Perhaps this decision was not made today. No, it definitely was not made today. It's been a season of searching, of redefining, of silence. Over the last six months, I've endured one of the largest turning points of my life thus far: transitioning out of a season of constant transition (which, in itself, has given me passion, drive, excitement, and an addiction to the 'more' that's always around the next bend in the road).
I'm living in the same house. With the same roommates. And the same job. And the same church.
At the same time, I finished grad school. I went through a major break up. I gave up New Horizons. Much has been removed (perhaps it feels, in some cases, more like stripped). Little has been added, except my sweet dog Charlie.
And I decided that at all cost, I must learn to be still. I must learn to be ok with silence. I must learn to be ok with myself when I have nothing to say to other people, and certainly nothing to say to myself, and often nothing even to say to God. I'm just silent.
Dillard yesterday told me that "Trees stir memories; live waters heal them."
So today I took Charlie on a walk - in search of memories and their healing. I stopped at an old tree that I've passed ever so many times on my way down to the lake. I stood to question the pitted curves of bark beneath her scented branches - what memories would Jesus stir in me? None but those I forced and wrestled from their caves, doing my best to evoke a sort of half-hearted nostalgia.
Charlie and I continued. The wind blew blustery, like the Hundred Acre Wood where I felt when I read like it was always fall. Leaves hurled themselves across our path and lighted our way with an effervescent radiance all their own. Waves tore across the lake and licked the sun's ripe honey off their surface. I stopped and scooped Charlie between squatted legs to steal a stare at the glory of autumn falling across a lake. I felt, even in the turbulence of the wind-washed waves, a sort of breathless peace - like in itself, the turbulence of the water was my shield. What do I so desire to be shielded from?
Myself. The self in me that craves glory and fame and worship.
I am changing, like the leaves. I'm falling from some branch that's held me captive for so long. I want to abide in You alone, Jesus. Not this false identity.
I stared down at the oak tree's helicopter eggs littering the path. So many, and they always look the same. I wonder which I'd be if I were an oak tree's helicopter seed. I wonder if I'd be ok to just be another of the millions lying on the path.
Eventually, Charlie and I returned to the tree we had paused beneath on our way to the lake. I looked at it with scorn. Where were the memories it was supposed to evoke? The bark looked to me so rich and full of the possibility of years' worth of moments. But it offered none to me. And all I could see, as I arched my eyes backwards over the long years it had stood, was a poster haughtily nailed to its side.
A poster of my smiling head.
Thus it has been. In every major social circle of my life in the past ten years, I have striven to conform to Poster Child Status. Try as I might to hold my ground at first, I feel pulled by the moon's gravity to fit an image -- like a super model starving herself on celery and grapefruit. And eventually, I make it. I've made a career out of becoming the Approved. The Voice. The Face.
And now I sit without approval, without a voice, and without a face . . . wondering how to return to where I once was, when all along my heart rebelled against the false glory.
So today, I tore the poster child off the tree so I could see the bark. Maybe now, I can start to see deeper into my own heart. I'm giving up the Poster Child life.
Jesus, forgive me for finding my worth in man's approval. Jesus, forgive me for trading the value You have given me through Your blood for a cheap, shoddy idol. Jesus, forgive me for placing my identity in who other people say I am or believe I can be.
Who else have You called me to be, Lord Jesus, but Yours alone?
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Shadowless
Though I endured her at least 14 times, Winter only introduced herself to me once during those long years in the Midwest. I remember standing in my backyard near our ancient oak, where rough bark had been worn smooth in at least three places from bums and memories. My dad was there too – were we raking?
In Wisconsin, if we left the leaves on the ground through the winter, they’d mold and stink from wet hibernation beneath the incubated snow, and in the spring fungus would curl her yellowed feathers where the grass should be. So we would rake and rake until blotted pink blisters bubbled out of the soft skin adjacent to thumb knuckles, and yellowed calluses tried their very best to armor the upper-part of palm where fingers grow.
