Help Wanted

Last Monday morning Meghan was in a lot of pain, and needed prayer, and so I fasted for her by not slacking off via the internet at work—no checking email or surfing during non-lunch hours, even for one minute segments when I thought I had "deserved" it because of either really boring or really strenuous work I was doing. It was perhaps an unusual sort of fast, but for me it meant more than fasting from food (ironically, I usually see eating as a waste of time). Monday night the news was good, and God had answered the prayers of many, mine included.

So I've kept this up, and every day when I'm tempted to check my email "just once" I have been praying instead. I say all of this not because I am a stellar Christian but because I am a weak one. I know that all it takes is one day to derail all my fine attempts. I also know that I need accountability, which is one reason I'm bothering to write about this at all. 

Another reason is that it helps me to have a main focus for a fasting prayer. Last Monday, for instance, I prayed for Meghan. Today I will be praying for my Uncle Dick, who will be at the Cleveland Clinic undergoing a procedure called deep brain stimulation that will, please God, help calm the tremors in his body for an extended period of time. (If you would join me in this prayer, I know my entire family would be grateful.) 

If you have any specific requests, let me know. Because I need a focus that seems to bring the reality of God nearer, and because I think that's part of the reason He gave us community, after all.

"And He will yet deliver us, you also joining in helping us through your prayers, so that thanks may be given by many persons on our behalf for the favor bestowed on us through the prayers of many." (2 Corinthians 1:10b-11)

"If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you."

That is perhaps the most stereotypically female thing I think on a regular basis. And not that I always listen to that impulse, but it is almost always there. Because if you don't know, you haven't tried to know. You don't want to know. You don't care to know, which means you don't care about me, and so if you don't care, then neither do I. (On the other hand, if I don't know, I probably won't ask. Because if you haven't told me, you don't care if I know.)

The above is a good illustration of the meaning of the phrase "a vicious cycle." And is also a nice defensive way of masking the pain that follows barking your shins against the unknown.

This morning I listened to a teacher speak of the inherently unfathomable nature of the infinite (meaning God), and I recoiled inwardly. Even when we continued to elaborate in the class discussion that the fact that God is unknowable means that we will never lose the joy of discovery when it comes to our ever-growing knowledge of God...even when the teacher pointed out that finding out new things about people we know and love can often be enjoyable...even when I thought about how a repetitive task with nothing new to learn begins to wear on your energy reserves.... All of those examples helped, but....

Tonight my pastor spent the first 30 minutes or so of his sermon talking about how the OPC has left "wiggle room" when it comes to origins, so that people can believe in various origins models as long as they believe God created everything out of nothing, and the historicity of Adam and Eve, and some other points that he didn't get into but are in a big report the OPC did in 2004.

And I went home and I cried.

Because THEY CAN'T ALL BE RIGHT. God only created ONE way. And so, whatever you believe about origins, that means that there are a lot of people wandering around wrong. And that extends to other areas of faith and practice, like what you believe about Sabbath observance, or the end times, or the role of women anywhere.

Doesn't God understand that some of us want to know how far we can walk on what days, and whether or not it's okay to lead an animal to water as long as we don't make it drink, and how long our hair should be, and how short is too short for clothing, and what sort of people it's not healthy to talk to and for how long we maintain that sort of distance, if we maintain it, and, and, and.... (Sometimes, many times,  I want the comfort of restrictions instead of this bewilderingly confusing freedom.)

So tonight I cried because I don't know much of anything, and because I have equated knowledge with love. Then came the voice (and I think it must be of the Spirit) that told me I don't have to worry about knowing so much, because I myself am fully known (1 Cor. 13:12b), and because I am meant to know a love that surpasses knowledge (Eph. 3:19).

Someday I will know everything I am meant to know about God and how He has worked in the world. 

Meanwhile, I know everything I need to know, and probably everything I am able to handle so far.

Meanwhile, "if you don't know," I will fight to tell you. Because that's what love takes in this world, and I want to love beyond knowing. And because you might care, after all. You might just be human, like me. 

Fallen. 

Flawed. 

And constantly progressing on our way to greater things (Phil. 3:12).

Holy Dissatisfaction

We are all very good at fixing lives. Even when our own lives are in chaos, it's inspiring to see how ready we are to help others by telling them what is wrong in what they are doing/saying/thinking.

Christians are perhaps better at this than others, because we know Who to talk about. Your problems? No worries! I have an answer for you, and you've known it since Sunday School: God.

My first impulse on hearing a fellow Christian (or myself) express dissatisfaction with their life has long been to rush in and fix it for them. Why should they be sad? They have a Savior. And besides, lots of people have it worse. Cast all your cares, and all that. Buck up.

I don't know about you, but nothing hit my fix-it attitude harder than a bout with depression. A year and a half or so of nothing seeming certain except for God. Yeah, sometimes it seemed He was certain in the death and taxes sort of way, but He was there, there, beautifully and terrifyingly and inescapably THERE. 

Now, on the other side of that experience, I hesitate a lot more to jump in and fix things. Part of this is because I take the cautions of the book of Job much more seriously (the friends who kept attacking windy words and the God who rebuked them for assuming too much). Part of this is because I know how much God did for me in that time. I can look back and see relationships I thought I had destroyed, and I wasn't strong enough to destroy them because God wanted them around and I can't outwit God. Further back, the horrible relationship I had with a college friend who suffered from depression becomes a gift, as I knew He had brought her safe through it and I clung to that promise for myself. I see all I had been repressing, denying, that finally came to a head and exploded because I wasn't being honest with myself or with Him. I see my (still present) desire for control and see the pain that comes from chasing after that desire and the freedom that comes from giving up if you're giving it up into the hands of God.

We don't want to suffer. Speaking for me if nobody else: I don't want to suffer. And nothing makes me suffer quite like uncertainty (uncertainty, which starves my idol of control and makes it vicious).

But at the same time, in the crazy simultaneous way that life works for those of us on the conviction side of the cross, I relish my current uncertainty, and all of the emotions it's pulling out of me (REpression didn't end with the breaking of DEpression). 

I don't want to rush out of it. I don't want to push it under the rug. I don't want to pretend that it's all okay, when it will never be all okay. Not here, not yet.

I want to sit here, wondering where my life is going and what I am to do with it (keeping in mind I am investing it for a Master Who expects returns on His investment), and I want to wait for God to answer. And I want to listen to what He tells me to do. And I don't want to be afraid. He has brought me through worse...and Jesus brought me through the worst of all long before I was even born.

Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening.

"My life is a furious ball of nothing." -- Dilbert

In recent news, someone (or some people) I know:

* Entered into a serious relationship.

* Got engaged.

* Got married.

* Are expecting their first child.

[DISCLAIMER: Each of the above happened to different sets of people. This is not all just the same couple over, say, the past two years.]

* Appeared on the front cover of our alumni magazine.

In personal news:

* I bought a Mac.

* Sims Castaway Stories will run on it.

* ...um....

I am a master at creating hierarchies. This is more important than that which is more important than these things, usually but not always adding up to "Their problems/joys are more important than mine." It's a lousy excuse for actual selflessness, but at least I catch myself at it now. And it isn't always exactly jealously, it's just feeling...like maybe I'm doing something wrong. Or maybe I'm missing something. Maybe I'm too easily satisfied, or too good at repressing what I really want out of life.

But then there's the part of me that says that really, past all the drama I add to my life, I'm sincerely happy for everybody with BIG news.

I think that's the part of me that is also geeked about that computer game. The part that reminds me that I may be a nerd queen with no actual life, but I'm (mostly) happy with that.

Then there's my dad's voice speaking from about 11 years ago, before I went off to college: "If you want something and don't go after it, it's your fault if you don't get it."

I guess he's still right, too.

Buying stuff is hard....

I hate buying...well, I hate buying pretty much anything, if it comes down to it, but I especially hate buying big ticket items. The unknown potential consequences of the decision coupled with the known expenditure are a bit too much for the tight-fisted control freak in me.

I want to buy a new computer. My current model is about four years old, which sounds young to me because I had my previous computer for almost ten years. Of course, I was mostly using that for writing papers in college. The digital revolution passed my current desktop's 40 GB hard drive and 256 MB of RAM a while back. Also, my monitor is even older than four years and has begun flickering in the lower left corner. Also, I've been getting the Blue Screens of Death that I was ignoring all too often on my old computer, right up until it melted down and forgot where to look for its hard drive. So as far as new computers go, maybe it's about time.

I was pretty much sold on a Mac, thanks to both of my major computer geek friends being hardcore Mac devotees, and then today I talked to some friends who were bringing up objections that had been lurking in the back of my mind, too. Things like price, and compatibility, and familiarity, and ease of use due to said compatibility and familiarity. So now I'm all thrown off again. Maybe I could win a computer somehow. That would solve my dilemma. I wonder if somebody would give me a Mac in exchange for writing fanfiction...that's how I got my iPod....

Anyway, as I was saying, I have difficulty with making luxury purchases. The perfect example of how ingrained this is dates back to when I was around 8 years old, and was ogling dollhouses everywhere. I loved the little furniture and other miniatures involved in dollhouse decorating, and I wanted to try my hand at it. My dad made a deal with me. If I would save a certain amount of money, he would match it, and then we could go buy that dollhouse.

