In going through all the boxes of things piled in my Fayetteville room, I found my farewell note from the flirt of Cusco, Juan Carlos.
Sure he was sweet with many girls on our June 2010 trip, but he drew me in anime, so ours was true love.
(For the record, anime is my absolute best look.)
When expressing her desire for me to come and deal with all my junk (she put it in nicer terms), mom noted, "you've gone without the stuff in those boxes for months, you must have a lot in there you don't need."
More than you need, more than you need, more than you need.
It's like a broken record playing in my head, day in and day out. Except for it's not broken-- it's the truth. It's not some fluke on a record, it repeats for a reason.
I've always heard that the passage of the bible where Jesus commands the rich man to sell all of his possessions and give is not a chastisement of wealth, but really more of a warning. I've also heard that it isn't a direct command to every Christian, only really those who feel that call or whose wealthy living directly inhibits his or her ability obey Christ.
More than you need.
This is the part where I try telling myself that I'm not really that wealthy.
I tell myself that I know plenty of people with lots more money than this college grad who are perfectly lovely, obedient Christians.
This is where I try and crawl out of that box marked "felt called"-- the one that obligates me to the command first directed towards the rich young ruler.
obligate.
To bind, compel, or constrain by a social, legal, or moral tie.
Who wants obligation? For a long time, not me. I would see commercials and ads and, yes, blog posts with statistics like:
Half the world - nearly 3 billion people - live on less than two dollars a day.
640 million have no adequate shelter
1 in 7 has no access to health services
The richest 2% of the world's population own half of the world's wealth.
I'd see these and harden my heart to it all-- how dare they tug at feelings of moral duty or try to attack me for my social standing? How dare those people obligate me?
But the Lord is doing a number on that hardened heart. Partly through that broken record. Partly through making my peace with the fact that it is true, not everyone feels the burden of the call, and not everyone is obligated to the command. But mostly, he's accomplishing the softening of my heart in making it not an obligation at all.
Slowly, over time, it's turned into an invitation and I am eager for the approaching occasion.
invite.
To ask for the presence or participation of.
To attract.
The pangs aren't annoying feelings of duty or guilt.
I don't have to give up major aspects of my life here. I don't have to respond to statistics of hunger and poverty. I don't have to believe Christ and give out of what I've received from the Giver.
I want to.
want.
to be without or deficient in.
to wish, crave. to fall short by (a specified amount).
I always thought "wanting for nothing" meant having more than enough. Yet I have more than I need and still want.
Poor little rich girl, right?
The label is just another resemblance to the rich young ruler.
Yes, I want in a way that increasingly makes life here feel like it falls short. A way that kinda stinks because, honestly, I love life here. I love living with my sister and celebrating birthdays altogether and babysitting my nephew when needed and nannying and surprising my parents with visits. What more could a girl want?
More than half the world dreams of a life like this.
More than you need. More than you need. More than you need.
Finding Juan Carlos's card earlier today sent me clicking through my flickr album of the Peru trip. Immediately I recalled the results of a dozen gifts inventories I've taken over the years. My strengths?
1.) Hospitality-- "the ability to meet the basic social needs of and to extend care to persons beyond ones immediate circle of friends."
2.) Helps/Service-- "the ability and overwhelming desire to aid persons in need. The ability to perform the most basic acts of kindness as a means to embody the gospel."
3.) Mercy-- "the ability to identify with and feel the pains and hurts of another person and the capacity to help that person move beyond those pains and hurts."
(A discussion of strengths is not complete without due regard to
weaknesses, which for me include:
1.) Administration-- "ability to organize resources and persons for effective ministry."
2.) Prophecy--"receive, reveal or interpret God's truth, publicly, no matter the risk or consequence."
3.) Leadership-- "understand ones own principles and vision to communicate those and to challenge others to move into the future").
It's my smile in the pictures that brings the gifts to mind. Is it any wonder the smile is brighter when I'm beyond my immediate circle, encountering admitted need, and concentrated on embodying the gospel?
"Overwhelming desire" is included in the description, for crying out loud. Lumiere is right. Life is so unnerving for a servant who's not serving.
Unnerve.
To deprive of fortitude, strength, or firmness of purpose.
The truth is that I've never once had to talk myself into caring about the statistics and the pain.
I've just spent a long time trying to talk myself out of caring. I've done my best to harden my heart to it all because I am happy here.
The broken record shows back up and I feel like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality, accosted by the taxi cab. "I'm GLIDING here!"
But the smile is out there-- the smile of a girl overwhelmed by the privilege of the invitation and the joy of humbling self to the occasion.
All of this is to say that this is the weirdest season.
I'm living happily, without want while living longingly, with great want.
Out of all the gifts to you, you shall present every contribution due to the LORD; from each its best part is to be dedicated.
They planned to encircle the entire high school building and prevent us from leaving.
Those of us considered lesser. Less accomplished, less learned, less worthy.
Those of us considered less.
This was discrimination. One of my only real experiences with it.
I was at the mercy of my senior classmates. And their water guns and balloons.
Even that was shockingly frightening. We were scared to exit the building that day. They only had water. Those "wounds" healed about at quickly as it took my collared shirt to dry-- the duration of my carpool ride home. And it wasn't really discrimination-- they were just having a little fun practicing their seniority one last time.
I didn't inflict them, they aren't my fault and since I'm not responsible I shouldn't have to apologize for them. I wasn't at the lunch counters or surrounding the bus stations. I wasn't shouting death threats or picking up lead pipes. I was neither the oppressed nor the oppressor.
This is a new era.
That much I know to be true.
I also know that a great amount of the argument for color-blindness-- the idea that we'll put aside race altogether, forget skin color and consider each other no different-- is good. We've generally reached the point in this country when we're just sick and tired of racism. We're tired of being accused of it, we're tired of watching it in practice.
We want the dream. We want this chapter to be closed.
We want to wash our hands of the iniquity that split this country and Woolworths down the middle. And it was sin. The hatred was sin.
"8 If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, “Love your neighbor as yourself,”you are doing right. 9 But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. 10 For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it.
...
12 Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, 13because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment."