I had let my rake slide down beneath my armpit to take stock of the leaf pile and perhaps nurse a blister. I looked up at the cold grey November sky, and I spotted them: the first snowflakes. Excitement rose to bursting in me, that I should enjoy the first flake fall on virgin ground. I held out my hands and spun, laughing.
“Dad, it’s Winter!”
“Yep.” But he hadn’t stopped raking. He must have met Winter before, I considered. His taciturn jadedness spoke nothing to my pleasure, though, and I watched the sky with wonder akin to glory. Even after reveling in the moment for quite more than a moment, I was strongly averse to the idea of going inside. I remember now, with an aloof and understanding smile, how disinclined the girl-I was to forsake the sanctity of Winter’s very first snowfall that I had witnessed and shared in.
I’m remembering it nostalgically this morning because I woke to a cement sky, and considered the way Winter introduces herself here. It is far different. More sly, less romantic. Who was it that told me that ghosts go shadowless? When Winter steals my trees’ shadows by spreading thick cold-cream over the sky, I know she’s arrived – forcing verdant trees to relinquish life and murmur listlessly as anxious, shadowless ghosts for five months. And the sun, like Peter’s Wendy, appears in the spring to sew back their shadows and offer life.
But it’s not Winter here yet. The bricks have fallen away from the sky now, and thick yellow (less bright; yelling harvest) buttered the sky until it sprouted blue. Now trees cast their shadows on the ground beneath, and I know that there is life in them still. I consider the changing of shadows. None lasts, or even remains the same throughout a day . . .
Sometimes, my heart feels shadowless. I wonder where the Sun is that gives it passion, voice, hunger, SHADOW. Hearts change in season, like trees. I can feel the Sun melting my aortic valve and casting a shadow across my lung. My throat feels the dawn rising again . . . Please, Light, come. I'm ready.
"'For we are strangers before thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding.' We can't take the lightning, the scourge of high places and rare airs. But we can take the light, the reflected light that shines up the valleys on creeks" (Dillard, Pilgrim, 101).
"For God alone my soul waits in silence (SHADOWLESS-NESS);
from Him comes my salvation.
He only is my rock and my salvation,
My fortress; I shall not be greatly shaken" (Psalm 62:1-2).
Life is fragile, quickly passing. Lord, You remain. That alone gives me cause to worship.
In Wisconsin, if we left the leaves on the ground through the winter, they’d mold and stink from wet hibernation beneath the incubated snow, and in the spring fungus would curl her yellowed feathers where the grass should be. So we would rake and rake until blotted pink blisters bubbled out of the soft skin adjacent to thumb knuckles, and yellowed calluses tried their very best to armor the upper-part of palm where fingers grow.
I had let my rake slide down beneath my armpit to take stock of the leaf pile and perhaps nurse a blister. I looked up at the cold grey November sky, and I spotted them: the first snowflakes. Excitement rose to bursting in me, that I should enjoy the first flake fall on virgin ground. I held out my hands and spun, laughing.
“Dad, it’s Winter!”
“Yep.” But he hadn’t stopped raking. He must have met Winter before, I considered. His taciturn jadedness spoke nothing to my pleasure, though, and I watched the sky with wonder akin to glory. Even after reveling in the moment for quite more than a moment, I was strongly averse to the idea of going inside. I remember now, with an aloof and understanding smile, how disinclined the girl-I was to forsake the sanctity of Winter’s very first snowfall that I had witnessed and shared in.
I’m remembering it nostalgically this morning because I woke to a cement sky, and considered the way Winter introduces herself here. It is far different. More sly, less romantic. Who was it that told me that ghosts go shadowless? When Winter steals my trees’ shadows by spreading thick cold-cream over the sky, I know she’s arrived – forcing verdant trees to relinquish life and murmur listlessly as anxious, shadowless ghosts for five months. And the sun, like Peter’s Wendy, appears in the spring to sew back their shadows and offer life.
But it’s not Winter here yet. The bricks have fallen away from the sky now, and thick yellow (less bright; yelling harvest) buttered the sky until it sprouted blue. Now trees cast their shadows on the ground beneath, and I know that there is life in them still. I consider the changing of shadows. None lasts, or even remains the same throughout a day . . .
