Except for the past four and a half months, I was single my entire life. There were times that I was skeptical about male/female relationships, when I hated the entire male race, when I swore I'd never let little red hearts float around my head. I had good reasons, which were bad experiences.
A few of my friends are in those skeptical stages. They think that I've abandoned them by abandoning my skepticism. They don't understand why anyone would want to love for risk of pain. They deny any need for someone of the opposite sex in their lives. Maybe you do. I heard a story today that might not alter your view of the future and relationships, but it may alter your view of love in general, maybe even faith. A day later, I heard this story. I'm repeating this story closely to how it was relayed to me. May it reach out from this computer screen and pat you on the shoulder.
My friend Matt's nephew found Matt's dad Ken in the bathroom floor yesterday morning. Ken was in the fetal position, struggling to breathe, and asking for his wife. His wife rushed in, called 911 and our pastor Blake, then went with him to the hospital. Blake rushed there, too. They all prayed desperately for Ken, but shortly later, the doctors told the family that Ken had died of a heart attack. The nurses kept him on a respirator while the family came in to say their last goodbyes. Patients are typically pronounced dead after 30 minutes of being in Ken's state. As Ken's wife Tina began talking to him, the heart monitor registered its first faint beat in 49 minutes.
After more prayer from family and friends and more work from the doctors, Ken was taken into surgery. He made it through and, by this morning, could sit up in bed and respond verbally to questions.
Faith. Hope. Love. I need these. Of the three, my greatest need is love. It grants me the other two. I have the right to be a skeptic. I also have the right to choose not to exercise that right. I believe in the strength and power of genuine love. I believe it can rejuvenate faith then move mountains. I also believe that it can start hearts that have stopped.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
One More Layer
I sat on clear plastic, cross-legged, in sweatpants and an old tee shirt. Burgundy paint dripped from the sponge roller and down the handle, barely missing my new Class of 2006 high school ring. All of my furniture was pushed to the center of my small room as my parents and I worked rigorously near the outside edges.
Daddy always did the trim of any paint job in our house. He was the most meticulous and had the steadiest hand. He pulled the triangular sponge along the molding and corners. My mom, on the other hand, tended to get distracted in the midst of painting, so she took the role of tidying.
She wiped the walls before we started, dusted everything within a ten-foot radius of the paint, and moved items just before they got in our way. This task assignment left me with the roller.
Daddy and I worked silently except for the dipping then dripping of brushes and rollers followed by moist swishing sounds against the walls. If anyone said anything, it was my mom, sharing memories about my childhood while she straightened articles in my room.
My room grew up with me. The walls began as white as a clean dry erase board. They were the background for a red and yellow circus theme when my parents brought me home from Oconee Memorial Hospital in early fall of 1987. Though I had no preference for color as an infant, almost twenty years later, red and yellow were undeniably my favorites.
As I dodged the white molding, I remembered that the walls changed from the white of the nursery to light pink during elementary school. My beloved pastel dolls and tea sets abounded, but my tomboy personality didn't allow that stage to last very long.
I followed the wall with my paint roller until I reached the phone jack. With my new cellular phone, I had no use for the jack anymore, but I certainly did in the late 90s. As I became enamored with various actors and boy-bands, the soft pink walls became the background for posters torn out of Teen Magazine. I remembered the phone that used to be there. It lit up hot pink when it rang, matching the shade of my cheeks if the caller were a boy.
From late middle school to early high school, when my mom insisted that the walls throughout the entire house have the same neutral color, my room turned “dusted olive.” Then, I believed that all boys were stupid and horses were marvelous. We traded my popular posters and girly pinks for horse figurines and rustic browns.
Now, I was a senior in high school. I wanted something more mature. I needed something different because I was different. I was going to be in college soon. I needed this.
I had just returned from my senior trip to Spain, Italy, and France with deep-colored, European souvenirs and artsy pictures. I had also recently inherited my great-grandmother’s antique bedroom suite. The combination of modern Europe and an old heirloom was perfect. Wall to wall mahogany bookshelves were essential for my collection of American classics. I couldn’t afford them now, but they would come. So would the sheer, cream curtains and the silk, orange pillow that I daydreamed of as I sat scraping the dried paint off my tired hands at the end of the day. The presence of my equally exhausted parents reminded me that I was not completely independent. Still, I knew that I stood in the midst of my masterpiece, and underneath were all those layers of paint.