At the time, I was pulling in a small allowance from my parents. This, plus birthday and Christmas money, was the total of my income. But I squirreled that money away diligently and made it up to the established savings mark.

We went to The Doll Hospital & Toy Soldier Shop, an excellent toy store on the east side of the state. With my money figuratively grasped in my hot little hands and probably literally in my dad's pocket, I began hunting for the perfect dollhouse.

There were a lot of dollhouses.

A lot.

And the more I looked at them, the more I realized that even if I could come to a decision, I would still have to make similar decisions later, and spend even more money, because the dollhouse would need to be furnished.

I left with double the savings I had when my dad first made the deal with me.

(A few years later, my poor mom would stand in an aisle at Toys 'R Us for approximately an hour while I vacillated amongst three different Barbie dolls that each had a distinctly different hair and swimsuit color.)

I love it when a plan comes together

Apparently this costume was exactly right for the role. I walked onstage and the audience erupted...which was definitely a lot of fun. Somebody told me this morning that I was an "eerily accurate Alice." Sweet.

Barring a few things like microphone problems, the show went quite well last night. The teens did a great job with waiting tables and with their performances, and the audience was rewarding them with lots of justly deserved laughter and applause. I was proud of "my" kids. My main regret is that video can't ever capture the fun of a live performance. But then, I guess that's the beauty of the live performance....

Many people came up to me today to say they had a great time. One of them said she couldn't remember the last time she laughed so hard. She proceeded to tell a friend standing nearby about the evening's final skit (American Idol, featuring myself, two youth group leaders, and three really good sports we called out of the audience to be our contestants, and who all jumped right in to the improvised bit), and then she put her hand on my shoulder and said "Paula did most of the organizing."

And I took that confusion of names as a compliment.

When it comes down to it

The weekend of the banquet arrives.

There have been months of planning, and of telling my friends sorry but I'm busy that night, and of rehearsals that don't happen in the right space, and of staying up late planning or thinking about planning, and of performers who haven't started practicing just yet two weeks before the performance date, and of actors who don't know their lines the night before said date, and of people not understanding what this all means to me....

And then acts start clicking, and I'm laughing out loud and bouncing on my toes, and two people are asked to repeat their thanks because I didn't hear them the first time (always a little awkward), and one says I seem stressed and I reply that most of my seeming stressed at this point is really just shifting into high-intensity performance mode (on the jazz as the plan comes together), and Janessa says "You get more patient with us every year." And I say "That's God."

Sometimes the things I get the craziest about are also the things I love the most.

Fighting a Winning Battle

"When you live alone, you become more and more like yourself," Pastor Dale said, several years ago. My brother was with me, and we exchanged amused glances, as I had only within the past year or two embarked on my solo living experience.

It's not as funny anymore now that I know what it means.

It isn't just becoming more set in little preferences: more sure that the toilet paper should come over the TOP and the toothpaste tube should be squeezed from the BOTTOM and the bath mat should be laid pattern side UP and why aren't all of those things obvious?

It isn't really about becoming more set in my beliefs and opinions. I sometimes feel as though they've become more unsettled in the past few years than anything else, which is probably good because before I probably clung too tightly to too many opinions just because they were the ones I was used to having.

I think the worst part about living alone is that you have a lot of time to notice yourself, and to see yourself as you see you. It's also the best part, because as much as I'd rather not see my own failings, I am confident that the ability to see them comes from the Spirit. And if the Spirit is poking around down there in the dusty darkness of my inner self, it's bound to get cleaner.

Sometimes I feel as though that the Spirit is working on an especially dirty room, one that I've been shoving more and more things into and trying to ignore. A few years ago there was a cleaning out of the room that was chock full of knowing-it-all.

This year, I think the Spirit's working on a few rooms at once. The one getting the most focus tonight seems to be the distrustful control freak room. The one that holds all my long beloved and nurtured beliefs that nobody looks out for me except for me, that nobody wants to help me, that nobody can help me, and that everybody, everytime, everywhere, will always let me down.

This year's broom so far: the Harvest Youth Group Spring Banquet.

You know how sometimes God lets you do things the way you think they should be done as a discipline tool? Letting you try things your way so you can see how your way is wrong? Well, this year I launched into the banquet with my usual preconceived notions that I must do everything myself. I delegated nothing. I said, "Don't worry, I'll do that." I sighed melodramatically to myself when somebody forgot what I had told him or her at least fifteen times already.

Tonight, after telling a large number of teenagers to meet me at church to practice at 8:30, I arrived and found that there was a prayer shower going on in the gym, where I had planned to rehearse. About 20 women were sitting around eating cookies and cooing over four new babies, and I almost cried. And then I almost exploded because that's less embarrassing than crying. And I was rude to several sympathetic women and also to some who sort of laughed off my distress.

Strangely, I haven't been really worried about the banquet this year. I'm still not, deep down. I know it will all come together. And on some ego-crushing level, I don't think anybody really cares how much effort we put into it, anyway. It's a church fundraiser, not Broadway.

But it could have been better if I had gotten over myself and asked for help back in the beginning. That's what's really killing me. Or, hopefully, just the part of me that wants to hang on to control with both fists even if it comes with a semi-annual nervous breakdown.

Every time something goes wrong, I hear a voice saying, "See? This is what you knew would happen. You can't rely on anybody!"

This year, God has given me grace to counter that voice with specifics. Janessa. Andrew, David, and Emily. Chelsea. Matthew. Michele. (That's for starters.) Every friend who has said "It will be okay," or hugged me just a little bit longer, or asked if she could do anything for me. And then there's the grace I've been given in that I've not been angry at the kids this year. For as much as this has been the worst year for rehearsal, and for my organization, I have loved the kids more this year than any other, and that's from God, too, because my frustration with the situation hasn't spilled over onto them as often as it has in previous years.

The Father loves me.

Christ lived, died, and rose for me.

The Spirit is at work in me to make me more and more like Christ, not more and more like myself. And the Spirit (praise God) is far, far stronger than I am.

This kingdom's coming.

And it's okay if I cry while I wait.

Family Time

Tonight I went to the home of my pastor and his family for choir practice. I ended up staying around for at least a half hour afterwards, just sitting with the family and holding one of the infant daughters of my associate pastor and his wife (they're neighbors and the VanDykes babysit a lot).

Usually infants make me a little nervous, but tonight that closeness and warmth was just what I needed. Actually, I was physically close to people all evening (crowding into a living room with the whole choir, squishing on a love seat between Sandra and Bethany, holding Emma) . This might not seem like a big deal to a lot of people, but it was a big deal for me. It's been a confusing life on a lot of levels lately, and I've been aching for family, and for people just to be close to me. It's nice to be tangibly reminded that I'm not alone.

I went to the VanDykes for choir practice, and I got family thrown in.

Thank you, God.

A Very Short Post

One visit down, one banquet to go.
The momentous insanity of March lumbers on.
Someday I will learn how
to ask for the help I want.
For now, to bed (hopefully
to sleep without needing NyQuil).
Longer post to come...
in about 10 days.
It
will be
all
right.

Owww...it's beautiful....

I know I'm not the only person who feels like this, that beauty hurts at the same time as it invites you. It always has to, doesn't it, down here post-Fall? But in my head most people who ache at the beautiful are watching sunsets or spotting rainbows or running across hilly meadows in full song.

It's not that I don't feel the pain of beauty at the sight of nature. It's just that sometimes I wonder how many people would laugh at me for saying I used to spend a fair bit of time wandering my backyard under the full moon (singing to myself) versus the number of people who would laugh because I was so filled with the beautiful aching by someone else's creativity that I felt I had to be creative myself or risk bursting. Or the number of people who would laugh because the specific inspiration was an episode of Lost.

But then, to paraphrase the poet: Is there in laughter no beauty?

I’m so old…unless it’s just that I’m a bit of a snob. Which it probably is.

For a while there after college, I felt young and small and scared. Then I joined Harvest and started hanging out with people in the pre-college age range like Abby and Brittany, partly because the people my age were all married, sometimes even with children, and I was atrocious at relating in a natural manner to people who had significant others, let alone significant family units. (I’m improving on this, which is good because so many important people in my life have gotten married or engaged within the years that I’ve been at Harvest.)

Anyway, when I first started spending time with people about two-thirds of my age, I felt very old, albeit still small and scared. And now I don’t.

Maybe it’s because I’m good friends with Trudy, with whom I can spend a lot of time and never think about the fact that technically she’s old enough to be my mom…that is, until she starts talking about some nice young man or other. ;)

Maybe it’s because my “young” friends are embarking on their post-college careers and it’s sort of leveling us out.

Maybe it’s because one time I said I was too old to be a college student now and Micah said, “You’re not too old, you just feel too superior,” and that suddenly sounded like a more accurate description.

And/or maybe it’s because I’m finally owning my age. Next year I’ll be thirty. It seems as though I’ve been old enough to be thirty for some time now, and I’m ready for it. I’ve already started thinking of my age as twenty-nine, and when people ask my age lately I’ve had to stop and remind myself that my twenty-ninth birthday isn’t until June.

I’m not as mature as I’m going to be, and I’m younger than a lot of people. But, yeah. I’m older than a lot of people, too.

I have a feeling that being the crazy adult is going to be a lot of fun.