Sometimes, my heart feels shadowless. I wonder where the Sun is that gives it passion, voice, hunger, SHADOW. Hearts change in season, like trees. I can feel the Sun melting my aortic valve and casting a shadow across my lung. My throat feels the dawn rising again . . . Please, Light, come. I'm ready.
"'For we are strangers before thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding.' We can't take the lightning, the scourge of high places and rare airs. But we can take the light, the reflected light that shines up the valleys on creeks" (Dillard, Pilgrim, 101).
"For God alone my soul waits in silence (SHADOWLESS-NESS);
from Him comes my salvation.
He only is my rock and my salvation,
My fortress; I shall not be greatly shaken" (Psalm 62:1-2).
Life is fragile, quickly passing. Lord, You remain. That alone gives me cause to worship.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Does God have toenails?
I joined a co-ed soccer league that two of my housemates play on, and I think I sized my cleats wrong (again). But I had a great time - brought back wonderful memories: the smell of grass and sweat, the pull of tight hamstrings, the rush of breath and the courage to combat the enemy. I didn't play my best, but I have hope that muscle memory will bring back the days of high school long gone. I'd forgotten how long a 45-minute half feels on the outside wing, when there's really no chance to stop running.
I killed another toenail tonight - my right big toe. And it hurts real bad.I lost another one also after I got out of the shower. The second toe on my right foot. I think that one's become eternally perverted - oh cross, oh Christ, restore my toenail to the Imago Dei.
I wonder if God has toenails. I sometimes wonder what it means that we were created in His image . . . I wonder if that's literal or figurative or both. The Bible says that we have been given the opportunity to participate in God's own nature again because of the cross -- these are Paul's words:
"His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and goodness. Through these He has given us His very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires" (2 Peter 1:3-4).
That's a pretty radical thing. I want to own that - I want to have faith for that. I can participate in the divine NATURE? What is God's NATURE? He's good - He's faithful - He's loving and kind and merciful and patient. He's forgiving. He's peaceful. He's humble and selfless.
Jesus, can You please help me to own that promise and participate in those things? I need You to help me. I'm sorry for falling so short all the time . . . I really want to live out the life You offered me through the Cross. I want to identify with the Imago Dei. I want to live in the divine nature and not the sin nature. I want even my toenails to be a reflection of the Living God!
Restore me - I am very broken. Thank You for Your grace, precious Lord Jesus!
Amen.
I killed another toenail tonight - my right big toe. And it hurts real bad.I lost another one also after I got out of the shower. The second toe on my right foot. I think that one's become eternally perverted - oh cross, oh Christ, restore my toenail to the Imago Dei.
I wonder if God has toenails. I sometimes wonder what it means that we were created in His image . . . I wonder if that's literal or figurative or both. The Bible says that we have been given the opportunity to participate in God's own nature again because of the cross -- these are Paul's words:
"His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and goodness. Through these He has given us His very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires" (2 Peter 1:3-4).
That's a pretty radical thing. I want to own that - I want to have faith for that. I can participate in the divine NATURE? What is God's NATURE? He's good - He's faithful - He's loving and kind and merciful and patient. He's forgiving. He's peaceful. He's humble and selfless.
Jesus, can You please help me to own that promise and participate in those things? I need You to help me. I'm sorry for falling so short all the time . . . I really want to live out the life You offered me through the Cross. I want to identify with the Imago Dei. I want to live in the divine nature and not the sin nature. I want even my toenails to be a reflection of the Living God!
Restore me - I am very broken. Thank You for Your grace, precious Lord Jesus!
Amen.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Sunday Eve
I love Sunday evenings.
I love the slowness that belongs to this pocket of the week.
I love my freshly vacuumed floor rug, and lying down on my soft bed with hair still hot from the blow dryer and my toes stretching out against the smooth, tight feeling of cleanness.
I love the way Sunday evenings feel like newness and a sigh. A fresh beginning and a long look ahead.
