His name lately. I haven’t shared my testimony, finished that painting I’m doing for church, finished reading that biography about Katharina Von Bora, or helped any orphans.

But I think and hope He still claims me.

Chandler’s sermon reminded me that I’m part of a chosen race and royal priesthood. That’s who I am. The rest of it is important, but it doesn’t change the answer to the question, “Who are you?”

I’m an adopted daughter. I’m claimed. I belong.

And I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I stopped claiming Shasta just because she hasn’t been to ComiCon or because she chose to be a nurse rather than a teacher.

 

Rim 2 Rim

English: view into Grand Canyon from South Rim, Arizona, USA Deutsch: Blick in den Grand Canyon vom Südrand, Arizona, USA Français : vue dans le Grand Canyon du bord sud, Arizona, États-Unis (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

About nine years ago, I hiked the Grand Canyon for the first time. For that trip, my mom and I went down the South Rim, camped at the bottom, hiked halfway back up the South Rim, camped again, and finally hiked out. We did a total of about 19 miles in three days.

A few months ago, I was invited to hike with some ladies I didn’t really know and we were going to do rim-to-rim in two days. That’s a total of more like 25 miles.

Now, doing anything with people I don’t know is SUPER stressful for me, but even more-so when it’s a physical activity. You see, if you compare me to most normal people, I’m really athletic, but I’ve also been around long enough to totally be schooled by people you’d never think have it in them. Also, having done the canyon before, I knew I could do the hike without worrying too much… so I didn’t train.

About two weeks before the hike, Amy the dentist, who had vouched for me with her friends and gotten me invited on the hike, started to worry. She did a couple of hikes that kicked her butt a little, and panicked about my lack of preparation, because she figured that if she’d been training and things were really difficult for her, then someone who didn’t train would have tons more trouble.
That’s not a horrible way to think about it, but her panic was unwarranted.

Still, her panic caused me to panic a little.

I knew that the rest of the group had done a bunch of hikes to prepare (about one a week for the past few months), and I started to wonder if I wasn’t going to be the weakest link.

Then we got in the canyon.

And I totally wasn’t the weakest link.

And it was a lovely hike.

If any of you are thinking about doing the canyon, I can’t stress enough that you should hike down the North Rim (and maybe stay at Phantom Ranch). The North Rim is SO much more beautiful than the South. It starts at a little higher elevation, and the trail is less touristy since most people only see the South Rim. Also, there’s a GORGEOUS waterfall about seven miles in. It’s called Ribbon Falls. (I’ll show you pictures in a later post). To get to the falls, you have to hike a little bit more than the 14.6 miles the trail already covers, but it’s definitely worth it. Also, once you get to the falls, you should go inside the cave. I know it’s scary, but I promise it’s safe. Three of us stood inside the cave at one time, and it was delightful.

Also, hiking from the North Rim, you drop into the canyon sooner and spend a fantastic time hiking along the canyon bottom, next to Bright Angel Creek, and it’s beautiful.

Phantom Ranch… also totally worth it.

If you stay at Phantom Ranch, you can cut the weight in your pack by an impressive amount. You can reserve meals there, and we had a steak dinner and a breakfast of eggs, bacon, pancakes, etc… And we didn’t have to carry a tent or sleeping gear.

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Hiking out went about as well as I expected. I tend to be pretty slow when I’m going uphill, and Bright Angel Trail is a little over nine miles, all uphill. Still, I was out in five and a half hours, and I’m not all that sore today.  A little yoga tonight should loosen things up nicely and all will be well.

However, amidst all of the grandeur, challenge, and joy, I also found some tragedy.

As I was hiking the last mile and a half out, I passed by an older lady who was really struggling. I was struggling too, and didn’t feel like I could stop too long to help, but she was obviously one of those people who started at the top that morning and meandered down a bit farther than she should have, so I paused long enough to make sure she had fluids and took a break, then I continued on, knowing that if she got into any real trouble, there’d be other people along the trail to help her out.

About five or ten minutes after I made it out of the canyon, I was sitting at the top, changing shoes and waiting for the other two girls in our group, who were about an hour behind me, and a helicopter flew over and headed into the canyon. I overheard some guys I’d been hiking with on-and-off say that their buddy had just texted to tell them that an elderly man he’d been hiking with had a heart attack.

A few minutes after that, the lady I’d passed on the trail made it out of the canyon and hurried over, immediately asking about the helicopter. She was worried about her husband because she had started out hiking with him, but had turned back thinking she wouldn’t be able to make it out if she kept going, and her husband continued on. He went out to a spot called Plateau Point, which is three miles, round-trip, in addition to the 4.5 miles he had to go down to get to the trail… so he had something like 12 miles of total hiking to go there and back, and there’s very little shade for a good part of it. His wife also mentioned that he had stints put in a few years back.

His wife really didn’t know what to do, and she didn’t know if it was him or not, so I rushed her up to the lodge and got on the phone with the park service people who didn’t want to give me any info… until they found out her name. They said they’d send a ranger out to talk with her, and she and I should just wait. I prayed with her and held her hand, and when the ranger got there, he confirmed that it was her husband. I walked her out to the ranger’s car, and he drove off with her.

And I couldn’t help but cry.

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt empathy like that before, because I just couldn’t hold back the tears. All she could talk about while we were waiting was how they’d driven out from Tennessee and she wouldn’t even be able to drive back without him, because she didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. She said he’d wanted this to be his last hike into the canyon, because he knew he didn’t have many more hikes left in him.

And it was so horrible to think that a vacation altered the course of their lives, and people nearby kept on taking pictures and eating ice cream, but Velma might have to drive home in a car she couldn’t drive, without the man she loved.

 

*Update: Her husband died. Here’s the link to a short article about it.

 

His Ferocious Commitment

I went to Phoenix last weekend, and I learned something, so I thought I’d tell you about it.

So… I already knew this before, but when Pastor Aaron talked about it, it hit me as if it was entirely new because I’ve been living as if I didn’t know it.

God is our Lord; we belong to Him. Therefore, He wants to fix us. In a recent sermon, Matt Chandler described it as”His ferocious commitment to making us holy.”

I’ve felt broken lately – not in the normal sense where I’m down in the dumps or sad. Nothing is really going wrong, and there are several things that are going incredibly right… but it’s more like I’m a gadget that’s malfunctioning. I’ve got a relatively neutral feeling when I think about it (although I’ve a discouraged feeling when I’m in the middle of it) , and it’s really weird. My head is malfunctioning. My heart is malfunctioning. My prayers tend to be a futile effort to get God to make my/self make sense to myself. I’ve been trying to convince Him that I need fixing, and it’s urgent, so He should probably get on it.

He hasn’t gotten on it in the way I’d like.

But when I overcome the mental malfunction, I almost understand that He’s on it and I don’t have to convince Him. I belong to Him, and He wants me to work well.

It’s not so difficult for me to believe He’s competent and awesome enough to take care of it, so I have to admit that my struggle is actually to believe He cares to fix me. That’s why I try to convince Him… because I don’t believe He cares for the distress I feel. I don’t believe He uses me regularly enough to have truly noticed my malfunction (like windshield wipers in Tucson). I don’t believe I’m more than a discarded gadget that’s easily replaced.

If only I had a faith the size of a mustard seed.

Just a mustard seed.