Daddy always did the trim of any paint job in our house. He was the most meticulous and had the steadiest hand. He pulled the triangular sponge along the molding and corners. My mom, on the other hand, tended to get distracted in the midst of painting, so she took the role of tidying.
She wiped the walls before we started, dusted everything within a ten-foot radius of the paint, and moved items just before they got in our way. This task assignment left me with the roller.
Daddy and I worked silently except for the dipping then dripping of brushes and rollers followed by moist swishing sounds against the walls. If anyone said anything, it was my mom, sharing memories about my childhood while she straightened articles in my room.
My room grew up with me. The walls began as white as a clean dry erase board. They were the background for a red and yellow circus theme when my parents brought me home from Oconee Memorial Hospital in early fall of 1987. Though I had no preference for color as an infant, almost twenty years later, red and yellow were undeniably my favorites.
As I dodged the white molding, I remembered that the walls changed from the white of the nursery to light pink during elementary school. My beloved pastel dolls and tea sets abounded, but my tomboy personality didn't allow that stage to last very long.
I followed the wall with my paint roller until I reached the phone jack. With my new cellular phone, I had no use for the jack anymore, but I certainly did in the late 90s. As I became enamored with various actors and boy-bands, the soft pink walls became the background for posters torn out of Teen Magazine. I remembered the phone that used to be there. It lit up hot pink when it rang, matching the shade of my cheeks if the caller were a boy.
From late middle school to early high school, when my mom insisted that the walls throughout the entire house have the same neutral color, my room turned “dusted olive.” Then, I believed that all boys were stupid and horses were marvelous. We traded my popular posters and girly pinks for horse figurines and rustic browns.
Now, I was a senior in high school. I wanted something more mature. I needed something different because I was different. I was going to be in college soon. I needed this.
I had just returned from my senior trip to Spain, Italy, and France with deep-colored, European souvenirs and artsy pictures. I had also recently inherited my great-grandmother’s antique bedroom suite. The combination of modern Europe and an old heirloom was perfect. Wall to wall mahogany bookshelves were essential for my collection of American classics. I couldn’t afford them now, but they would come. So would the sheer, cream curtains and the silk, orange pillow that I daydreamed of as I sat scraping the dried paint off my tired hands at the end of the day. The presence of my equally exhausted parents reminded me that I was not completely independent. Still, I knew that I stood in the midst of my masterpiece, and underneath were all those layers of paint.
Monday, November 3, 2008
My Own Charge
These verses came to me this morning as I was reading Let Me Be a Woman by Elisabeth Eliot. Reading this book has made me reevaluate my female role in the universal realm of all society and in the personal realm of my own current and future family. I highly recommend it along with the many other works she has written. Please read Isaiah 58 today. I know the Lord will be faithful to bless you by the mighty words within it. Here, I have relayed my separated interpretation. It has very many quotes from the New Living Translation.
God starts in verse six to say,
"This is the kind of fasting I want:"
-Free those who are wrongly imprisoned. (v. 6)
-Lighten the burden of those who work for you. (v. 6)
-Let the oppressed go free. (v. 6)
-Remove the chains that bind people. (v. 6)
-Share your food with the hungry. (v. 7)
-Give shelter to the homeless. (v. 7)
-Give clothes to those who need them. (v. 7)
-Do not hide from relatives who need your help. (v. 7)
-Stop pointing your finger and spreading vicious rumors. (v. 9)
-Feed the hungry. (v. 10)
-Help those in trouble. (v. 10)
-Keep the Sabbath day holy. (v. 13)
-Speak of the Sabbath with delight. (v. 13)
What a charge for us. What a responsibility.
But the Lord is so balanced in every way. When He asks us to do huge things, He promises giant blessings in return.