I bought myself pink peonies last Sunday. (I gave them to my room-mate when I got home, because I wanted to share their softness and their smell and their bosom-ness that makes them seem so motherly. But secretly, I only shared them because I thought she'd leave them on the dining room table, and then she took them up to her bedroom and I never saw them again until this Sunday . . . they were drooped and wrinkly like old age and wreckage, and I felt momentarily frustrated that sharing seemed such a waste.)
A few Sundays before that, I bought myself a card. (It was actually a Friday afternoon when I bought the card, but that doesn't fit with my Sunday theme. It must have meant most to me on the following Sunday evening, because it's definitely a Sunday evening sort of card.) This is what the card says:
"Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it" (Anne DeLenclos).
And this happens to be the last Sunday evening of the school year . . .
Perhaps my favorite Sunday evening of the whole year.
Lord, bless the work of Your hands. I trust You with this new season. You are Sovereign and very good. Thank You for rest and the Sabbath! Amen.
I love the slowness that belongs to this pocket of the week.
I love my freshly vacuumed floor rug, and lying down on my soft bed with hair still hot from the blow dryer and my toes stretching out against the smooth, tight feeling of cleanness.
I love the way Sunday evenings feel like newness and a sigh. A fresh beginning and a long look ahead.
I bought myself pink peonies last Sunday. (I gave them to my room-mate when I got home, because I wanted to share their softness and their smell and their bosom-ness that makes them seem so motherly. But secretly, I only shared them because I thought she'd leave them on the dining room table, and then she took them up to her bedroom and I never saw them again until this Sunday . . . they were drooped and wrinkly like old age and wreckage, and I felt momentarily frustrated that sharing seemed such a waste.)
A few Sundays before that, I bought myself a card. (It was actually a Friday afternoon when I bought the card, but that doesn't fit with my Sunday theme. It must have meant most to me on the following Sunday evening, because it's definitely a Sunday evening sort of card.) This is what the card says:
"Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it" (Anne DeLenclos).
And this happens to be the last Sunday evening of the school year . . .
Perhaps my favorite Sunday evening of the whole year.
Lord, bless the work of Your hands. I trust You with this new season. You are Sovereign and very good. Thank You for rest and the Sabbath! Amen.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Church
Dear Mrs. Gambill,
I miss you.
(Sometimes, grief over loss pokes out his noxious head at very unexpected times long after I feel pretty settled on a matter. Mrs. Gambill was my mentor in high-school - such a strong and godly woman. I miss her hugs. And her wisdom. I miss her laughter and her stories. I miss feeling like my world was ok after sitting with her and a tall glass of lemonade.
My beautiful house-mate Mari loves to play blue grass music with her banjo and a jolly crew of friends. Tonight, they were making music towards the end of a party held at our house for the soccer team we play on (I'm only recently joining after breaking my leg in Jan). Part of the chorus of one little ditty was, "Mama, rock me like the wind and the rain,/ Mama, rock me like the South Bound Train,/ Mama, rock me."
My tears surprised me. Sometimes, the recognition of rites-of-passage are quite cruel and jolting. I longed, in that moment, to have a mama that would sit me on her lap, gather me up close, and rock me back and forth while humming something soft and peaceful. I longed to have someone who understood life so much better than I do let me just sit and cry against a strong and still shoulder.
And I realized suddenly that I was past that part of life and couldn't really ever go back. Someday (God willing), it'll be my turn to be the one rocking with the soft hum and the strong, still shoulder. But I don't get to be the little girl anymore. I nostalgically hoped that I could be sure, in those future moments as the mama, to be very aware of their sacredness -- and hold my little daughter so soft and tight. I hope even that I can still hold her when she's 25 and feels like she's floating instead of running.)
That's why I missed you tonight, Mrs. Gambill. Because I know you would let me sit next to you with a tall glass of lemonade and just cry.
It's been about a month now since my most recent relationship ended. The man I was in a relationship with previous to that is getting married this weekend. I don't really think I'm feeling sorry for myself, but I am feeling mightily conflicted about a few things that I wish I could just hash out with a really old, godly woman.
Men, marriage, and singleness are some of them - but those all seem to be less pressing matters to me right now.