(James 2:8-10, 12-13)
Maybe some didn't know it to be sin. After all, all they knew was what they knew-- and that was segregation. Story after story, white southerners come forward to say, "I didn't know better."
Many don't come forward because they fear they won't be believed at their word. They fear they will be met with "How couldn't you have known? When you saw the beatings and the blood and you heard the suppression of peace songs, of God songs, how could you have missed it?" They feel they'll be accused before they are able to give witness. They feel shut down, possibly even ashamed, and they aren't looking for more shame at the hands of people who they believe will inevitably respond with bitterness. Instead, they let the guilt they feel accused of fester, until they've come up with a defense. I didn't do anything to you, how dare you accuse me, why do you keep making this an issue?
On the other side-- in the 60's dubbed the integrationists, or agitators or negro-lovers-- a counter-argument brews. You made this an issue first. When you made the signs and nailed them to your businesses, when you shut down schools rather than have black students, when you burned down buses rather than let black men and women-- boys and girls, really-- through your state, you made it an issue.
When you bombed the churches and killed the school girls and shot our leaders, the men standing in the gap, you made it an issue.
Then the rebuttal. I wasn't there, I didn't do those things, and I resent that you'd make that accusation.
And in the back and forth, an answer of grace:
I'm not saying you did it. Put your pride aside. This isn't about you. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad that I couldn't hold a meeting in a church or bus terminal without fearing my life upon my exit. Not at you. At it. Mad that it happened. Not accusing you. Just wishing someone would acknowledge that it happened. Wishing the oppressors would admit they were wrong, not just declare us moved on. I'm hurt. You're hurt. We all have an opinion on these things. I'm sick and tired of feeling deeply about these things but the different sides not talking through this for fear of judgment and accusation from the other side. Let's lay our pride down. Me first. I'll say I'm sorry you felt prematurely judged, accused. I don't mean to make you feel responsible. I just want you to know. I want to be known. And you? Don't you want to tell your side? Don't you want me to know your story? The story of your life and why you felt these things were okay? I'm willing to listen. Not talk. Just listen.
I want to know you. I want to love you. If the sixties were a time of oppressor v. oppressed, I don't wish for a reversal of roles. I don't mean to harbor bitterness in an effort to achieve betterness or hold on to an attitude of superiority. I don't want to make this an issue or raise my voice. I don't want special treatment or a handout. I just want to be known, loved.
I was a junior in high school. Scared of my own classmates, friends with their water pistols.
I can't imagine the fright of the junior in college, surrounded by fully grown men with bulletpistols.
And I can imagine why she wants me to know her story. I can imagine why she might want someone to acknowledge that that was never okay. She's not trying to pester or agitate. She just wants me to think. She wants me to understand. And she wants me to move on. Move forward. The image of the prison matrons of Parchman (the most notorious maximum security prison in the country at the time) will not unburn itself from her memory. The smell of pinesol and the feeling of abrasive vaginal exams wont erase from her mind.
She's not making this an issue, it is an issue.
It is her story and it is littered with injustice. Not an exaggeration or sob story. She doesn't want my pity. She wants my respect. She deserves my respect. She isn't perfect. She knows that. And I can know that she isn't perfect, I can know it's not my fault she experienced what she did and still look into her deep blue eyes and say, "I'm sorry."
Funniest thing. When I do that, I get what most white southerners yearn to hear as they make their defense against a presumed accusation of racism. "Oh, well. It's not your fault."
From the Reverend, once a 21-year-old sophomore in Richmond who got on a bus headed south in the name of freedom, just a piece of advice. He speaks in the imperative. "You just have to find something you are passionate about and do it. Get on your bus."
Later, after I've thanked him for being here today, for sharing his story even now, 50 years later, he sings. On stage, on the spot, the songs that carried a movement. In jail cells, their matresses were taken away as punishment for singing. Joan says it made for better acoustics.
One of the most striking things is their sense of humor.
Oh freedom, oh freedom, oh freedom over me And before I'd be a slave I'll be buried in my grave And go home to my Lord and be free
He sings it from the stage as I watch from across the room. He looks over and I can tell he remembers me from the meet and greet session earlier today. For a moment he stares into my soul and I let him. I sing along and keep contact. He respects my story and I respect his.
These riders aren't here for international acclaim. Mary Washington isn't exactly the place to come for that, anyway, if you know what I mean. They deserve it, and the institution will do its best to recognize that. But. This is about honoring their legacy. Honoring their boldness and courage. Not an exaggeration or a sob story. People who stepped on a bus with trembling hands and voices still moved to sing.
They aren't trying to make me feel guilty. They aren't imparting to me a need to return to the bitterness of 1961 or rallying me around the cause of the black person during the civil rights movement. Indeed, that time has passed. And though it is etched in their memories and carved into their own being, they don't wish the anger on me.
They don't want it for themselves.
They do want me to know the power in numbers. The joy that is possible in the worst strife. The importance of practicing what I believe. Of finding some injustice-- human trafficking, inner city school conditions, poverty, abandonment-- and getting on a new bus.
They aren't fooled. It's 2011 and they know it. They feel every bit of the passing of time. They see that a man born the year of these rides is now president. They see that he's black-- and though he'll have to own his own merit politically, the possibility of a "Negro" in the White House felt so impossible from a jail cell in 1961. His election, whether we whites want to acknowledge it or not, is a triumphant moment. The principle of which King, Lewis, Nash, Farmer, Green, Mulholland, R.Kennedy and literally countless others lived and died for. Not for him, but for his opportunity.
I have a lot of love for black people. It reaches levels of jest when I bust out my "ghetto" accent or express such delight when songs like "Lift Every Voice and Sing" come on in the car.
But it isn't really a joke. I don't want my appreciation to be mistaken as mockery.
I really believe in King's dream. Sure, the tactics of my elementary school to bring about such a belief are at times hilarious and laughable.
But they succeeded in one thing that I am forever grateful for: they imparted empathy into my very young heart. They said "hey, Sadie, you are every bit as worthy of opportunity as Courtland is. Cecil, the girl who throws up on the carpets all the time and Joe, the bully aredifferent from you. But they are not better and neither are you. Every one of you in this classroom, regardless of race or background, are capable of being great."