Conversations with Myself

Because I live alone, and because I am my father and my mother combined and beyond, and because I have had bad experiences with talking to other people and I have pulled an illegitimate "lesson" from them, and because of (doubtless) an array of other reasons, I talk to myself.

Who else is there? Besides God, and sometimes He doesn't seem so quick to answer.

This is a good illustration of what I mean. Because as I typed that last sentence, this popped into my head: "What if you really already know what His answer is?"

Recently I've been talking to myself more frequently. I talk out loud, because, as a friend said tonight, something that sounds great in your head can sound suddenly stupid when you say it out loud. I know I've had a lot of stupid thoughts turn into even stupider thoughts and spiral down into self-destructive patterns before too long, and if I can stop them by verbalizing them, I would like to try that for a change. (Also, I'd rather sound suddenly stupid when only I'm around to hear it.)

The whiny or confused voice usually leads off these conversations, to be fended off by the decisive and rational voice that reminds me of who I am, and Whose I am, and how common these fears and failings are, and how faithful my Father is. I hope the latter voice keeps gaining ground. I like it better, and I think it is more dangerous on an ultimate level. Sometimes, it even sounds like a quick answer from God.

Funny how often it tells me I can't really live this life effectively inside a series of self-referential conversations.

"I was born for this."

I hear a lot of people are upset about the weather in Michigan these days. They say it's cold and snowy and gloomy.

Yes, it's cold. That is what happens in the winter. Snow happens, too. And although if given a choice between snowy and dry roads I would choose dry roads, I don't find driving in the snow all that challenging, at least not since the time I drove across the state in the Thanksgiving blizzard...I just can't see any future winter driving experience topping that. So I'm not afraid of snowy roads. I don't like the delays, since I don't like driving all that much and would rather just be at my destination. But it's only weather.

As for gloomy...well, gloomy is a state of mind, not a weather forecast. I expect it to be cloudy all winter long. It's Michigan. I've lived here my whole life. Cloudiness is to be expected as much as snow and cold. And since my eyes tend to be quite light-sensitive sometimes, I actually don't mind not living in direct sunlight. Cloudy days don't make me sneeze.

It's not that I don't like the sun, or blue sky, or warm weather. In fact, part of what I like about winter in Michigan is that it makes the arrival of spring such a euphoria-inducing event. It's forty degrees out! Take off your coats!

Someday, we won't have times when we prefer the darkness. Someday, the winter of this often discontented life will be over and the spring of heaven will be upon us, all the more glorious and beautiful because we've been cold and gloomy and snowed-in so often in the past.

"Weeping may last for the night,
But a shout of joy comes in the morning."
~~ Psalm 30:5b

Weeping may last for the winter...but joy is certain, certain, certain as if it has already come.

Hasn't He?

Are all African-Americans famous, or just Jessica Simpson?

Every available Tuesday during the school year, I go to an elementary school near my office and read with a young child. I've been doing this for five years and have worked with four girls: Jephri, who was all attitude and closeness and too sassy for her own good; Daijah, who spelled my name "Suqanne" and who hugged me after the last of two years' worth of mentoring sessions; Marshelle, who was a little bit shy but smiled a lot; and Consuelo, with whom I'm working this year, and who is the first girl I've worked with under third grade (she's in second).

It's amazing to me how much children learn in short spaces of time. It's also a good exercise to remember that I didn't always know everything I know now.

Concepts, for example.

Last Tuesday, the kids had a little project to work on in the room to celebrate Black History Month. I told Consuelo that she was supposed to write down the name of a famous living African-American. She stared at me, clearly wondering what I was talking about. Famous like somebody on TV or in movies, we told her.

She shifted around in her chair. Nobody likes being wrong, and she seemed unwilling to hazard a guess without understanding what we were asking her.

"Do you like the Cheetah Girls?" I asked, familiar with the band from the past several years of working with third-graders and thinking of the equally popular Raven-Symone.

Her eyes lit up. "Yes!"

After more prompting, she came up with a name, Sabrina. She said Sabrina was a singer. None of the rest of us in the room had heard of this person, so we let it go. We wrote it on the main list and on the little piece of construction paper that Consuelo decorated.

As it turns out, Sabrina is in the Cheetah Girls. But she is as white as one of the other people whose name appeared before hers on the list: Jessica Simpson.

The other girl in the room looked confused about the assignment, too. Her mentor stood up and came over to the room coordinator.

"See how Miss Nancy's hand is darker than mine?" the mentor asked. "But they're still hands. We're really the same."

"Not all the same," I interjected. "That would be boring."

Consuelo stuck out her hand. "My hand is darker than yours..." she said.

So I think I spent most of the half hour last Tuesday helping to impart the impression that African-American is a synonym for famous and/or that anybody with skin darker than mine could be called African-American.

But then, it's good that those girls didn't seem to know why we were making such a fuss over skin color, anyway.

Skimming from the Top

Tonight I went to my church congregational meeting. (It was a bit boring in places, but it was never uncomfortably tense. This was an answer to prayer, so praise God for that!)

As each person signed in, he or she received a dollar bill. Then, about two hours later, an elder speaking for the Building Oversight Team stood up and asked us to show off the dollars.

"Now say 'Mine!'" he said. "Say it like a two-year-old!"

A chorus of "Mines" came obediently back at him, and then he asked for the dollars to be passed up to the front. Amidst some good-natured muttering, they started moving.

And then he told us about a remarkable opportunity.

My church has voted to break ground on a building in April of this year. For the past 10 years or so, we've been meeting in an elementary school. Well, we've outgrown it. Navigating the halls in winter is not pleasant, to pick out a point that is mostly comfort-related. We also look forward to having a building of our own to grow our ministry opportunities. What new Bible studies will take place there? What services can we provide for members of the community in which we have been placed?

When we approved the motion to break ground this year, it was with the knowledge that at the time of the vote we didn't have enough money to build the building we had in the plans. Unless more money came in, we would have to put a few stages of the building on hold.

And now, the U.S. government is quite possibly going to vote for an extra $600 in tax returns for every person who pays income tax.

And maybe even $300 extra per child.

My church has a LOT of children.

This measure seems made for us, the elder pointed out, and the numbers went up on the screen: If everybody in my church donates this extra portion of their tax return, money that wasn't even a glimmer in their eyes a few weeks ago, then we could add $200,000 to the building fund.

Wow! Exciting stuff! I hope everybody does this.

But it got me thinking....

Wasn't the rich man who Jesus saw putting so much into the treasury donating the ancient Israel equivalent of an unexpected tax break?

I didn't join in the chorus of "Mine's" in the gym tonight, because when I was sitting there with that dollar I knew it wasn't mine, and that I was probably going to be called to give it back at any second. So why claim what clearly wasn't mine?

I want that attitude to grow in my life. Because in the ultimate sense, it's not my money. It's not my stuff. It's not my time. It's not even my life. My life is in Christ, and I want that to be increasingly obvious.

I don't want to just give him the extra bits that I won't miss.

Today's Surprising Thought

This morning I logged into my Facebook account and saw that one of the new Super Poke options is "Boycott Valentine's Day with." (For those who don't know what "Super Poke" is, just imagine sending a note to your friend saying you are doing that selected action with them. But online, not for real.)

My first thought was, "I could boycott Valentine's Day with [insert name here]." My second thought was, "But why? That seems kind of bitter, and it's not like I'm dreading Valentine's Day this year."

This was the surprising thought of the day, as usually I am bitterly dreading Valentine's Day for a variety of reasons. As I thought more about it, I realized:

1) I'm too old to waste any more time being bitter on purpose. I have enough bitterness that I'm afraid to dig out without making special efforts at new or accentuated bitterness.

2) I have a lot of people in my life who are getting married this year, or exploring new relationships, or even just celebrating yet another year as a spouse. But I am not crying my eyes out over it and wondering what is wrong with me and where have all the cowboys gone.

3) I kind of like the idea of being "the okay single woman." Maybe my mission is to be single for the rest of my life, partly so that young girls who are wondering why they aren't dating and are either wondering if something is wrong with them or feeling pressure from friends/family/etc. can think, "Well, there was Suzanne. She was a pretty cool single person, and she wasn't completely useless or anything. I will be okay, too." I never had an "okay single woman" in my life. It might have been nice to have.

It's not like I'm hugely fond of Valentine's Day all of a sudden. (Hey. I don't even really like Christmas. Of course I could give you a list of reasons not to celebrate Valentine's Day.) But I'm not dreading it. Which is actually a very significant difference.

Some parts of growing up do make life easier.

How do they do it?

I am home sick today. Not sure what it is, but I had a fever last night and I am just feeling very weak still. As I was thinking last night about how pathetic I was feeling, two subjects of the "how do they do it" question kept coming up.

Moms

Moms take care of their kids even when they, the moms, are feeling awful. This just grows more amazing to me every year. Moms in general grow more amazing every year.

When I was a kid, I never thought much about my mom being a separate entity with a separate life and a separate set of needs and wants. She was just always there, ready and willing to do anything for me. There weren't a lot of times when I said, "Hey, Mom...how can I help you out today?" Especially not when I was sick...but then, most times I do think my mom would rather have gotten juice for me than have me get up and get it myself. Because on top of her already outstanding Empathy Powers, she has amazing Mom Powers. Just having her around to be concerned made me feel better. And it still does...I call her even more when I'm sick than I usually do. It reminds me that I'm sick, but I'm loved. And if I'm loved, I can get through it.