The most difficult is church. It seems like there are two church camps in my life right now that are in some sort of cold war against one another. I'm so tired of trying to find a healthy church I could pull all my eye-lashes out - I guess I nearly have.
Jesus, I just wish You were here to tell me where to go and what to do. A lot of times I like freedom, but not when I feel broken. I just would love some clear guidance right now. The thing is, I know that Your church is far from perfect - I know that it's marked by Your death and sanctified by Your resurrection. I know that You love Your church steadfastly and You're perfecting her, presenting her as a pure and radiant bride.
So, Jesus, can You just please call me to one specific body and root me there - help me to grow and love and repent and honor You, despite all of the failure of man?
On one side is the open-minded, gray area church that focuses on love more than repentance, believes that the Bible is God's Word within a cultural context, affirms me in my gifts and dreams, and pushes me forward into ministry.
On the other side is the close-minded, black and white church that focuses on repentance more than love, believes the Bible is Spirit inspired quite literally word-for-word even in our culture, lifts high stringent roles of men and women in the church and in marriage, and therefore considers some of my ministerial dreams idols that are the fruit of rebellion against God.
The hard thing is that I know You love both sides of Your church, and both sides are faulty. But my calling looks quite differently in each.
I also know that if You've placed a call on my life, You will fulfill it NO MATTER WHAT. Joseph was in prison and could not escape Your call. In fact, prison was Your Sovereign way of pushing him into his calling. How, then, can I escape Your call because of church?
Lord, just make it clear where You would have me serve. I want to honor You and bless Your people.
And I'm kinda tired of being so intense all the time.
I love You, Jesus. Thanks for all of Your amazing love for me!
I miss you.
(Sometimes, grief over loss pokes out his noxious head at very unexpected times long after I feel pretty settled on a matter. Mrs. Gambill was my mentor in high-school - such a strong and godly woman. I miss her hugs. And her wisdom. I miss her laughter and her stories. I miss feeling like my world was ok after sitting with her and a tall glass of lemonade.
My beautiful house-mate Mari loves to play blue grass music with her banjo and a jolly crew of friends. Tonight, they were making music towards the end of a party held at our house for the soccer team we play on (I'm only recently joining after breaking my leg in Jan). Part of the chorus of one little ditty was, "Mama, rock me like the wind and the rain,/ Mama, rock me like the South Bound Train,/ Mama, rock me."
My tears surprised me. Sometimes, the recognition of rites-of-passage are quite cruel and jolting. I longed, in that moment, to have a mama that would sit me on her lap, gather me up close, and rock me back and forth while humming something soft and peaceful. I longed to have someone who understood life so much better than I do let me just sit and cry against a strong and still shoulder.
And I realized suddenly that I was past that part of life and couldn't really ever go back. Someday (God willing), it'll be my turn to be the one rocking with the soft hum and the strong, still shoulder. But I don't get to be the little girl anymore. I nostalgically hoped that I could be sure, in those future moments as the mama, to be very aware of their sacredness -- and hold my little daughter so soft and tight. I hope even that I can still hold her when she's 25 and feels like she's floating instead of running.)
That's why I missed you tonight, Mrs. Gambill. Because I know you would let me sit next to you with a tall glass of lemonade and just cry.
It's been about a month now since my most recent relationship ended. The man I was in a relationship with previous to that is getting married this weekend. I don't really think I'm feeling sorry for myself, but I am feeling mightily conflicted about a few things that I wish I could just hash out with a really old, godly woman.
Men, marriage, and singleness are some of them - but those all seem to be less pressing matters to me right now.
The most difficult is church. It seems like there are two church camps in my life right now that are in some sort of cold war against one another. I'm so tired of trying to find a healthy church I could pull all my eye-lashes out - I guess I nearly have.
Jesus, I just wish You were here to tell me where to go and what to do. A lot of times I like freedom, but not when I feel broken. I just would love some clear guidance right now. The thing is, I know that Your church is far from perfect - I know that it's marked by Your death and sanctified by Your resurrection. I know that You love Your church steadfastly and You're perfecting her, presenting her as a pure and radiant bride.