Okay, they didn't put the descriptions of the kids in there. But they really did bring race and background into the conversation. So that I could know that racism was an issue, that it historically did make a difference, and so I could know that that wasn't okay and I should love everyone regardless of the past.
Even regardless of the bitterness that people on both sides hold onto.
That will fade with time, the bitterness. It just can't last.
Love conquers all.
There goes the idealism in me. But it isn't just Dr. King's dream. It is the Word of God. And according to His word, segregation shouldn't have ever happened.
But it did. We can't change that now, black or white. And there is no longer a physical bus to get on in order to show our solidarity. If there was, I'd be on it in a heartbeat, no doubt.
Which is easy for me to say today because a heart of empathy isn't punishable by a punch or beating or a prison sentence in 2011. For that, I do owe a debt of gratitude to the students who were willing to take both, willing even to accept death for the right to empathize with freedom in 1961.
Mostly, though, if a heart of superiority or betterness is a sin, it is committed first and foremost to God. He is the first to apologize to, which is easiest because we can be assured that he won't hold on to accusations.
3 For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. 4 Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight, so that you may be justified in your words and blameless in your judgment. 5 Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me. 6 Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being, and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.
(Psalm 51:3-6)
We are then forgiven. We can apologize to those still hurting from a hurtful time. We can spread the forgiveness as we hold fast to the Word of God and embark to hear other people's stories. As a Christian, I feel responsible for being at the forefront of that movement. The one that says to society, I am sorry that if in my service to God I've neglected to humble myself to be a servant of man, that you might see the humility of a person truly forgiven of their sins.
Not responsible for the wounds or the beatings or the scars. Not even alive in 1961.
But alive in 2011. And, in being alive, affected. And, affected, wanting to help. And, in wanting to help, willing to say "I'm sorry." Willing to put aside pride. Wanting no glory, just wanting to love God and love people.
That's not even black civil rights specific, and neither does your mission have to be.
I'm not just a lover of Negro spirituals or all things black history for the sake of a hobby.
I love it because I like stories of courage and humility.
Of love, not glory.
I like them because they affect me, make me feel like I'm living in the shadow of great legacy, in a time of great opportunity.
I like black history and music because it reminds me to love God first, and in a way that will reflect love to his people.
Could I?
They remind me that I am to be an agent of peace in a bickering world.
In July I got a letter from Zaida's family. They thank me for doing what I can to help their family and tell me that she is as sweet as she looks. And that she likes cucumbers.
One more way we are alike.
I wrote a letter back but never looked up the address and then went to school and then back home and then moved and then went back to school again. And now I'm here.
That is what I've done in the way of loving on that family. I found that letter tonight and shook my head and sat down with a new pen to start over.
I went back to the post I wrote about her in June where I was reminded that this time last year I was desperate to do something. God granted that opportunity in ways I didn't expect and I'm so grateful to him for it.
I sometimes thought it was too much. Too much to think about, too many problems, too much doubt, too many lessons, too much me. Other times I thought it wasn't enough. Not enough change, not enough meaningful work, not enough sacrifice, not enoughof me.
I wanted a year that looks more like hers and less like mine. (Which, I know, sounds stupid because I really had a good year.)
I don't want to just be the American woman referenced in this post (that I shortened a bit) written by Katie (the mother of 14 in Uganda) in February:
"She was eighteen years old and she had never been in love with anyone she could touch before. I mean, she had been in love with Jesus since she was little, but this was different, touchable love.
In her eyes he was perfect. He loved the Lord, not to mention he was pretty darn cute. He went to church with her and joined her on silly errands and at family dinners. He made her giggle by saying things that only she found funny. He made her heart flutter when he swept that one always-stray piece of hair out of her eyes.
They were the “perfect couple.” They were desperately in love; one lit up as the other entered the room. They could see their beautiful future together. After high school, they would go together to college, get married, work a bit, settle down and have children with his eyes and her big smile. They would grow old together, laughing at secrets and kissing each other goodnight.
And then God asked her to move to Uganda. At first it was just going to be a year. They could do a year. She would come back and they could still go to college together and all their dreams would still come true. When the Lord asked her to adopt her first children, it became a bit more complicated. She rationalized that her youngest was 7, so in 11 years, she could move back home and be with him. But her children kept getting younger and His call kept getting stronger. She would go back in 13 years, in 17 years, in 20 years. Finally she came to terms with the fact that God was just asking her to STAY. And that when He said He wanted ALL of her, He meant all. She would live in Uganda. But she held on to her love because remaining comfortable was so much easier than dealing with the hurt and the emptiness would be.
Her eyes were opened and her life was changed. She couldn’t pretend to be the same person. She couldn’t sit still in his would anymore, it made her head spin and her heart ache. And still she held on because she didn’t love him any less. She knew God could move mountains and she prayed He could change his heart. After all, such a love must have been God orchestrated.
He made her feel beautiful as she walked through life as a single mom covered in dust and spit up. He appreciated her even when everyone else forgot to say thank you. He believed in her when the rest of the world said raising eighty thousand dollars or adopting ten children was silly. Even from the other side of the world, he cheered her on and he picked her up when she just didn’t feel strong enough. His voice on the other end of the phone turned a rough day right around.
They were moving in opposite directions. They both new it, but they both refused to let go.
So she asked God for a very specific sign. For something that she thought very unlikely if not absolutely impossible. And then something devastating happened. God gave her the sign that she asked for. So she kissed him goodbye and drove away and cried so hard that she doubted she would ever breathe again. She tried not to wonder if anyone would ever love her like that again or how she would do this all alone.
And that’s when He reminded her that she wasn’t. That HE would make her feel beautiful as a single mom covered in dust and spit up. That He appreciated her even when everyone else forgot to say thank you. That He believed in her when the rest of the world thought everything she did was crazy. That He would cheer her on and pick her up when she justdidn’t feel strong enough. That His voice whispering in her ear would turn those rough days right around. That He would ALWAYS be faithful. That His love would be unconditional. That He, her ONE TRUE LOVE would never leave or forsake her and would give her heart’s desires. That He would make all things new, ever her shattered heart.