-Your salvation will come like the dawn. (v. 8)
-Your wounds will quickly heal. (v. 8)
-Your godliness will lead you forward. (v. 8)
-The glory of the Lord will protect you from behind. (v. 8)
-When you call, the Lord will answer.... He will quickly reply. (v. 9)
-Your light will shine out from the darkness, and the darkness around you will be as bright as noon. (v. 10)
-The Lord will guide you continually. (v. 11)
-The Lord will give you water when you are dry. (v. 11)
-The Lord will restore your strength. (v. 11)
-You will be like a well-watered garden, like an ever-flowing spring. (v. 11)
-The Lord will be your delight. (v. 14)
-The Lord will give you great honor. (v. 14)
God starts in verse six to say,
"This is the kind of fasting I want:"
-Free those who are wrongly imprisoned. (v. 6)
-Lighten the burden of those who work for you. (v. 6)
-Let the oppressed go free. (v. 6)
-Remove the chains that bind people. (v. 6)
-Share your food with the hungry. (v. 7)
-Give shelter to the homeless. (v. 7)
-Give clothes to those who need them. (v. 7)
-Do not hide from relatives who need your help. (v. 7)
-Stop pointing your finger and spreading vicious rumors. (v. 9)
-Feed the hungry. (v. 10)
-Help those in trouble. (v. 10)
-Keep the Sabbath day holy. (v. 13)
-Speak of the Sabbath with delight. (v. 13)
What a charge for us. What a responsibility.
But the Lord is so balanced in every way. When He asks us to do huge things, He promises giant blessings in return.
-Your salvation will come like the dawn. (v. 8)
-Your wounds will quickly heal. (v. 8)
-Your godliness will lead you forward. (v. 8)
-The glory of the Lord will protect you from behind. (v. 8)
-When you call, the Lord will answer.... He will quickly reply. (v. 9)
-Your light will shine out from the darkness, and the darkness around you will be as bright as noon. (v. 10)
-The Lord will guide you continually. (v. 11)
-The Lord will give you water when you are dry. (v. 11)
-The Lord will restore your strength. (v. 11)
-You will be like a well-watered garden, like an ever-flowing spring. (v. 11)
-The Lord will be your delight. (v. 14)
-The Lord will give you great honor. (v. 14)
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Virtuosity, Heritage, and Completion
“What if we have a girl?” I can imagine my mom asking my dad in their one-room apartment with cardboard boxes stacked high along the walls. She was seven months pregnant with me and in the middle of the moving process before they seriously discussed the genetic possibilities of a female child. They had already chosen the name Benjamin Wayne Yost and had consistently called me “Benjamin” for several months of the pregnancy.
My parents at least agreed that they favored virtuous names.
“Honey, what do you think about the name Charity? That’s the main character in this book.”
A romance novel with a questionable cover dangled from my mother’s hand. Thoughts raced through Daddy’s mind that this name might not be as virtuous as he hoped if it was inspired by the paperback book she was holding. Beneath dark brows, his hazel eyes showed disapproval.
“The girl in the book is a strong character! She’s what we’d want our daughter to be – mature, caring, level-headed, smart…. She even has brown hair and eyes. It’s a sign!” my mom concluded, nodding and grinning.
She lifted herself and the cumbersome weight of pregnancy up from the mid-eighties, golden-upholstered couch and reached for the King James Version Bible on the coffee table. The leather cover was badly wrinkled from a careless mishap with scalding hot coffee. The pages were folded and wrinkled. Still, the Scripture held more cherished highlights and scribbles than the romance novel in her other hand.
“I’m telling you, it means good things,” my mom continued while Daddy contemplated in silence, glancing over the top of his issue of Georgia Outdoor World magazine.
Mama flipped through her Bible’s thin pages to First Corinthians 13 and began to read about the true virtue of charity. Daddy’s forehead lost its doubt wrinkles when she read phrases like “doth not behave itself unseemingly” and “thinketh no evil.”
The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed as fears about the woman on the other cover began to disappear, and the image of a well-behaved little girl emerged.
“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity,” Mama ended the chapter.
“Charity,” he said, trying the word out for sound. “Charity…. Hmph… I like that.” Conversation halted in a happy pause of silent agreement.
Marie seemed to be the obvious choice for a middle name. It was made popular in my mom’s family by Gladys Marie Sherrill, my spry great-grandmother, who danced around the house, singing and twirling her skirts while dinner was cooking. My mom’s eccentric sister Cindi also shared a variation of the name. “Cynthia Maria Weaver” was typed on her birth certificate by accident though my grandmother had originally chosen Cynthia Marie. My mother might have been trying to redeem that mistake, or she might have simply enjoyed the dramatic stories her older sister told when they were children.
“Charity Marie Yost,” they said in unison. Adding the German surname made it complete. After seven months, they were finally satisfied.
My parents at least agreed that they favored virtuous names.
“Honey, what do you think about the name Charity? That’s the main character in this book.”