Meghan

As I was shivering and aching on my couch last night, I tried to imagine what it would be like to be an 11-year-old in a hospital bed, having a severe reaction to chemotherapy meds.

And I could not imagine it. But that's what was going on with Meghan as I had my fever. In a way (and maybe this sounds weird), I've sort of dedicated this illness to Meghan. By which I mean that every time I start feeling sorry for myself, I remember her. I pray for her, and I pray that in my little lightweight illness I will be able to look to God in the same way she has been under a much greater trial.

I wish me being sick could take some pain away from her.


So, yeah. Moms and Meghan amaze me. I want to be as selfless and courageous as they are at their best. I'm glad the God who gives them grace for their needs is working in me, too...and providing me the grace I need in my own meager trials.

If I die before I wake....

In a recent discussion with a friend, we were talking about who would tell people if we died. Morbid? Not necessarily. You can think about such things without dwelling on them in an unhealthy way.

As I've thought about who would know first if I had died, and how the details afterwards would proceed, one thing keeps nagging at me: I need a will. Or maybe a living trust. Just a trust?

First of all, I need a basic understanding of post-death legal documents. And then I need one of those documents.

My step-aunt Susan died at about the age of 40. My cousin Bridgette died at about half that age. I'm not guaranteed tomorrow. Isn't it selfish, then, for me to live as though death won't happen eventually?

Someday, anywhere from tonight to decades from now, I will die. Then what? Who notifies people? Who gets my DVDs, which may by then be hopelessly out of date? Who gets to sort through all my old college paperwork and decide what to sell on EBay to my legions of adoring fans?

Hence the need for the legal document. Save whoever is left from probate.

I know somebody who has a CD made up that he wants played at his funeral. It contains songs directing focus to God, songs that strongly hint that physical death is only another stage and that what really matters is what comes afterwards.

This part makes me more nervous. Lately, when I've been casually thinking about my eventual death, I've been imagining something like this....

Upon arriving in heaven, Suzanne is shown a long line of people.

"Who are these?" Suzanne asks.

Her guide says, "These are people who never heard the Gospel."

"I couldn't speak to everyone," Suzanne says. "That would have been impossible."

"Look closer."

She looks closer and is horrified to see how many faces she recognizes.

"These aren't the people of Pakistan or Ecuador or Greece," her guide says. "They aren't the people you sent money to help. They are the people who sat next to you at work. They are the people you chatted with in long lines. They are the friends who stopped coming to church."

"But," Suzanne protests, "I've prayed that God would send strong Christians into their lives."

The guide looks at her. "Why did you think you were there?"

I know God is gracious and merciful. I know He won't hold my failures to speak against me. But I want Him to see less of them every year.

So this year, I want to get one of those legal documents.

And I want to start taking better care of my greater inheritance, too. Please pray that this may be the case. I'm so afraid to speak, but I'm growing more afraid not to speak. Pray that keeps up, and that God's words flow through me.

Because I want to wake before I die.

Yesterday

The title of this post isn't a reference to the much-loved Beatles song, but rather to the literal yesterday, January 11.

What excitement there was, folks! In my little office of five people, my boss was out of town on business; then one co-worker called in sick; then another co-worker coughed for about the 50 billionth time in the past two weeks and ended up hurting a rib so bad she was afraid she broke it, so she left, too.

Only two of us in my office all day yesterday. It was crazy busy sometimes, but all the customers who called in were nice and nobody was getting angry at us. We didn't get many sample requests, so I was free to sit and answer phones for most of the day. There were a few times I almost said "Look how awesome we are!" but then every time I remembered that bit in Acts 12 about Herod..."And immediately an angel of the Lord struck him because he did not give God the glory, and he was eaten by worms and died."

Because, really, God gave us a great day yesterday. And I had tons to do, and a lot of variety, and there is a large part of me that wishes more of my days could be like that (but without the part where co-workers are feeling miserable, because I don't wish that on them).

Usually if there is something going on socially on a Friday evening, I hear about it before I start my drive home. Last night, nothing was happening. (A quick look at Lisa's blog this morning revealed that this was because last night she and I were of the same mind as to socializing.)

I love my friends, but I have also re-discovered that I love to spend time alone. Not the time sitting in front of the TV or surfing aimlessly on the internet so much as time spent reading, or organizing, or something else that requires a bit more effort. When my apartment chores are done, I feel better about the world. And if the faithful completion of such tasks puts my attitude in the proper place outside these walls, it is worth it to set aside a night or two each week for them.

Last night I cooked. I actually cooked. I steamed some vegetables and heated up some pasta and made pesto to go with the pasta and sliced open chicken breasts and put sour cream in them, with garlic in one and onion in the other. But I remembered why I don't cook much, and especially during the week, because this project took about an hour and a half (or two hours?) and the meat ended up looking a little raw because I don't really cook chicken enough to know what it is supposed to look like when it is safe to eat. Still, it felt more like time well spent than sitting down to watch "just one episode" of some TV show on DVD that turns into me watching the whole disc.

Today I will continue my trend from last night by organizing my VHS collection (yes, I still have one) and going to the gym and running various errands. And maybe I'll even see about social events tonight.

Because I feel good about things here.

Meghan Haan

This is Meghan Haan, an 11-year-old girl who goes to my church. Many of you know her already, and so little of what I'm about to say will be new for you.

I had the privilege of having Meghan in my class for a few years when I taught the 3rd-4th grade group during our Wednesday night Bible study. She impressed me with her interest in and engagement with the material. She asked good questions and provided thoughtful answers to questions I asked. I gave thanks to God for her and for granting the prayers of believing parents seeking to raise their children to be strong in the Lord.

Just now, everyone in the Haan family has special need of the strength only the Holy Spirit can give. Meghan was recently diagnosed with osteosarcoma (bone cancer). It has been literally awe-inspiring to see God work in this family. In the midst of a dark and frightening time, they are looking to him as their only possible source of light.

I have been encouraged by this family in the past--especially by Meghan and her big sister Lauren--and they continue as a source of encouragement. Please pray for drastic healing for Meghan and torrents of peace, comfort, and strength for her, her family, and all those affected by this. Please pray that lives may be changed for the better as they hear this beautiful young girl sing praise to God in a cancer ward. And please pray that those of us who aren't family may know how best to encourage the Haans.

If you would like to stay updated on Meghan, you can visit the website her mother set up: http://greenchairstudio.typepad.com/vibrantlife.

God hears the prayers of his people. Let's take advantage of it!

A Promise

I've been reading through Isaiah, and this morning I came across this passage:

"In that day there will be a highway from Egypt to Assyria, and Assyria will come into Egypt, and Egypt into Assyria, and the Egyptians will worship with the Assyrians. In that day Israel will be the third with Egypt and Assyria, a blessing in the midst of the earth, whom the LORD of hosts has blessed, saying, 'Blessed be Egypt my people, and Assyria the work of my hands, and Israel my inheritance.'"
~~ Isaiah 19:23-25

It sent shivers down my spine and I laughed out loud for the sheer joy of it.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to hear that prophecy in the time it was given. Assyria had been invading and oppressing Israel for years and years. Egypt kept them as slaves for centuries and Israel remembered it like it was yesterday. So I'd imagine some people would have gotten pretty angry when they heard this. Egypt and Assyria worshiping together, maybe. But both of those nations together with Israel?

Then I tried to imagine some countries and groups that might stand in for Egypt and Assyria today in modern minds. Maybe Iraq, or North Korea, or China, or even France. Maybe Democrats or Republicans, Presbyterians or Catholics...let's face it, we don't need people to enslave us or torment us before we decide to cut them out of the reach of God's grace. If we were in charge of who got into heaven, there would be a lot more empty rooms in the Father's house.

But most of us are Egypt, about as far as it gets from the originally chosen people.

We are Assyria, taking whatever we can get and depending thoroughly on our own power.

And we are Israel, possessing great gifts upon which we routinely turn our backs.

"Blessed be Egypt my people, and Assyria the work of my hands, and Israel my inheritance."

God's worst enemies will become your brothers and sisters in Christ. It's a promise so sure it may as well have already happened, and in fact it has...I was once one of those very enemies.

Anybody can befriend someone who is just like them (Luke 6:32-34). But when antagonists turn allies, that's a matter for laughter in the Isaac sense: the "impossible" promise made true, and to God alone the glory.

May God's highway connect ever more and more of His people. Especially the ones we can't stand just now.

Beatles Wisdom

I heard "I'm Looking Through You" on the radio this morning, and the thought came to me that this is the hardest kind of relational divide to deal with...or it is for me, anyway. I'll let the Fab Four explain it with the two verses that struck me most:

I'm looking through you, where did you go

I thought I knew you, what did I know

You don't look different, but you have changed

I'm looking through you, you're not the same

You're thinking of me, the same old way

You were above me, but not today

The only difference is you're down there

I'm looking through you, and you're nowhere

Words in—or outside of—a vacuum

Tonight I had a conversation with a few friends about blogs, and I realized again something that I already knew: I would write even if nobody ever read what I wrote.