So, Jesus, can You just please call me to one specific body and root me there - help me to grow and love and repent and honor You, despite all of the failure of man?
On one side is the open-minded, gray area church that focuses on love more than repentance, believes that the Bible is God's Word within a cultural context, affirms me in my gifts and dreams, and pushes me forward into ministry.
On the other side is the close-minded, black and white church that focuses on repentance more than love, believes the Bible is Spirit inspired quite literally word-for-word even in our culture, lifts high stringent roles of men and women in the church and in marriage, and therefore considers some of my ministerial dreams idols that are the fruit of rebellion against God.
The hard thing is that I know You love both sides of Your church, and both sides are faulty. But my calling looks quite differently in each.
I also know that if You've placed a call on my life, You will fulfill it NO MATTER WHAT. Joseph was in prison and could not escape Your call. In fact, prison was Your Sovereign way of pushing him into his calling. How, then, can I escape Your call because of church?
Lord, just make it clear where You would have me serve. I want to honor You and bless Your people.
And I'm kinda tired of being so intense all the time.
I love You, Jesus. Thanks for all of Your amazing love for me!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
March Air
It's been a while since I've posted . . . nearly 6 months, to date. I guess a few things have changed: I graduated from the ICCD program - finished my Master's Degree. And I met a man.
Those feel like pretty significant land marks, but most in my life has still stayed very much the same. I wonder if life is in some ways like my students' semester grades . . . in the beginning, it fluctuates widely from an A to an F with a single assignment. Towards the end of the semester, little will move the grade point average more than a tenth of a percentage. Things seem to stabilize over time quite a bit.
My coarse is set on You, Jesus - but I don't call that safety. I want to be with You - to serve You recklessly. I want to pursue You and love You and obey You. What does that mean?
I was running today for the first time after breaking my leg in the beginning of January during my 3rd skiing adventure (ever). My PT told me to take it slow - a minute on, four minutes off. Still, I found myself sliding so freely back into that passion for the beat of the foot, the pulse of the heart, the rhythm of the breath. I ached for the taste of salt on my upper lip and the euphoric bliss of legs that feel like they'll never tire.
Teaching has felt quite oppressive lately. Is it me or the students or the dreary classroom that makes me feel like a cat in a box? Lord, teach my heart to rejoice in You - in the community You've given me, in the good work You've put before me, in the opportunities You've entrusted to me, in the ways You're equipping me. Help me to be patient, to let go of control, to trust.
It's been a beautiful February - cherry blossoms, wooed by gravity, weigh down the world and the birds have left their huddling nest beneath window eves long before I leave for work. The morn of March has been no different. March on, March on, March on - I beat the day's fatigue into gristly pavement and turned my face to the calm ripples of Green Lake. A rainbow arched low and thick over the still lake and fell into the gold-clad houses just beyond. I stopped to remember God's faithfulness to Noah. March on, tired soul - He is yet here to claim you.
Those feel like pretty significant land marks, but most in my life has still stayed very much the same. I wonder if life is in some ways like my students' semester grades . . . in the beginning, it fluctuates widely from an A to an F with a single assignment. Towards the end of the semester, little will move the grade point average more than a tenth of a percentage. Things seem to stabilize over time quite a bit.
My coarse is set on You, Jesus - but I don't call that safety. I want to be with You - to serve You recklessly. I want to pursue You and love You and obey You. What does that mean?
I was running today for the first time after breaking my leg in the beginning of January during my 3rd skiing adventure (ever). My PT told me to take it slow - a minute on, four minutes off. Still, I found myself sliding so freely back into that passion for the beat of the foot, the pulse of the heart, the rhythm of the breath. I ached for the taste of salt on my upper lip and the euphoric bliss of legs that feel like they'll never tire.
Teaching has felt quite oppressive lately. Is it me or the students or the dreary classroom that makes me feel like a cat in a box? Lord, teach my heart to rejoice in You - in the community You've given me, in the good work You've put before me, in the opportunities You've entrusted to me, in the ways You're equipping me. Help me to be patient, to let go of control, to trust.