A romance novel with a questionable cover dangled from my mother’s hand. Thoughts raced through Daddy’s mind that this name might not be as virtuous as he hoped if it was inspired by the paperback book she was holding. Beneath dark brows, his hazel eyes showed disapproval.
“The girl in the book is a strong character! She’s what we’d want our daughter to be – mature, caring, level-headed, smart…. She even has brown hair and eyes. It’s a sign!” my mom concluded, nodding and grinning.
She lifted herself and the cumbersome weight of pregnancy up from the mid-eighties, golden-upholstered couch and reached for the King James Version Bible on the coffee table. The leather cover was badly wrinkled from a careless mishap with scalding hot coffee. The pages were folded and wrinkled. Still, the Scripture held more cherished highlights and scribbles than the romance novel in her other hand.
“I’m telling you, it means good things,” my mom continued while Daddy contemplated in silence, glancing over the top of his issue of Georgia Outdoor World magazine.
Mama flipped through her Bible’s thin pages to First Corinthians 13 and began to read about the true virtue of charity. Daddy’s forehead lost its doubt wrinkles when she read phrases like “doth not behave itself unseemingly” and “thinketh no evil.”
The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed as fears about the woman on the other cover began to disappear, and the image of a well-behaved little girl emerged.
“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity,” Mama ended the chapter.
“Charity,” he said, trying the word out for sound. “Charity…. Hmph… I like that.” Conversation halted in a happy pause of silent agreement.
Marie seemed to be the obvious choice for a middle name. It was made popular in my mom’s family by Gladys Marie Sherrill, my spry great-grandmother, who danced around the house, singing and twirling her skirts while dinner was cooking. My mom’s eccentric sister Cindi also shared a variation of the name. “Cynthia Maria Weaver” was typed on her birth certificate by accident though my grandmother had originally chosen Cynthia Marie. My mother might have been trying to redeem that mistake, or she might have simply enjoyed the dramatic stories her older sister told when they were children.
“Charity Marie Yost,” they said in unison. Adding the German surname made it complete. After seven months, they were finally satisfied.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
11 Numbers and Rightful Wrath
For several years, I have been trying to read the whole Bible. After reading each chapter, I check it off a list at the back of my Bible. The New Testament is completely checked, but the Old Testament is a struggle for me. I usually read a chapter at a time, but today, I read five. The words were so interesting to me, mostly because I prayed before I began reading and asked the Lord to make them that way.
I'm reading in Numbers right now, where the Israelites (about 600, 000 people) are living in the desert under the leadership of Moses. Most of Moses' time is spent listening to the Lord and conveying those messages to the people.
All along, God sets this cloud of fire over the people. When it moves, they move. They camp wherever it stops. God is feeding them, showing them His glory through a protective cloud, and speaking to them through Moses. How cool is that?
But, in Numbers 11, the people are complaining about some difficulties they are having. God hears their whining and gets so angry that He lets his fire "consume some of the outskirts of the camp" (Num. 11:1). Moses asks for mercy for the people, and the Lord stops the burnings.
The Lord faithfully supplies their needs, sending down "manna" from the sky. Can you imagine bread falling from the sky? Numbers 11:9 says "When the dew settled on the camp at night, the manna also came down." It's like a free food pantry. It also "tasted like something made with olive oil" (Num. 11:8). This brings back the delicious memories of when I was in Italy, and they brought out bread with a dish of olive oil. You might think of the Olive Garden. I may be way off on my picture what manna actually is, but the Bible is surprisingly descriptive about this food and how the people creatively cook it.
But, the embers of the Lord's wrathful fire are probably still smoking when the people begin complaining again! They are craving meat with manna. The Israelites remind me of that one person who stands in the singeing sun with other people and states the obvious, "It's hot." They remind me of that person at the restaurant who is never satisfied with anything the waitress or waiter brings from the kitchen. What is even more frustrating is that they remind me of myself when I complain about things I just need to toughen up and get done (prime example : school work). I forget even New Testament commands to "Do everything without complaining or arguing" (Philippians 2:14).
With this, "the Lord became exceedingly angry" (Num. 11:10), and Moses felt extremely burdened as the middle man. This is where God's grace comes into play. He sends not one, not a few, but 70 men to help Moses carry the burden of the people.