True, since last January I have written approximately two poems.

True, I have gone for longer stretches than usual this year without posting on the blog.

True, I have not even posted a new fanfiction story in a while.

True, my original ideas often simmer so long on the back burner that the bottom of the pot is almost burnt out.

But when I don't write for a while, I feel it. Or the lack of it. And then I know that writing something—anything—will lift my spirits.

I've written myself further into corners at times. I've written my share of Mary Sues, stories starring a type of myself in which the character standing in for me gets everything I want. I've written more than a few things that should never have seen the light of day (let alone been seen by a fellow human being). I've written out of anger and self-pity. I've written words that were intended to hurt, intended to sever relationships.

But I've also written comfort and truth. I've written clever phrases and dead-on character voices. I've written whimsical stories for children and I've written thoughtful poems about the world as I see it. I've spent a pain-stakingly long amount of time on writing communications in which I try my hardest to temper the truth with love and respect.

My words—on paper or online—are an integral part of who I am. I love writing, and I have learned so much in the process of it. Thank God that He shares creativity with us!

And I do think that creativity is usually best when it is shared. It provides more enjoyment to both parties that way, as well as more growth. Feedback challenges a writer to think about her audience, to realize that she is not writing in a vacuum. It pulls her out of herself and leads her into service of the work.

But if I were writing in a vacuum, I would still do it.

Home from the Holidays

I am sitting at home (where I live) after being home (with my parents and often my brother) for the holidays, with a whole year stretching out before me. Here are some of my thoughts tonight.

• My computer is mind-numbingly slow. I have probably loaded way too many songs and way too many pictures onto a hard drive unequipped to handle the pressure. Perhaps I should invest in a portable hard drive just so I could keep the pictures accessible, but not have them cluttering up my working hard drive.

• I’ve graduated from college, supported myself for 6 years, and now, as I enter the last full year of my twenties (I’ll be 30 on June 2009, God willing—plan your parties now!), I still don’t like the thought of “growing up.” (Anybody who thinks I am in any way too serious or too regimented to be considered anything but thoroughly grown up already did not know me when I was a child. I have always been like that.) I don’t like how you get older and things change, and people change, and how you can’t ever really go back. I appreciate growth. Within reason. But there is definitely a part of me that always wants to be a little girl and have fun. I guess I can look around at family members like my parents and realize that these are not mutually incompatible goals....

• I have way more stuff than I need. I like most of it, but sometimes I fantasize about burglars or tornadoes or fires, and about “starting over” and not accumulating so much. I would miss some things, but if I can lose two grandfathers and a cousin to death, and if I can lose friends and family to distance and time, I can lose (for instance) my notes from my college Playwriting class. (Downside of any of the above scenarios, of course: I do not want to lose my bird. He is a living creature who loves me and for whom I am responsible.)

• As I was thinking earlier about how the idea of a fire cleaning out my garbage is appealing, an association sprang to mind: the Holy Spirit is called a fire. I have a lot of spiritual and emotional garbage that I would miss a lot less than those Playwriting notes. I'm sure I would miss a fair amount of it, but I am willing to try it. Terrified, but willing. Bring on the holy fire, Lord.

• I have a lot of baggage around here (physically) that I could take care of in about half an hour if I would just get off the computer and focus on unpacking....

There's a lot more rattling around up there, but I need blog fodder for later, right? Right.

Happy New Year, everyone. May you not make hasty resolutions today or any other day this year, and may God grant you the power to follow through on every promise to make to yourself and to others.

From darkness to light

The people who walk in darkness
Will see a great light;
Those who live in a dark land,
The light will shine on them.
~~ Isaiah 9:2


The night before the birth that changed the world, there was no hum of anticipation. The people whose families hailed from Bethlehem were gathering there again in droves, no doubt grumbling over Roman tax laws and the difficulty of finding rooms. The shepherds were spending another dirty, smelly night with the sheep, those stupidest of animals. Astronomers from miles and miles away were watching the skies, as usual. Pharisees and other religious leaders were offering up prayers for a Messiah of their own imagining, someone to kill the Roman invaders and restore Israel to all its Davidic glory. Perhaps a man named Simeon--closing his eyes after another long day, feeling his age--would have felt one day closer to the consolation he'd been yearning for, but perhaps he was one of few.

When Matthew references the prophet Isaiah, he does it like this:

"The people who were sitting in darkness saw a great light,
And to those who were sitting in the land and shadow of death,
Upon them a light dawned."
~~ Matthew 4:16

Not physical darkness, but the darkness of a land ruled by death. Not just walking, but sitting. Waiting for the inevitability of the shadow.

And then one new baby cries.

Elsewhere, in the fields with the watching shepherds, the night explodes in light and in song--the first sign that the child who has left glory pulls glory in after him. But most of Israel is sleeping. Nobody told them that everything would change that night.

Long ago, when the church scheduled a commemoration of this unremarkable yet miraculous night, they chose a time of year that coincided with pagan festivals celebrating the winter solstice, the longest night that (finally) gave way to the returning sun. Now, on Christmas, we celebrate the turning from a deeper darkness than the dead of winter, and a light that both preceded and will outlast the sun. Now, every day, in the midst of whatever darkness threatens to overwhelm us, we remember the Incarnation.

Because the glory of God breaks forth when we least expect it.

Deflection

Tonight I had a serious conversation about origins, specifically from the viewpoints of young earth six day and old earth framework. It was the sort of discussion I have experienced all too rarely since graduating from college: voices were raised infrequently and lowered quickly, opinions were stated calmly, and in general the participants seemed more concerned for each other than for the outcome of the discussion.

I am not saying that doctrinal stances are unimportant, or that there aren't times when you need to take a firm stand against a position that is leading somebody into sin, or that the Word can mean two contradictory things at the same time. But as we were talking about Genesis, and then beginning to touch on Revelation, it occurred to me that I can't remember the last time I had a conversation that was nearly this in-depth about how I am living.

Or as I said to my friend on the other side of the coversation, maybe we talk so much about the beginning of things and the end of things so we don't have to talk about things here in the middle.

It's easy for me to list off reasons why I believe that God created the world in six 24 hour days. It's easy for me to argue over end times scenarios. But please don't let's talk about how we're doing here in the present moment, because I so much want and don't want all that to be known.

What do you think of women as elders?

Christmas time is here. Cue Vince Guaraldi.

When I was about seven or eight years old, my parents sat my brother and I down and told us that we would not be celebrating Christmas that year. They were tired of the commercialization, they weren't sure the holiday as celebrated was honoring to God, and so they took a break. I respect them for that.

I missed Christmas. I don't remember missing the presents much. We got presents at birthdays, after all. I did miss the family gatherings. And maybe even more, I missed the time my immediate family used to spend decorating the tree together: my mom and dad getting all of the old ornaments out; my brother and I arguing a bit over who got to put up which ornament; my dad picking us kids up so we could hang things on higher branches.

I don't know that my parents ever intended to resume celebrating Christmas, but about five years later we did. Sort of. We started exchanging gifts again (I remember my dad taking us to the mall on Christmas Eve to shop for mom). We started going to family functions. I have especially fond memories of the kids' table at the Fleagle gatherings, none of us knowing how few years we'd really have left when we were all really still kids, young and ignorant and invulnerable.

But even as that five year hiatus becomes a smaller and smaller percentage of my life, I still have ambivalent feelings towards the holiday. I would imagine living outside of the country for five years as a child would have a similar effect in certain ways.

I don't feel like I get Christmas. I don't understand it on a procedural level. What if somebody gets you a gift and you don't have a gift for them? What if you get cards from everybody and you never send cards back? In either of these cases, might the people in question simply write you off as a sorry excuse for a friend?

Christmas cards are harder than gifts. I like getting them, especially the newsy cards or the photo cards. The photo cards always go on my fridge, and they make me happy all year. But I don't think I've ever yet sent a Christmas card. Whenever I think of doing it, a voice in the back of my head starts whining about landfills, or about how I haven't had an interesting enough year to write a newsy update, or how I have enough for a newsy update but I've procrastinated too long, or...etc., etc.,etc. Lots of excuses. So to everyone who sends me a card every year and receives nothing in return...thanks, and I don't deserve you.

I haven't decorated a Christmas tree in 20 years. I have ornaments from various friends (somewhere), but no tree. Where would I put one? And would it even be anywhere near as enjoyable of an experience to decorate a tree without my family? My only real "Christmas decorations" (really sort of winter decorations, in that I put them away by spring) are two stuffed bears: one from Grandma Crowe, who gave me a Winnie-the-Pooh in winter garb; one from Grandma Winter, who gave me a bear dressed in green and red, a bear that has been a Winter Christmas decoration for years and years.

Both of these bears make me feel close to family, make me feel loved, and make me feel like a small girl who isn't all that big and grown-up after all.

Tangible love meets a need for something bigger than self....

And that's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

Addendum to my second-to-last post, "You Are Cordially Not Invited...."

This came over through our church email today, and considering my recent post it made me smile.

"CORRECTION FOR 80'S NEW YEAR’S PARTY: The announcement for this party should have read 'teens of the 80's', instead of 'children of the 80's'. Here's some updated information: Attention: TEENAGERS of the 80's & their spouses...."

You know.

Just in case you accidentally thought you could come.