* * *
A few days ago an American woman who had spent about three days of her life in a third world country looked at me and said, “I would SO love to do what you do. I would do it in a heartbeat. Oh, I would take 14 kids in a second!” It is a good thing that I was having a graceful day, because I said, “Aw that’s nice.” But my not so graceful heart was angry. And the not so graceful voice in my head wanted to say to her, “Ok then, do it. I can have you 14 orphaned, abandoned, uncared for children tomorrow. So here is what you have to do: Quit school. Quit your job. Sell your stuff. Disobey and disappoint your parents. Break your little brother’s heart. Lose all but about a handful of friends because the rest of them think you have gone off the deep end. Break up with the love of your life. Move to a country where you know one person and none of the language. And when you are finished, I will be here waiting with your 14 children!” I wanted to ask her what was stopping her, knowing that the answer would be her comfort. I wanted to look at her and tell her that my life was full and joyful and WONDERFUL, but I also wanted to tell her to COUNT THE COST. Because my life IS full and joyful and wonderful, but it is NOT easy. My life is NOT glamorous. I do not expect it to be. I do not think that anything about carrying a cross was easy or glamorous either.
Which brings me to my point. I am not actually that angry about what that woman said, it was just an offhanded comment. But it got me to thinking… How many times to we grieve our sweet Savior’s heart because we refuse to COUNT THE COST? How many times do we choose comfort instead of the cross?
...
I wonder today if I had been one of the people listening to Jesus as He spoke in Luke 9 and 14, if Jesus would have convinced me to follow Him or if I would have walked away. I believe I would have really really wanted to say goodbye to my family. I wonder about “Christians” today. We wear Jesus on our T-shirts, we wear His cross around our neck and a bumper sticker with His name on it on our car. Have we just laid the foundation without being able to build the building? Does Jesus feel like I did when a woman I didn’t know told me she would love to do what I do but I knew that she never would? Do we claim the precious name of Jesus Christ without counting the cost? Without being willing to REALLY give it all? And does Jesus, in His infinite grace, look at us and say, “Aw, that’s nice,” but really with the furry that he flipped over the tables in the temple want to spit our lukewarm selves out of His mouth?
...
I do not claim to have the answers. I do not claim to be doing it right. I do claim to believe that the words of Jesus are absolutely true and apply to me, right now today. I want to give EVERYTHING, no matter the cost. NO MATTER THE COST. Because I believe that nothing is sacrifice in light of eternity with Christ."
So there you have it. No, Katie isn't perfect and no, hers are not the words of God himself. But she is frustrated by some of the things that I really believe frustrate him. I just want my heart to be there, too. I want to not be terrified of the cost. But I look in the eyes of 6 wonderful family members and tremble. Not because they wouldn't be supportive of my decision to go or because they'd be mad. The opposite, really. I tremble because they love me so much they wouldn't call me crazy. They'd encourage me with sweet notes and reassuring calls like they already do.
I cry thinking about it because it really is doable. Because they're the most understanding springboard into the world God could've given me. I cry because I love the roots my parents have provided me so much that I want to selfishly disregard the wings. I want them for myself. I want the Christmases and the birthdays and the moments. I want that for them because they adore me and despite all the reasons they shouldn't, they treasure time with me. I want that for me because when I know of all the ways I'm not, they say I am adorable. As in worth adoring.
People spend their days yearning for the expression of that kind of unconditional love. The kind that differentiates between a persons value and their behavior. The kind of love that corrects an attitude without punishing a personality. The kind of which I feel the very unworthy recipient.
I tremble because I know that the reason I wouldn't want to leave is the very reason I should. Experiencing the safety of the kind of love that leads to laughter and soul-sharing and great amounts of fun and purpose-seeking and conflict resolution is the reason I should risk a little to pass it on. Having so much is the very reason I should give a little in return.
Other people come from different places or, as in the case of my siblings, come from the same background and are called to different things. I don't want that others feel less loved or less worthy because they don't share my conviction-- the truth being that we are all loved far more than any of us are worthy. So that takes care of that.
I just can't deny that I feel simultaneously pushed and pulled to somewhere new.
I know God has a hand in that. And I can honestly say ultimately I want him to have his way in my life. The steps to get there are just a little fuzzy. And I get distracted. And then I find a letter and he says, in a whisper full of all undue grace, "Sadie, you wrote a draft." I can't snap my fingers and be Katie any faster than the rookie on the football team can wriggle his nose and become Brett Favre. (please enjoy that very rare sports reference).
It is the little things, then it's the big things. Sure, my heart longs for the day that I feel I'm making some sort of dent in this world but I won't get there if my heart doesn't love God and the dents he's making here, in me, first.
Over break, with my Penneys gift card in tow, I scoured the store for a good purchase. By scoured I mean followed Mom like a duckling because we stick together for these sorts of things. When she ran off I started quacking like a lost duckling, mostly to mock my own lack of independent shopping skills. When she answered mine and Emily's call we went to check the jewelry sales.
I, being me, went right on over to the sentimental jewelry with the Oprah sayings and gandhi quotes and all. (Does anyone else have such trouble knowing where to put the "h" in his name?!) I really don't love a ring with words and I don't subscribe to Taoism, but one struck a chord with me.
The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.
I refer often to the 1000 mile distance between here and home. That was one of the best decisions I've made. By far one of the scariest for me and head-scratch-worthy for my parents. Instead they put on their game faces that God granted through his peace. And it has only been by his provision that I've stayed. (It didn't always look good).
Every bit of this phase, this thousand mile journey that I've so loved was at one point a ginormous-looking step.
Sometimes it's hard to know where to start. Which step gets me to the place I want to be? The honest truth is that it's not up to me to know. Right now I just keep hearing Sadie you wrote a draft. I promise it's not just me being hard on myself. And as silly as it may seem, I really feel like the next step is to simply write the letter and send it this time
Meanwhile, I'll let Jesus be the author and perfecter of my faith (Heb. 12:2). I'll let him decide what this year will look like and if it bears any resemblance to Katie's. I just hope that by the end of it my heart resembles hers in the way she resembles him.