As for the complaining people, however, the Lord gives them what they want. But this is His tone, "The Lord will give you meat, and you will eat it. . . for a whole month -- until it comes out of your nostrils and you loathe it -- because you have rejected the Lord, who is among you, and have wailed before him, saying 'Why did we ever leave Egypt?'" (Num. 18-20).
Moses argues that the people are completely unsatisfiable and even this will not be enough for them. God's reply is my favorite part of this passage.
"Is the Lord's arm too short? You will now see whether or not what I say will come true for you" (Num. 11:23).
So many times, I treat my Creator as if He were incapable of meeting my needs.
God sent meat in the form of quail by a wind that blew them from the sea. They were "all around the camp to about three feet above the ground, as far as a day's walk in any direction" (Num. 11:31). My Creator is capable.
But the Lord was also angry with the unrepentant and unthankful people. He spread a plague and let down his fire again because they craved other food instead of being appreciative and content. That place was called Kibroth Hattaavah which actually means "graves of craving."
I am finding out through the Old Testament that God can get very angry. I have not seen this side of my God very often in my life, so it sometimes surprises me. I find this to be God's scary side. People don't want to think of the Lord as scary. They want to think of Him as kind, gentle, soothing, compassionate, understanding, etc. He is all those things. But He can also be scary. That's how awesome He is. I'm glad that my God can be both comforter and protector. Not only does he provide for me physically and emotionally, but He's also like that guy you want on your side in a fight. He's strong and powerful, but He fights fairly.
Anger and wrath. Grace and provision. So much to learn and comprehend. So much to admire.
I'm reading in Numbers right now, where the Israelites (about 600, 000 people) are living in the desert under the leadership of Moses. Most of Moses' time is spent listening to the Lord and conveying those messages to the people.
All along, God sets this cloud of fire over the people. When it moves, they move. They camp wherever it stops. God is feeding them, showing them His glory through a protective cloud, and speaking to them through Moses. How cool is that?
But, in Numbers 11, the people are complaining about some difficulties they are having. God hears their whining and gets so angry that He lets his fire "consume some of the outskirts of the camp" (Num. 11:1). Moses asks for mercy for the people, and the Lord stops the burnings.
The Lord faithfully supplies their needs, sending down "manna" from the sky. Can you imagine bread falling from the sky? Numbers 11:9 says "When the dew settled on the camp at night, the manna also came down." It's like a free food pantry. It also "tasted like something made with olive oil" (Num. 11:8). This brings back the delicious memories of when I was in Italy, and they brought out bread with a dish of olive oil. You might think of the Olive Garden. I may be way off on my picture what manna actually is, but the Bible is surprisingly descriptive about this food and how the people creatively cook it.
But, the embers of the Lord's wrathful fire are probably still smoking when the people begin complaining again! They are craving meat with manna. The Israelites remind me of that one person who stands in the singeing sun with other people and states the obvious, "It's hot." They remind me of that person at the restaurant who is never satisfied with anything the waitress or waiter brings from the kitchen. What is even more frustrating is that they remind me of myself when I complain about things I just need to toughen up and get done (prime example : school work). I forget even New Testament commands to "Do everything without complaining or arguing" (Philippians 2:14).
With this, "the Lord became exceedingly angry" (Num. 11:10), and Moses felt extremely burdened as the middle man. This is where God's grace comes into play. He sends not one, not a few, but 70 men to help Moses carry the burden of the people.
As for the complaining people, however, the Lord gives them what they want. But this is His tone, "The Lord will give you meat, and you will eat it. . . for a whole month -- until it comes out of your nostrils and you loathe it -- because you have rejected the Lord, who is among you, and have wailed before him, saying 'Why did we ever leave Egypt?'" (Num. 18-20).
Moses argues that the people are completely unsatisfiable and even this will not be enough for them. God's reply is my favorite part of this passage.
"Is the Lord's arm too short? You will now see whether or not what I say will come true for you" (Num. 11:23).
So many times, I treat my Creator as if He were incapable of meeting my needs.
God sent meat in the form of quail by a wind that blew them from the sea. They were "all around the camp to about three feet above the ground, as far as a day's walk in any direction" (Num. 11:31). My Creator is capable.
But the Lord was also angry with the unrepentant and unthankful people. He spread a plague and let down his fire again because they craved other food instead of being appreciative and content. That place was called Kibroth Hattaavah which actually means "graves of craving."