Single Focus

Just what is it that single people can do so uniquely? I hear frequently that single people are better equipped to serve God in unique ways. I rarely hear anybody explain what they mean by this.

Do they mean “single people aren’t as busy, so they can be more active in the church”?

If they think single people are not busy, they are wrong. I may not have any extra people to clean up after, but neither do I have anybody to help me clean up. Or carry groceries. Or make dinner. (As an aside, I have a good number of friends who are awesome at making dinner for me. Which is always much appreciated.)

Do they mean “we have no idea what we are talking about”?

Quite possibly. I know I talk about a lot of things without always knowing what I’m talking about, and there are very few significant differences between me and someone who is married in that regard.

Do they mean “single people are better positioned to keep their focus on God than married people are?”

Because that’s what Paul says. (I Corinthians 7 doesn’t seem to be discussed much in any of the churches I’ve attended.) “But I want you to be free from concern. One who is unmarried is concerned about the things of the Lord, how he may please the Lord; but one who is married is concerned about the things of the world, how he may please his wife, and his interests are divided. The woman who is unmarried, and the virgin, is concerned about the things of the Lord, that she may be holy both in body and spirit; but one who is married is concerned about the things of the world, how she may please her husband.” (I Cor. 7:32-34) I have personally found that male/female relational drama on a far less intense level than marriage can distract me in extremely detrimental ways, and I always come out the worse for looking in the wrong direction.

I hope that when the church talks about the unique placement of single people, what we mean is that single people are uniquely gifted with single focus—they don’t have to please a spouse, so they can concentrate on pleasing God. And if they focus intently on pleasing God and He sends a spouse, then they will have made it a habit to practice serving God first, and their marriage will be stronger and more of a blessing because of it. And if they focus intently on pleasing God and He does not send a spouse, then they will have made it a habit to practice serving God first, and they will be stronger and more of a blessing because of it.

If at any time we see singleness primarily as a bookend to marriage, or if marriage supplants the glory of God as the ultimate goal of life, we have an idolatry problem, and we need to address that. Contrariwise, if at any time we see singleness as freedom to serve ourselves, or marriage as a trap waiting to be sprung, we have an idolatry problem there, too. We can turn to either marriage or singleness as a source of satisfaction or security, but neither will answer—satisfaction and security are found in God alone.

There is nothing wrong with me that marriage—or anything else, no matter how humanly great it is; or my very own self, for that matter—can fix. There is nothing wrong with me that God can't fix. Or even that He won't fix, in time.

Call it His unique specialty.

You Are Cordially Not Invited....

I just received an email notice about three New Year's Eve parties hosted by various members for my church. One is for "children of the 80's," one is for young couples, and one is for Baby Boomers.

You might be able to read between the lines and say that "child of the 80's" means anybody who likes the 80's. But the others seem...segregationist.

I understand that it is good to be able to associate with people in your stage of life. I feel quite encouraged to be with single women of my age group. (I can't think of any at my church beside me, but the principle stays the same, I guess.) I just feel a little twingy when I see notes in the bulletin saying things like, "Hey, all the young couples/old couples/baby boomers/moms/wives/etc./etc. are getting together for awesome fun!"

Maybe it's because I don't feel like I have a niche (although I do). Maybe it's because I feel like nobody in these groups would want to talk to anybody who wasn't in the group (although I'm sure they would).

There is some part of me underneath all the feeling sorry for myself that knows we can all learn from each other, no matter our age or where we are in life, and that remembers feeling strangely cut off when I went to college and spent most of four years in groups of fellow students who were roughly my age.

But sometimes it's buried deeper underneath than I'd like.

My social schedule isn't affected by any of these parties this year, anyway. I'm pretty sure all Harvest single women between 25 and 30 are going to be spending the holiday week with my family.

On Anonymity in Comments

I was just reading a friend's blog, in which she was ruminating over a problem she had been having with an anonymous commenter. It got me thinking about the purpose of leaving comments at all.

Personally, I only invest time in blogs of those I consider friends. Some are more internet friends than others, but I still feel we have something in common, if only a mutual appreciation for similar things. If I'm investing time in a friend, I can surely invest a bit of extra time by leaving a comment now and then. And I know how much it encourages me when I receive comments, and why wouldn't I want to pass that on?

I think what bothers me about anonymous comments, aside from (perhaps alongside of?) the "stalker" aspect, is that to me the purpose of commenting is an entering into someone else's life. It says "I like your writing," or "I take you seriously," or "thanks for the challenging viewpoint," or "I appreciate you," or some combination of those things. If you comment anonymously, you disallow what tenuous sort of community the internet provides. It's cheap and it's cowardly--the opposite of friendly.

(I know that Brittany can ferret out all her anonymous commenters, so I know some people leave comments on her blog that are only "anonymous" to the other readers. But most of us don't have any idea how she works that magic.)

Anyway, it's one thing to leave a comment on a stranger's blog, but it's another thing not to leave any sort of name with it. It's kind of like honking at a woman who's out walking. And you know how I feel about that.

Another reason why I like birds more than I like dogs

When it gets dark, Apollo turns off. He doesn't scream repeatedly in the middle of the night for no discernible reason. He doesn't wake the neighbors so that people are yelling "SHUT UP!" at 4:00 in the morning.

He isn't that annoying yippy dog who lives in my building somewhere.

Apollo does sometimes make strange squeaky noises in the night, almost as though he hurt himself. Sometimes I hear flapping and/or falling. When I go to check on him (which I always do, because what if he really did hurt himself?), he is always cuddled under his sleepy toy, as if nothing happened. This is why I believe that Apollo has nightmares sometimes. And also that he either A) doesn't remember them for long or B) is too embarrassed to let on that he had a nightmare.

But mostly, the dark is for sleeping.

And never for waking up half the building.

I appreciate that a lot.

"The woman you gave me, she...."

I just finished updating my reading journal, and I thought I'd cross over and expand on part of one of those posts. So here we go.

I recently read a book called Infidel, by Ayaan Hirsi Ali. One of the most fascinating aspects of this book to me was her relation of the way women were often treated in the societies in which she grew.

One part of this broader issue was the issue of coverings for women. In Ali’s experience with Muslim writers, every lustful thought a man had was provoked by a woman, and was thus her sin, not his. Ali once asked why men don’t need to cover up, why it hadn’t been considered that a woman would likewise be driven to lustful thoughts at the sight of a man, and her listeners merely laughed at her.

I found this distressingly similar to the sort of talk I have heard in Christian circles. In one youth group I know of, there was an evening in which the group divided into girls and boys—the girls to talk about modesty and not provoking men, the boys to talk about pornography and not being provoked by women.

Granted, these are both subjects worth discussing. But they are by no means entirely gender-specific, and we do everyone a disservice by acting as though they are.

I have never, to my recollection, heard anyone say anything about male modesty—“Guys, if you think girls are attracted to your bare chests, have a little respect for them and yourselves and keep your shirts on!”—or about how women can be swayed into mental sins by the way men choose to talk about other women—Guy: “So-and-so is so hot"; Girl: "Unlike me/She's not that great/He's a jerk for only focusing on physical appearance/etc., etc., etc." (And men, before you tell me it's ridiculous that women would interpret you that incorrectly, tell me how it's not ridiculous that some men feel unduly enticed by bare shoulders. Isn't all sin inherently illogical, in the ultimate sense?) Likewise, I have never, to my recollection, heard women warned against ogling men, or of objectivizing them in the way they speak.

Are men more prone to lust than women are? Maybe, in general...but then, who decides that? When did lust become a men-only (or at least "men-mostly") sin, anyway?

Are women more prone to taking words out of context? Maybe, but in my experience men are at least as sensitive to how women talk to them as the other way around.

What if we stopped trying to classify sin, and instead shifted our focus to the object of this whole Christian life: Christ first and others second? What if we worked to keep our attitudes perpetually sacrificial towards each other, not because other people “make” us sin but because we desire to make other people strong? What if we focused on removing the log from our own eyes before going to our brothers—and sisters—in humility to address the specks in their eyes? What if we asked for help instead of bursting into self-righteous tantrums? What if we protected each other as fiercely as we protected ourselves?

I don't know about you, but that's the kind of world I want to live in...as well as the kind of world I often despair of. I know we'll never fully attain any of that here. I just want to see more people (myself included) practicing for the day when we will.

Light and Momentary Afflictions

My least favorite bird ownership responsibility is clipping Apollo's nails.

"Nail clipping?" you might be thinking. "Sounds easy enough."

It's hard because he hates it so much, and with good reason. Birds have blood vessels in their nails, and if you clip them properly, they usually bleed. Doesn't sound right, does it? But that's what happens when you clip them to the recommended angle.

Why clip them at all? Well, besides the lacerations on my fingers, sharp pointy nails mean a greater danger that Apollo will get snagged in the carpet, on a blanket, or on any number of snaggable surfaces, and he could hurt himself trying to pull free. Also, when his nails are sharp, he doesn't get to be with me as much...the nails hurt me.

Here's how the clipping procedure happened tonight.

1) I wrap Apollo in a towel, whispering soothingly that it will be okay (he knows what the towel means).

2) I clip the nails, packing a powder called Quick-Stop into his nails to stop the bleeding...quickly. I usually only get a few nails at a time before having to change my grip, as he struggles throughout most of this process.