"Therefore strengthen the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated, but rather be healed. Pursue peace with all people, and holiness, without which no one will see the Lord." Hebrews 12:12-14
p.s.-- in writing this I've eaten way more twizzlers (courtesy of the roommates) than my "p90X" workout with Dina this morning made room for. Yes those were air quotation marks denoting sarcasm. Don't ask.
Some days I don't want to be a "public intellectual." (That's what I will supposedly be by the end of my Freedom Riders class).
I don't want to spend $300 dollars on books for myself.
I don't want to read about injustice, hurt and pain.
Days I don't even want to read about the solution.
Some days I just want to be a part of it.
I want to be scrubbing mold from bathrooms.
Hugging parentless kids.
Praying through my days per the persistent reminder that ultimately, I have nowhere else to turn.
I am so blessed to be here and it is a privilege I do not resent, getting a college degree in a subject I really like. I do enjoy giving it the "old college try." But who are these teachers kidding? Wisdom and knowledge isn't just in me, waiting to be realized. I don't have answers to even the most worthwhile questions to ask. I don't even like pretending that I do.
There are days it is tiring to talk myself out of the basic premise my teachers put forth. Days when I crave being surrounded by leaders whose faith, not just intellect, I admire.
Many days here seem very far from there.
(the pictures are Brians @ http://www.facebook.com/pages/Brian-K-Gray-Photography/268089692141)
I guess I never mentioned on this blog that we moved.
Moved. Past tense. That is so odd.
Let me tell you something else, though, moved is not synonymous with unpacked.
That is what we continue to work on, on this, the 30th day of December.
As in 2 days until 2011. Which is funny because that's the year I'm going to graduate.
Click.
Right, yes, I am graduating this year. It's to the point of being asked 36 times a day what I'm going to do after graduation and it's a legitimate question. The usual answer is something like "well I'm going to be doing some interviewing in the spring for flight attendant positions within the U.S."
Where? "Anywhere." Which one? "The one that will hire me."
It seems about as ridiculous as the conversations I used to have about going to some school far, far away that I knew no real details about.
Except.
Except for then I had a real peace-- a real sense of direction. Like I had no clue but I knew what I was doing. This time it feels like I both have no clue and no idea what I'm doing.
Which would be a little humiliating and quite frightening to admit to the general public (hello, family) except for that there is another option that I've been tiptoeing around for about a week now. And in all honesty, it seems a bit more synonymous with the UMW option of 2007 than the flight attendant thing.
Flight attending, while competitive and not a guaranteed position, is more like the safe route of the Ouachita option of 2007. Like that thing that I'd always pictured myself doing and feel I'd have no problem with and could do well and would probably have a good time with except for that I've made a life out of having a good time and would really like to know the God that I claim makes life worth living.
So I chose UMW against really all odds and with a Mom that pretty much thought me crazy right on up to the minute she drove away from campus with an empty U-haul and an outside-of-his-mind-sort-of-sick husband. Because the truth is that I hadn't a clue what I was doing. But I knew I was doing it. Kicking and screaming or not, God wanted me in that place and if he had to provide friends and community and great teachers and a church and a whirlwind job to get me there he would, but by God I was going to do it.
Seems like most of the time I spent at UMW has been to prepare me for the next step. And it is exhausting to keep up my own glass-half-full-I'm-here-for-a-purpose spirit amidst the things of life that become so daily. I get insecure and exclusive and persuaded and hurt and offended and I second guess myself more easily than I like to admit, but I know that ultimately things could be worse and I am here for a purpose and I believe that about everyone I encounter and would like so badly for other people to believe that about themselves and me that I spend hours talking about life and God and adjust myself to what I think those people might need in order to see that in themselves that I forget to stop and talk to God instead of about him and that's incredibly difficult when my job is to talk about him but most times I don't like to go before God because he is the one person who says "you can be yourself and I'll be happy" (matter of fact it's the only way he'll be happy) and I'm so, so caught up in what I'm supposed to be that I forget who I actually am and what I really want-- and that is to know him.
Longest. sentence. ever.
Not even really a sentence as so much the headline that scrolls at the bottom of the screen that is my mind.
Getting to know God is incredibly difficult when I don't know how to be myself in front of him. Even more difficult is knowing that who I am when I'm before him is actually quite frustrated by the person I am when I'm living apart from him.
As a result of this move out of 4 Beeson Ct., we lived with Luke and Stephanie for a couple of weeks. They lived with us for the greater parts of 2009 and 2010, so it was kind of an I owe you that was slated for like 2030 when Mom needs a hip replacement and Dad can't find his toupee that we ended up cashing in early. Still a generous gesture when you consider it was their first Christmas in a house with their little family and 4 grown folk straight descended upon it. They continued to speak of how they were happy to do it, and did so quite genuinely. After all, as Luke pointed out "C'mon, Mom, we lived with you for a year and a half, 2 weeks is like a drop in the bucket."
Now you know how well I do with expressions like this. (read: not well). I mean, I had an idea, but wanted to think off of accurate information. Phrases.org and I were buddies, already, anyway. So I learned that its meaning is "a very small proportion of the whole."
At the time he said it, I was brushing my teeth (as the bathroom is, indeed, the social epicenter of the Smith home) and I immediately thought of this move and my own next move. See, God did everything for us. Hence, the Christmas shebang. That's what we're celebrating. And the first question to ask myself is "did he really save me with the Jesus scenario?" Because if I don't believe that I am in desperate need of a savior and that he came, how on earth (literally) do I expect to live like I have one?
Then, if I truly believe my life would be pointless without salvation, everything God asks of me is just a drop in the bucket.
If I am Luke in the analogy, the recipient of an act of love and generosity (the ability to live with the parents for over a year) then shouldn't my reaction to God (the parents in this analogy-- they do so well with modeling the godly principles I need to learn) be the same?
God you have done so much that whatever you ask of me is all yours to have.
That is an idea that excites and haunts me.