It's been a beautiful February - cherry blossoms, wooed by gravity, weigh down the world and the birds have left their huddling nest beneath window eves long before I leave for work. The morn of March has been no different. March on, March on, March on - I beat the day's fatigue into gristly pavement and turned my face to the calm ripples of Green Lake. A rainbow arched low and thick over the still lake and fell into the gold-clad houses just beyond. I stopped to remember God's faithfulness to Noah. March on, tired soul - He is yet here to claim you.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Seattle
Psalm 93:4-5
"Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,
Mightier than the breakers of the sea --
The LORD on High is Mighty!
Your statutes stand firm;
Holiness adorns your house
For endless days, O LORD."
Last night, my house-mates and I went to the Puget Sound (five minutes from our little home) to watch the sunset. Wind whipped hair into laughing eyes and sand flew at us and burned like flecks of fire against our calves as we ran along the tide.
I forgot how big God is.
I felt Him smile in the glowing, orange-tinged clouds stuck against our dome of sky.
I feel like I'm in love . . .
I love this city.
I love these people.
I love this God.
It's been a big week for me . . . back to work, and I love my job more now than I ever did before (though I must confess, I miss my students from last year so bad I almost cried on Wed afternoon - but lots of them have come back to visit). And I feel the meaning in it even deeper this year than last . . .
I started my last semester of grad school Thursday night - it's been a wonderful journey and definitely challenged my worldview - but I have to admit I can't wait to be done (about 100 pages to my thesis now)!
And Friday night felt heavy on the corner . . .
I haven't been out in some time now - except to visit some of my girls one night in August, I haven't been on my Late Night Outreach team since early June. I was excited to go back out - I'd missed so many of our girls . . . and my team. But I think I'd forgotten, in part, the schock of what goes on on that corner.
Ten minutes into the evening, blood was shed - White girl working "out of pocket" - breaking the rules of the street. On the track, the political justice system falls through the cracks - Street Justice holds order. Black girl chased her down the street, grabbed her long, red mane, and beat her face against the pavement until she bled. She ran away crying, dress falling off to expose her vulnerability, face bleeding and torn - legs flecked with blood. I was standing a foot away - using a teacher voice that I knew held no weight here, but unsure of what to do. I would have been a fool to enter the brawl - was I fool to stand there frozen?
The Black girl explained later she'd lost her cousin last week - again, it was a matter of injustice and racism. She didn't know what to do with the anger. She was sorry . . . but she was mad. Under Street Law, there's little grace - eye for an eye, blood for blood - and the wheel of racism rolls on.
An hour later - a 12 year old girl, drugged and glazy-eyed, followed two women to our corner. She admitted to me it was her first night out - but pretended she was 18, in college. Sometimes I have to stop my mind - she was younger than my students. YOUNGER. And I wish I didn't know the violence that she would surely face . . . I wish I didn't know there was a 12 year old girl walking the track in my city at 1:30 in the morning.
Police cars roving the track. They saw her. They did nothing. I had a conversation with a cop that night - normally, I can control my hot-headedness. I was calm when I talked to him - but seething on the insides. He said he couldn't pick a girl up - even a 12 year old - without reasonable cause to believe she was working. (Does walking the track half-clothed in the middle of a cold night count?) He said we were making his job harder - giving the girls reason to be out. (No, no - giving the girls hope to leave.) Those weren't my responses - I was kind.
But if that 12 year old had been a White girl, he wouldn't have left her on the street . . . our team grieved over that together . . .
I wish there was a way I could help my people to see the oppression of racism - I couldn't see it before. Now I can't close my eyes to it. I'm hurting over this city . . .
I remember when I was in high school, and all I could ever talk about was Africa. I remember praying, "Jesus, I know I'm useless in Africa if I can't love my own people - give me compassion for America." My friend Britan and I would drive up to Seattle and walk the streets in the evenings . . . praying and praying that Christ would come to these houses - these streets - these people.
I didn't know that those prayers would lead to this ache - this rage - this passion - for my city, for justice, for peace. I love this city. I love my life. I love these people . . .
I don't want to leave until I see my King come back to wipe away their tears.
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