3) I check to be sure the bleeding has stopped and then let him back into the safety of his cage, where he rushes to his cuddly rope toy for solace.

4) He shuns me, keeping his rope between us.

5) Within a few minutes, he begins peeking around the rope to see if I recognize the enormity of my deeds (or maybe if I just miss him).

6) I sneeze, and he is on the other side of the rope, one foot on the cage bars, looking at me. "Are you okay?" he seems to be saying. "I could use a little company, myself."

7) He sits on my finger, switching from one foot to another because they are still sore. At first his back is to me, but not for long. After all, I'm all he has.

And because nothing is thoroughly straightforward and linear to me, every time I trim Apollo's nails I think how much alike we are. I, too, wrestle in the grasp of Someone who owns me, and who is only causing me pain for our mutual benefit, and to allow me to come closer to Him. I, too, want to run when it gets painful, to turn to some other familiar thing. And I, too, inevitably realize that I want the comfort of God's presence even when I'm still hurting.

Who else do I have? (Ps. 73:25)

Small Voices

Tonight I went to a baby shower at my church for a mom with twin girls. As soon as I walked into the room, I was overwhelmed—so many people, so many little groups, and me too afraid to exert my presence.

My mom says everybody is afraid of breaking into larger groups, of introducing themselves to strangers, of risking rejection. I'm sure she's right.

And yet....

Tonight the room was full of wives, of mothers, and of many young women who likely aspired to those offices as though they are birthrights. Tonight during the prayer part of the shower several participants prayed "that we may respect our husbands and be faithful mothers." Tonight as one person prayed for the twins she prayed that God might be with them as they grow "into toddlers...pre-teens...teens...wives...mothers...."

I understand that those are the natural steps in many minds.

I understand that wives and mothers need all the prayers they can get.

I understand that people like my church grandma who say things like "What are we going to do about you, Suzanne" have had great marriages and just think I should have the same, because they love me.

I understand all those things, so it seems a bit selfish and rather stupid of me when I start to feel so lonely over them—to feel shut out of the circle because I am one and not two turned one. (I've found that in general, no place is as lonely as church. Shouldn't the opposite be true?)

We're told that sometimes God comes with a still, small voice, but it seems to me that Satan has a small voice, too. It whispers that I would be justified in moping for ages about how lost I feel in the hallways; or how hard it is for me to talk to new people; or how disheartening it is that I could not be in church at all and there wouldn't be anyone saving a seat for me and wondering where I was. It whispers that the women at the shower tonight don't respect me as a whole person because I'm not a married person. It whispers that while everyone has problems interacting with others, mine are only worse because I am a second-class (meaning "unmarried") citizen. It whispers all sort of things I am ready to believe and to act on unless I am ready to defend myself with the weapons I have been given.

"The glory which You have given Me I have given to them, that they may be one, just as We are one; I in them and You in Me, that they may be perfected in unity, so that the world may know that You sent Me, and loved them, even as You have loved Me." -- John 17:22-23

Jesus gave us the glory the God gave to Him, that we may be perfected in unity. That we may be one. Beyond husband and wife. Beyond daughter and mother. Beyond all ties of friends and family, country and culture. One in Christ, for Christ.

I don't get to sit in a corner and feel sorry for myself. I have to pursue unity. I have to pursue the grand cosmic "us" of God's people, even though it's against my natural inclination to do so. I have to heed Paul's advice: "Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil" (Eph. 6:11).

I have to admit—and thank God this is true!—that I'm not the only one fighting down here.

Tonight the voice whispered to me that it would be okay/understandable/perfectly right for me to jump up after prayer and leave the room without saying goodbye to the guest of honor. I didn't listen. And when I did make my way to her, the first thing she said was, "When are you coming over?"

The Holy Spirit's small voice is louder than Satan's any day.

Baby Factory

Apparently I'm going to have to get pregnant in order to be in the conversation loop around my office.

Just kidding...mostly. The part that's serious is that everyone else in the office is big into baby talk right now. Three people have had babies in the past year, and one is now pregnant. Maybe Harvest fertility is catching, and can be dragged into other environments? If this is true, I'm sure we could find a way to turn it into the next fundraiser for our building project.

The big boss came through the office the other day to congratulate the co-worker who is pregnant now. And then he said to me, "It's working its way around the office, Suzanne. You're next." One of those semi-funny and semi-awkward comments.

I replied, "There are a few other things that need to work their way around first."

One of these things (and it's a little way down on the list) would be the willingness to be pregnant. I know a couple who can't have children biologically, and they are looking into embryo adoption. This is because, the woman says, she has always wanted to be pregnant.

What? Always? Wanted?

If I ever wanted this, it has been a long time since then. I remember thinking kids would be nice, but the nine month production process hasn't been a rosy fantasy for me, and I have no particular desire to pass my genetics on any further. I mean, sure, the world could handle another insanely cute kid, but there are other really cute kids around.

If I had the choice between adopting an embryo or adopting an infant (or child), I would choose the pre-fabricated version, hands down. "No assembly? Great."

"Now where's the user's manual?"

Healthy Holidays

Today I am fantasizing about having one of these.

I especially want the Sit-to-Walkstation. I would pay good money to have this in my office space. Never feeling too sedentary at work again...never feeling (as) guilty for skipping the gym.... Mmmmm.... Too bad I live on the third floor and it would be really awkward, or I would totally look into this for my apartment.

In related news, I am in a little competition (accountability group?) with some women I know from work. Our goal: maintain or lose weight this holiday season. I'm hoping for "lose," as in "lose the five pounds I picked up last holiday season and haven't shaken off." Stupid five pounds.

Because we're all trying not to gain weight, I sent an email to employees in the field asking them not to send us candy for Christmas. That was awkward. It sounds far too bold to say "buy me this instead of this." Even if you are pretty sure a gift is coming, it sounds presumptive. But on the other hand, I'd appreciate someone telling me (gently) that they don't really use/like what I tend to get them.

And because of that email, I will have llama mittens and a llama scarf for Christmas. So. Cool.

All that's really left now is the Walkstation....

Speaking While Tired

I should not speak when I am overly tired. I find myself far more likely to express opinions that I do not actually hold, or at least express them in a way that does not accurately reflect them. Often, when I am speaking while tired, there is another voice in my head asking, "What are you saying? Did you check with the rest of us voices to make sure we agreed on the position you are currently espousing?"

(It is the inability of the tired mind to work in concert with itself that sets it apart from the alert mind. Also, the inability to use words like "espousing.")

For example, today in describing why I did not particularly care if I attended a certain meeting I said that I dislike conflict, which led to me saying I dislike arguments, which led to me saying I only liked arguments I won. Now, I am sure there are amounts of truth in all of those statements...uncomfortably so in the last case. But they don't comprise the whole truth.

Do you often get at the whole truth in a crowded church hallway? Probably not. Still, propogating half-truths doesn't seem like the right solution. Especially because there are people who simply accept the words out of your mouth as the totality of your opinion on a matter (which is most of my real problem with improperly conducted arguments, actually).

As I grow, I want to speak less and say more. Especially when I am tired.

Last night I was on Heroes.

Sort of.

I had recently discovered I had electricity powers, sort of like Kristen Bell’s character has. I could zap things, and also I could fly (because of some electricity current thing). I was still trying to figure out how this power worked, and it kept running out, leaving me with mere trickly blue light with about as much force as static electricity. I realized this power needed recharging, and somehow I knew that it would be recharged by other electric bursts (guess I was a bit like Megavolt, from Darkwing Duck?).

So finally I came to a decision that action must be taken. I “climbed” a pine tree during a lightning storm (I didn’t have to do much actual climbing because my flight powers were letting me sort of hover my way up—bit by bit, because my powers weren’t highly charged at this point), and waited for a lightning strike that I knew would fully charge my powers forever.

“Will this hurt?” I thought apprehensively. “Nah…lightning can’t really hurt me, I have lightning powers.”

Later, I was hanging out with an unknown girl and Claire-Peter (she was Claire, but didn’t really look like Claire, and she had Peter’s powers on top of hers) in Claire-Peter’s room, and I was telling her something about how my powers were a little hard to explain, and she pointed to the ceiling, where I saw a large number of metal darts.

“Ohhhh,” I said, enlightened, because I also had practiced manipulating metal darts with my powers (electricity provides extensive powers, apparently).

Then, out of nowhere, Claire-Peter pulled two darts from the ceiling with her power and shot them across the room at me and this other girl.

“Ow!” we said. “We don’t have regenerative powers like you, remember?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I forgot.”

And that’s about where I woke up.

Too late...but maybe next year....

Some friends of mine and I (all big fans of The Office) have jokingly discussed the possibility of taking an Office roadtrip, where each of us would pick a character and then stay in character as long as possible for the whole trip. If only this had been serious, we could have attended...THE OFFICE CONVENTION.

Yes. Seriously.

I have wanted to attend a fan convention for so long. Star Trek...ComicCon...that sort of thing. I think a convention for The Office would work, too.

I am such a nerd. I love that about me. I love that I know more about comic book lore than most of the teenage boys in my church. (Admittedly, the nerd ratio in my church is almost disturbingly low.) I love quoting random TV/movie bits with friends. And how fun would it be to go to a nerd convention??? Aside from the being surrounded by strangers, I mean?