Much like filling out an application to a school that came out of nowhere for no real reason other than I thought it might be a good departure from what felt entirely too safe and known. A thought that was extremely strange for me to be entertaining considering I was that annoying kid that would never distance myself from my mothers legs at any function long enough to make eye contact with a stranger.
Strangely enough, though I spent my life growing up in church, considered myself sufficiently versed in the Bible (as if), and honestly have always known that I should (and wanted to) consider God above all else in life, it felt like God was then making the point that he was that stranger I avoided looking dead in the eyes for an honest, humble "hello, it's good to meet you."
Because, you see, I clung to my mother for dear life even if she knew the person and vouched for them. Matter of a fact, it was especially those people she knew well that I dreaded because I knew she would insist I scoot out from behind her and offer a smile.
I remember very specifically the conversation she had with me one night about how it was rude to ignore people when they were just trying to be friendly and wanted to know me.
In true Sadie fashion, I was secretly devastated that I had offended people and tried to remember to branch out more than was comfortable so people would know I appreciated them being interested in shy little me who, left to my own devices, would just as soon have them turn around and leave me alone.
If there was anyone who deserved that extra effort from me, it was (and is) God.
Approaching the brave new world out there, I now feel like a kid hiding behind the legs of the Almighty himself. He's shown himself faithful to me, tending to needs along the way with a love that the five-year-old me had come to know of mom and dad. My efforts to be a little more bold, more audacious than that little girl taught me that the source of the love I've experienced as the daughter of Chris and Trudy Smith is much larger than them or their commitment to loving me as best they can. And whereas little me thought they were the apex of security and protection, my ventures have surprisingly proved me wrong. They long to provide those things for me, sure and I am so grateful to know it. But it's God who gives me the authority to risk that earthly notion of safety, step out from behind the comfort I've come to know he will always provide, and approach the world.
The big one with all of the pain and the hurt and the sadness that I can't fix by talking about life or about God. The world that I certainly won't help by ignoring the heavy stuff. The one I'm going to have to at some point look in the eye and address. People that God vouches for. The diseased ones, the "weird" ones, the democrats, the republicans, the homosexuals, the immigrants, the sinful ones. The people like me who I have no right to hide from because I have someone to duck behind.
God didn't humble himself to a cross so I could duck behind it.
He is there for safety and protection. He is the shelter of the Most High. He is all those things he promised to be through the prophets of the Old Testament. But if the book of Acts says anything, it's that safety and protection aren't the end of the story. At least not here. For many of the early Christians, the last chapter of their lives was all about action. Action they felt specifically called to because they knew, win or lose, security ascended to heaven 40 days after Christ won it for all and just would not happen on earth while Jesus reigned in heaven.
I want to be the person that asks "how high?" when God says "jump." It begins with a heart that says "anything, God, is a drop in the bucket compared to the forgiveness and grace you constantly show me."
"Surely the nations are like a drop in a bucket; they are regarded as dust on the scales; he weighs the islands as though they were fine dust." -Isaiah 40:15
I want to have weight in this world. But I will be little less than fine dust if I am not on the side of the Weigher, doing that which he specifically nudges me towards. Otherwise, I am a drop in the bucket and that is just a slap in the face of the man who died to offer my teeninesy self a little significance.
I heard this song on the radio today and thought about life. Songs will do that, no?
Okay, so I get the point of it. Oh, I love you so much and all I want to do is love you forever and it'll be all we need. Sweet. I don't know the love of a spouse, or serious relationship even, so one day this song might play at my reception unopposed (unlikely on many counts). But on the premise of its title, I'm here to oppose it today.
There are the usual thoughts running through my head about graduation and beyond. I don't want to waste my life. I don't want a lackluster living. I want my life to matter. I want a life I can love. But then there's this:
26 Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. 27 But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. 28 God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, 29 so that no one may boast before him. 30 It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption. 31 Therefore, as it is written: “Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord.” (I Corinthians 1)
I'm really not opposed to the notion of loving life. By God, I believe there is more to be said about contentedness (paired with holy discontent) than Christians often make a part of the conversation. By "by God" I mean "through Jesus." As in "because of Christmas." Like "the whole point of celebrating this season." Yes, through Jesus we have reason to perhaps irrationally adjust ourselves to this life-- its disappointments and fleeting emotions-- because in honesty, we believe the best is yet to come.
And it is in that spirit (not this oxymoronic anti-contentedness Christmas spirit of this bustling season that our consumerist culture manages to conjure up every year) that I can fervently proclaim "I don't want to love my life away!" It just isn't worth it.
As much as there is this great family to surround me as we pray in the driveway of our 21 year old home.
Even when there is a beautiful, healthy 3 1/2 month old to kiss.
While we get the privilege of setting up a new home with a truckload of beautiful, pleasurable things accumulated over the aforementioned years.
Though there are friends who consider me worthy of their time (even sometimes to the point of being disappointed when I don't take it).
Though truly loveable people flow in and out of the door marked 931 on a weekly basis.
Yes, even with a job that pays me more than I want for something I want to do anyway (this one especially).
It's not worth loving all up on this life.
That is the fastest way to waste it.
Oh, it's so easy to condemn the one without a job. The person who drank away their problems. The kid who did the drugs too hard. The father that walked away. The mom who pursued the affair. The pastor that used poor judgement. Those other people. They wasted their lives away.
"Not me, not I," said the happy one. The self-assured, happy-go-lucky, well-adjusted, self-sufficient, successful one surely had it all. And boy did she love her life. Until the day she stood before the God Who Chooses the lowly things of this earth and realized how little she was actually ever drawn to the "righteousness, holiness and redemption" of the LORD who shames the wise. The One (and perhaps sometimes the only one) who never cared about human standards, because He was never (actually, despite our best efforts) confined by them.
She hardly ever needed those things because she was loving her life away.
We're better wasters of our lives than we let on. Than our titles or bank accounts or plans or diplomas or pictures or smiles let on.
But.
We're also worth more than our lives let on. Than our drinks or drugs or tax returns or laundry piles or tears or depressed thoughts might suggest. Those things that make us feel like we're most days only managing? God has so much more than that for us. Period.