I am finding out through the Old Testament that God can get very angry. I have not seen this side of my God very often in my life, so it sometimes surprises me. I find this to be God's scary side. People don't want to think of the Lord as scary. They want to think of Him as kind, gentle, soothing, compassionate, understanding, etc. He is all those things. But He can also be scary. That's how awesome He is. I'm glad that my God can be both comforter and protector. Not only does he provide for me physically and emotionally, but He's also like that guy you want on your side in a fight. He's strong and powerful, but He fights fairly.
Anger and wrath. Grace and provision. So much to learn and comprehend. So much to admire.
Monday, September 29, 2008
This Is All
This week is possibly going to be the most demanding of the semester, if not the most strenuous of my entire college career so far. The amount of reading I have to do, papers I have to write, and midterms I have to take is unbelievable. I began stressing out last week simply anticipating the fullness of this week. I was absolutely sure that I could not accomplish everything that was required of me.
"God, I can't do this. I am completely incapable. The only solution I know is that You're going to have to do it for me," I admitted.
My boyfriend Ben sent a message to me via facebook the very next day, reassuring me that God was "taking care of things." He also included the lyrics to a David Crowder song, which inspired me to have a David Crowder marathon during my hour-long drive to church that morning. I cried when I heard his skillfully crafted words.
"I'm so tired. I'm doing all that I can," I prayed. The song echoed.
Lord I'm tired
So tired from walking
And Lord I'm so alone
And Lord the dark
Is creeping in
Creeping up
To swallow me
I think I'll stop
Rest here a while
And didn't You see me cry'n?
And didn't You hear me call Your name?
Wasn't it You I gave my heart to?
I wish You'd remember
Where You sat it down
And this is all that I can say right now
And this is all that I can give
Crowder's next image was one that I still have not fully grasped.
Just before the Last Supper, Jesus pulled out a basin and water, knelt down, and washed his disciples feet. The Bible calls this "the full extent of His love" (John 13:1 NIV). That is the only comparison I can suggest to what I have felt all week. My pure and holy Savior, Jesus Christ, has knelt in front of me and washed away the dust of my anxiety and shortcomings. At first, I protested, "No, you shall never wash my feet! (John 13:8 NIV) I should be washing yours. Please, don't Lord. I am so unworthy. Let me do it."
But He insists, "If I don't . . . you can't be part of what I'm doing" (John 13:8 MSG)
He and I both know that I can't do all this alone. So with a sigh, half of relief and half of surrender, I let my Master serve me. I am so unworthy.
I didn't notice You were standing here
I didn't know that
That was You holding me
I didn't notice You were cry'n too
I didn't know that
That was You washing my feet.
His only request is that I return the favor to others by washing their feet.
And this is all that I can say right now
And this is all that I can give
That's my everything.
"God, I can't do this. I am completely incapable. The only solution I know is that You're going to have to do it for me," I admitted.
My boyfriend Ben sent a message to me via facebook the very next day, reassuring me that God was "taking care of things." He also included the lyrics to a David Crowder song, which inspired me to have a David Crowder marathon during my hour-long drive to church that morning. I cried when I heard his skillfully crafted words.
"I'm so tired. I'm doing all that I can," I prayed. The song echoed.
Lord I'm tired
So tired from walking
And Lord I'm so alone
And Lord the dark
Is creeping in
Creeping up
To swallow me
I think I'll stop
Rest here a while
And didn't You see me cry'n?
And didn't You hear me call Your name?
Wasn't it You I gave my heart to?
I wish You'd remember
Where You sat it down
And this is all that I can say right now
And this is all that I can give
Crowder's next image was one that I still have not fully grasped.
Just before the Last Supper, Jesus pulled out a basin and water, knelt down, and washed his disciples feet. The Bible calls this "the full extent of His love" (John 13:1 NIV). That is the only comparison I can suggest to what I have felt all week. My pure and holy Savior, Jesus Christ, has knelt in front of me and washed away the dust of my anxiety and shortcomings. At first, I protested, "No, you shall never wash my feet! (John 13:8 NIV) I should be washing yours. Please, don't Lord. I am so unworthy. Let me do it."
But He insists, "If I don't . . . you can't be part of what I'm doing" (John 13:8 MSG)
He and I both know that I can't do all this alone. So with a sigh, half of relief and half of surrender, I let my Master serve me. I am so unworthy.