Years ago, Stephenie said something to me that I have mostly not forgotten (I say "mostly" because I'm sure it has been slightly paraphrased over time). It remains one of my favorites Nerd Suzanne quotes: "How are you not dating? I'd think you could walk into a Star Trek convention and walk out with a guy hanging from every limb."

Yes, I'm pretty sure taking a road trip to Scranton with a car (or van) full of Office wannabes would be hilarious. If I ever actually go, I'll let you know how it turns out.

Absolutely, I will.

My Life as a Musical

Sometimes I wish I were the only person in the world...or at least that I could suspend time or become invisible so as to produce the same effect without damaging long-term loneliness. I most frequently wish this when I am outside. Unlike inside, outside is an uncontrolled environment. I could run across any number of people I had not planned to run across. These people could be hostile. These people could just be male, which is almost the same thing.

What's the problem? The problem is that I have a jukebox in my head. (Also in my iPod, which only magnifies the head jukebox problem.) And when a song comes over the jukebox, I often want to sing along with it, and usually do a little dancing to it, too.

I have embraced this eccentricity far more recently due to my pastor and his kids, who all vocalize their internal jukebox soundtracks. I have much less of a problem breaking into snatches of song when in the company of friends. I have been taught, however, possibly just by being female, that it's not a great idea to draw attention to myself outside the company of friends. If I were to go skipping and dancing along down the trails near my place, who knows what could happen. I don't care nearly as much as I used to about people laughing at me. I am still concerned that random strangers could fall madly in love with my carefree abandon, and I would be breaking who knows how many hearts. And that is the most pleasant option. (And if you think that option is not that bad, you don't know me very well.)

Nichole (a friend from college) had a sort of fantasy in which she and a large group of her friends would go to a mall and divide up into various stores. Then Nichole would start walking through the mall singing, and her friends would jump out of the stores at various points and join in, and everyone who wasn't in on it would wonder what they had wandered into.

My musical fantasies aren't that complicated. I just want to do a little twirling and fake choreography from time to time when I'm out walking.

Until I get braver, I guess I'll settle for dancing until I round corners...and making 360 degree turns slowly as though I had to look at something behind me...and extending my arms as though it were part of my exercise regimen.

My life as a stealth musical.

Ah, personality tests...how I love you....

Kerri posted a link to a Meyers-Briggs-type personality test. I, of course, love these things. I answered quickly so as not to get too stuck in "sometimes yes, sometimes no" overanalyzing. So here we go. This is my personality tonight (I find these things usually change...except the ones where I'm Hermione).





Your personality type:
Independent, original, analytical, and determined. Have an exceptional ability to turn theories into solid plans of action. Highly value knowledge, competence, and structure. Driven to derive meaning from their visions. Long-range thinkers. Have very high standards for their performance, and the performance of others. Natural leaders, but will follow if they trust existing leaders.



Careers that could fit you include:
Scientists, engineers, professors, teachers, medical doctors, dentists, corporate strategists, organization founders, business administrators, managers, military, lawyers, judges, computer programmers, system analysts, computer specialists, psychologists, photographers, research department managers, researchers, university instructors, chess players.






The above category used to be "Careers that could fit you includes," but of course I had to fix it. Hm. None of those careers sound interesting. So few careers do....



I came up IITJ: Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, Judging. [Per Lisa, that should actually be INTJ. "N" for iNtuitive.] I leaned pretty strongly towards each of these, too, which is unlike my usual college results where I was fairly middle-of-the-road. Maybe this is an example of what Pastor Dale meant when he said that living alone tends to make you more and more like yourself?

And speaking of personality, just last night Lisa and I were talking about the disconnect between how we see ourselves and how others see us. Isn't it strange that perceptions can vary so widely? I maintain that it IS. Strange. It is strange.

ACK-tually....

Now it sounds like plans have changed and I will again be...I almost wrote "sleeping alone this Saturday." Hm. And by "again".... What I mean is that it sounds like my company will not be coming. Fortunately I did not just buy two gallons of milk, two loaves of bread, two cartons of ice cream, four boxes of cereal, four pizzas, and a jar of peanut butter specifically for the occasion. Oh, wait.... Blast.

Alas, I may not be the destination for a road trip, after all. But it was a nice thought while it lasted.

If it absolutely falls through, I will be hitting some of you locals up to come over for dinner on Friday night. Possibly also karaoke somewhere afterwards. Pencil me in?

Life is funny

There are a number of people who used to be members of my current church who have attained near legendary status by the simple expedient of moving away. In their cases, absence has indeed made hearts grow fonder. If any of these legends return, they will be swarmed with people practically falling over themselves to talk to them.

In a related subject, lots of people at my church have been there for their formative years. They grow up in the church. They marry in the church (or marry new blood into the church), and they stay in the church. This means that they have ages of in-jokes and "do you remember the time when" stories that I do not understand.

As you can tell, I have never at all felt any unreasonable sensations of being marginalized and second-rate because of any of this. Seriously, though...other than family members, I don't have any friends anywhere that I've known since I was a little kid. But this year, I realized something. I have known other people since they were kids. They are the kids of my parents' church, the church where I grew up. Kids I babysat for, kids I taught in VBS, kids who were just part of the church life. And I realized one Sunday at my parents' church, as I was hanging out in a circle talking to these kids, that this is how the "legends" of my current church must feel: not like legends, just like normal people who are happy to see others with whom they shared so much history.

This Saturday, I am hosting a sleepover for 5 to 7 teenage girls from my old church. Some of them I have known for ages, some I have known of for ages, and some I have known for a fairly short time. But when I suggested a few weeks ago that it might be fun if they came to visit me, they agreed. With enthusiasm. And I am hosting with similar enthusiasm.

It's an encouraging, endearing, and laughably enjoyable thing to be the destination of a road trip. I'm excited.

Also, getting 8 women ready for church in the morning in a one bathroom apartment should be interesting.

Abba! Father!

The weight of the world and its people
proving their rights and righteousness
their position and power
striving
contending
crushing
falling
rising to cycle through again
Oh, father, lead me past my experience
bring me in to your life
break my heart as yours breaks
stretch me for the world
you stretched yourself for
save and heal
save and heal
Oh, father, how long?

Schedule Conflicts

No, this isn't about over-booking, although I had a major blow-up in my life over that last weekend. I have managed NOT to double-book since...well...last weekend. (You have to start somewhere.)

Here's what is bothering me about schedule conflicts now: too many people with too much busyness in their lives. This includes me. I don't like having to whip out a planner and book somebody for four weeks down the road. I don't like "booking somebody" at all, if it comes to that. (This may come as a shock to almost everybody who knows me.)

I'd rather not work around everybody's employment schedules, and other friends, and previous commitments. I'd rather just be there, without thinking about it so much. I'd rather life didn't work as hard as it does to keep us all apart.

Tonight I think that part of the joy of heaven will be not having to "find time" for anything, or anyone. There will be an infinite amount of time to enjoy God and to enjoy each other, creations of God that we are. And the whole family will be there, and nobody will ever be too busy ever again, and we will always have time for each other, without having to fight for it as we must now. It will be a restful, exciting, glorious place.

Shall we plan on meeting there in a few years?

Is it something in the water in Brooklyn?

Yesterday I went to my cousin's son's first birthday party. The following is a snippet of the conversation that took place almost immediately after I sat down at a table next to my great-aunt Irene.

Aunt Irene: How are you?

Me: Doing good.

Aunt Irene: Are you married yet?

Me: ["oh, Aunt Irene" laugh] No.

Aunt Irene: Are you seeing anybody?

Me: No.

Aunt Irene: Are there any fellas at your church you might be...?

Me: What is it with you Brooklyners?

Aunt Irene: You're wasting time....

Seriously. Between my church grandma Rosemary and my Aunt Irene.... Actually, I don't even know how to finish that sentence. Those women make me laugh and roll my eyes at the same time.

Surprised by Grace...if grace is out there....

No matter how many times I am shown grace, I have difficulty really believing in it. I do really stupid things, and intentionally mean things, and just plain careless things. I make promises too swiftly, then break them. I condemn people for being rude to me on the phone. I speak first and think later. I obsess over my own problems. (Count the "I's" in this paragraph alone.)

Maybe (maybe) God won't cut me off, but that's because he's God. Your parents aren't allowed to disown you, and God is the greater father, so...he CAN'T cut you off, right? But friends, and co-workers, and strangers? Those people can turn on you in a second, and be completely justified in doing so.

"If I were You-Know-Who," muses Luna Lovegood of the arch-villain in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, "I'd want you to feel cut off from everyone else. 'Cause if it's just you alone, you're not as much of a threat."

Which just reminds me that Satan doesn't believe in an overcoming grace, either.

It's hatefully messy here, horribly easy to hurt and to be hurt. But can we really love without diving into the mess? Can we really love when we focus our attention so intently on our failures that they seem insurmountable? Can we really love without believing in grace?

The list of reasons I have to despise myself is long, but God is at work, granting patience, forbearance, perspective, and wisdom. God shows me a grace that is greater than all my sins...and I have often seen that grace manifested through people I have wronged, intentionally and unintentionally. Because God is not only at work in me.

I believe in grace. Lord, help my unbelief.