Still, the opposite of "just getting by" is not "reveling in everything I have." That leaves the door wide open for fakers. Like those it is so frustrating to meet behind the doors of all those buildings with the crosses painted on them. Fakers just like you and me. Those who say "well I don't really love my life, but I might could convince the world I do so they'll think more highly of me."
Turns out the difference between loving life and hating it here on Earth is something so small as an unexpected meeting with a boss during which he or she says something like, "it just had to be somebody. It's nothing personal." Perhaps it's five words along the lines of "we did everything we could" that make the difference. Maybe it's not that momentous. Sometimes the difference between a life worth loving or hating by the standards of this world is deeply rooted in who the parents are and what kind of support they offered their child. Some get that great support, others don't. Happy home, mad home.
So I haven't heard those words. So I've had the support and the happy. Should I wish it away?
By any sort of "fluke" I could be sitting on the opposite end of the spectrum. If so, should I wish it away?
No on both accounts. Why? Because either way a.) I'd be fooling myself to believe I have control of the slidy thingy (that's a highly technical term) and b.) I'd still be operating within the spectrum on which any point leaves something to be desired.
Either way-- fortunate or unfortunate, privileged or under-- my happiness or anger would be directed towards the One who does have control of the slidy thingy. So the real challenge is to make my peace with Him. Or better yet, make His peace on this Earth with whatever I have because I sit where I do on that spectrum for a reason. And the discontent only comes from not believing Him enough to make that peace and purpose happen regardless of where I'm coming from.
So I don't want to love my life to the extent that I forget the God who put me here and then let it slip my mind to pursue the why.
I also don't want to get to a place of disliking my life to the point that I keep the facade of loving it just so people might peg me as further up in the contentedness and "blessed" spectrum.
The difference between the two scenarios is an amazingly thin line. And a really, really fragile line at that.
In conclusion. {I heard that}
I don't want to love my life away, because I would hate to hate my life away should the circumstances come along that would "justify" that. I also don't want to love my life away because, circumstances to love or not, there is just more to life than that.
Katie got me thinking about something in her recent post.
And then thinking about it more when we went to see Eat Pray Love tonight.
Life. A combination of the big picture and the little things.
There is a lot about true selves and real happiness and the like in Julia Roberts's latest flick. Taking adventures and shaking things up kind of stuff. She's looking for a way out of her life, a way to find perspective, so she goes traveling.
Here's my thing. Unlike the character Liz, I'm not looking for a way out of my life. But in my own personal ventures, I am finding that I am happiest when I am out of my comfort zone. I'm most drawn to people not like me. I feel for the people who don't have the love and support I was born into. I feel like they don't need my pity, but would most appreciate my understanding. And for some reason I think I have an extra dose of that understanding built into me (where doses of other things are missing, mind you).
Compassion. Without action is simply emotion.
See, I find myself most often trying to shake feelings of sympathy or squashing the courage I begin building to approach an issue. So ideas get put down in my mind before they come close to action.
It's not my fault the world is that way. It's their fault for not making something of themselves. I can't be blamed for being born into better circumstances. I'm not doing anything wrong here.
These are ways I try to drown out thoughts of actually helping things.
Excuses. They sound so terrible written in black and white because they are that terrible. They are a way of saying "no." And they sound fine and reasonable in my head, but written plainly like that I can see them for the sin that they are. Could there be anything more frustrating to God than a Christian prepared with excuses?
I don't know. I'm not Him.
Which is something that always comes back to surprise me when I can't come up with a way to help people and step out of my comfort zone on my own. All I can do is toss around a few ideas in my mind that never come close to fruition because by myself I can offer about as much as emotion.
Compassion, the kind that makes a difference, really is prompted by God-sized ideas and opportunities. Which I feel like He'd go ahead and offer me if I weren't so armed with reasons to say "no."
My family is here. I'm happy here. It's too hard to be depended on. I can't handle that. I'm young and dependent on support from home. It's not safe. I'm afraid.
Of what, Sadie?
Being happiest? Didn't you just admit you're happiest outside of your comfort zone?
Well, yes. Yes I did. What is that about?
But, Lord, there's nothing wrong with here. I don't do anything wrong here.
I've been reading Mark Batterson again lately and he reminded me yesterday that you can do nothing wrong with your life and still do nothing right.
For me the big picture is easy to see. I'm an idealist, after all, and we don't have a problem envisioning the way things should be. And it doesn't take up too much of my imagination to find a way that little things (even the big little things) can be reconciled to the eventual bigger, ideal picture.
I can go from little things to big picture and back to seeing big picture in little things faster than you can say "carpe deum." Things that have already happened? Well but of course they will add up to a number greater than the sum of the parts and a beautiful image will be made of the pieces.
But the future? It's harder for me to know how to make the little things add up to the big picture I'd like my life to end up looking like. Where to go from here to end up where I want to be? I like outside of the comfortable, but I don't want to be irresponsible. I love venturing off, but am very aware that I'm only able to do so because of the many ways my family supports me from home. Unlike Liz, I feel like the big picture perspective comes pretty easily to me-- it's the making it jive with decisions about my future or how I choose to treat people every day that perplexes me.
I'm good at the doing nothing wrong.
But what about the something right? What about the flourishing?
What if I mess something up? What if I make a mistake? What if I upset someone? It's like to me each little thing has to reflect the big picture (the ideal, if you will) and I'm so afraid of each piece not mirroring the perfection of the bigger picture-- the part where everything is redeemed and taken care of and harmonious-- that I cease to take advantage of my resources and well-wishing emotions to act with compassion.
I love different people. I love different places. I love that my God does not depend on my circumstances and I love the little bit of that theory that I've had the privilege to find tried and true. I know that He is big picture-- the redeemer, the provider, the giver of peace. And I'm determined to find Him in the little day-to-day of life around me.
What scares me is to turn around on my life and not see Him in the little things about my own life. Do the little things about my life point to redemption and care and peace beyond circumstance? Oh, God, I wish they would. That's what I'm concerned about.
And that is why I'm packing my bags and loading up my little red sports car sunfire on another little adventure to a place where the bigger picture seems to make its way into the every day with a little less interruption.
It's not about getting away from my life, it's about really getting into it.
And with graduation approaching the only real question on my mind is, "where to next?"
First of all, I am sorry if the following words, or amount therein, reflect this month-long blogging absence. Given that I've had three references from other people regarding the length of my typical post, I guess those of you still here are used to it by now.
Where have I been?
Well, Peru, for starters. Also, Paron, Arkansas. I know, world traveler. I'm VIP like that.
Actually, a good deal of my time finds itself devoted to making me feel not so important.
In my teenage days (i.e. a year ago) I would've taken those thoughts in for a tea party and we'd sing songs and I'd be so proud of myself that I-- seemingly far before my peers-- was no longer wrapped up in my own importance. I was humble, if you will. (shakes head "no")
Over time, though, the pride would fill my heart and move on to my lungs without having become good buddies with selflessness back at the tea party. My words, even those joking prods, carried with them such self importance. By the time I really heard them coming out of my mouth, I'd be mortified.
Why?
Because in the depths of my heart (where sometimes there is only the darkest of corners reserved for Jesus) I hate selfishness. I hate being inconsiderate. I hate feeling important.
Really.
What I'm finding is that there is some amount of humility involved in that sentiment. But it is lost on the pride that eventually makes it's way to the power of my words. And those words could be making their escape because Jesus has only a dark corner reserved in my lungs, as well. I end up hearing what I'm saying and how it must be affecting hearing ears and then I beat myself up, convinced once again that I should never allow myself to feel important. And the cycle begins again.
If you're exhausted, join the club.
So sure, there is some good coming from the mindset that says "what I want isn't that important." But done in the spirit of being a hero or feeling not in the least bit useful is contrary to what Jesus taught his difference-making disciples who were, by themselves, unimportant.
Jesus will whisper something to that effect to me from His corners. But the message comes across much clearer when I have Him to the sunroom for tea.
I'm learning to not let feelings of inadequacy or even total selflessness take His spot. They are not always helpful and they do not put me leagues above my peers, as my pride tries to convince me of. If I let myself feel unimportant, I am ill prepared to believe God to make a difference in and then through me. What a terrible thing to miss, given that to love God and to love people is the purpose of my existence.
I've spent the past month searching for the words to write about Peru. I felt, though, that in order to properly report, I'd need to be able to share exactly how the trip changes my approach to my future. I'd need to be able to say how I'm changed. And that, to be honest, remains to be seen.
The stories I encountered were amazing, the children so loving, the opportunities amazing. Don't get me wrong. But I can't get on here and say that it changed my life without any examples.
I can say for certain that Peru gave me a desire to make a difference. While there, I heard the Whisper from the depths that said I've got to see in myself the potential that God already sees. I have to believe Him to make a difference and, in that, find my importance. I'm finding that my struggle all along has been feeling so terribly unimportant while carrying a burning desire to live a life of importance. The former tends to smother the latter when one loses confidence in (or sight of or time with) the One who makes the difference.
So I'm done searching for the words to say about where I've been.
And this day, for starters, will be about seeking where to go from here.
This girl with a shy heart is doing her best to dream big in hopes (and there is hope) of discovering a bigger, more able, more important God. Of course, He will not have changed. But my view of Him will have.
I crave that. For my future. For the future of my relationships. I want to know that gradual transformation for the sake of making a difference in the lives of Peruvian and Arkansan kids alike.
It worked once before, the dream big thing, with the college era. But I want it deeper still. The opportunity for that knocks as the era comes to an end.
Timid-to-dream me is reading titles like "Cure for the Common Life" and "Captivating" and "You Matter More Than You Think", believing now that there is a very dangerous aspect of feeling not at all important. It has much to do with having very little faith in the ability of God to make dreams come true for His glory.
In Peru, dreams came true for me. And I believe God was glorified through our time and work there. It's time, now, that He be glorified by the future I pursue given the dreams He made come true then. Given that He once again proved Himself faithful.
Across 3500 miles.
The stake no longer sits at 1000.
Lord, show me how to meet you where the stakes are higher. My feeling unimportant reflects a laziness to pursue the important difference you want to make in my life. Be the difference, God, as I count the cost.
I'm at my friend Sarah's apartment getting ready to boogie.
She has amazing-smelling soap. Now you know.
I don't have my camera to document, so I figured I'd use my words.
Hey! Speaking of boogie, remember that time I had sinusitis during exam week? (get it?!)
It may be gross, but I feel the need to express how happy I am that that's over. Finished my antibiotics today, even.
This week is flying by. What with the lunch dates with Deirdre and Mrs. Engel, Matt Paxson, Sandy, the dinner outings with Peterso and some fabulous interns, speaking at 180, moving, watching Free Willy 4, Ice Castles (and consequently actual skating videos on youtube ;) can't break the habit), reading up on some Bible, praying over my future and specifically Washington, D.C., going through pictures, unpacking, enjoying some bomb pops, running miscellaneous errands (the wedding related ones are the best!) and in all of this napping and (finally) getting eight some-odd hours of sleep each night on a perfectly lovely futon at La Petit Maison Blanche.
Yes, staycation in FredVegas has a little extra spark that the city usually lacks in my own rush.
I love this place. I love these friends. I love my job. I love what each teaches me.
And I love the promise that I can anticipate better, sweeter, deeper in the future.
I am so thankful for the means to go out with a group of people and have a leisurely dinner. So as I get ready tonight, I dare not take it for granted. The dress, the shoes, the food. The boogie.
Better, sweeter, deeper doesn't necessarily mean that I'll always have the physical means to hit the town or even the emotional state to want to party. But while I do, I'm soakin' it up.
Where, oh where, to give back?
It's never far from my mind. The responsibility to do something with all that I have subtly underlays the gratitude in my heart for having it in the first place. Even as I anticipate the future and how that responsibility plays into it all, I will take the gratitude out dancing tonight.
For a boogie or two.
And maybe I'll take these Irish Folk songs on Sarah's computer for a jig, too.