I didn't notice You were standing here
I didn't know that
That was You holding me
I didn't notice You were cry'n too
I didn't know that
That was You washing my feet.
His only request is that I return the favor to others by washing their feet.
And this is all that I can say right now
And this is all that I can give
That's my everything.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Palms Against the Wound
I found a children's book on Kenya in the library and decided to read it since I spent two weeks there this summer. I wanted to know the difference between written facts and what I had seen. I do not claim to be an expert on the subject of a foreign developing country like Kenya, but I knew that at least I had some sort of comparison.
The book was in line with many of the customs and historical facts that I had personally witnessed. Many of the pictures looked familiar. However, the largest difference from the reality I had seen and the book I was reading bothered me. They only mentioned the poverty on one page in one sentence.
I understand that children are vulnerable to harsh facts and that they should be protected. That does not lessen the impact that many children actually live in those harsh facts of starvation and illiteracy while our American children are being read to in an air-conditioned classroom. Did they even catch that sentence?
This blog is not meant to argue whether or not the book should have revealed more of the reality of poverty. It is meant to reprimand myself from ever letting the impact of my trip to Kenya begin to blur into only a sentence. The "matope" (mud) has been washed off my shoes. The pictures of dirty-faced toddlers have been put into an album and placed on a shelf. The emails from connections that I made there have slowed. Some of the memories are not quite as vivid as they were on the plane ride home. Still, the influence that those images made on my soul and my beliefs should never weaken.
Now, I'm back in school. My classes are so demanding. My life is on a schedule. My actions are absorbed by my agenda. Donald Miller wrote, "Six billion people live in this world, and I can only muster thoughts for one. Me." (p.22) This summer, I rarely had time to think about me, but now, I can't get myself out of my own mind. I'm always planning for the next class or the next appointment, or the next date, or the next outing with my friends. Even spiritual things are about me and my own relationship with Christ. I'm not insinuating that any of these thing are bad as they are, only that I'm capable of so much more if I only think outside myself.
This hurts my pride, especially when Miller asks a tough question : "Do I want social justice for the oppressed, or do I just want to be known as the socially active person?" (p.20) How could I see the faces of those children in the orphanage or see Kibera or watch a teenager take drugs to numb his hunger and not want social justice? I don't want to be the spoiled "mzungu" (white person) who just wants to be recognized for charity. I want to care, and I want my social activeness to flow from that care.
"Can you imagine if Christians actually believed that God was trying to rescue us from the pit of our own self-addiction? Can you imagine? Can you imagine what Americans would do if they understood over half the world was living in poverty? Do you think they would change the way they live, the products they purchase, and the politicians they elect? If we believed the right things, the true things, there wouldn't be very many problems on earth. ... But the trouble with deep belief is that it costs something. And there is something inside me, some selfish beast of a subtle thing that doesn't like the truth at all because it carries responsibility, and if I actually believe these things I have to do something about them. It is so, so cumbersome to believe anything." (p.107)
Cumbersome? Yes. Simple? Also, yes.
"All great Christian leaders are simple thinkers. . . . he actually believes that when Jesus says feed the poor, He means you should do this directly." (p.110)
I believe that giving money and praying is a very powerful way to enable others to help those in need. I also believe that actually helping those in need is what we as the church have been called to do. There is a cure, a remedy. Pastor Steven Furtick of Elevation Church in Charlotte, NC, said, "The Church is God's plan A. It's His plan B. It's his plan C, his plan D, his plan E, his plan F. The Church is God's plan for the earth. It is His chosen way. The people of God. . . . When the Church is being the Church, there's nothing like it. The reason most of us have a hard time figuring it out is because most of us have never seen it. . . the church extending mercy, the church becoming a community of healing." When will we stop being so stuck and start moving to further this plan? Many are moving. I refuse to be stationary.
One of the most powerful statements that I read all summer was this one. It's is so vivid, passionate, and urgent. "The human struggle bothered [him], as if something was broken in the world and we were supposed to hold our palms against the wound." (p.114) The world is bleeding. Why are we just watching it hemorrhage on the evening news or in missions slide shows on Sunday mornings? We have the first aid kit.
*Quotes here are from Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller.*
The book was in line with many of the customs and historical facts that I had personally witnessed. Many of the pictures looked familiar. However, the largest difference from the reality I had seen and the book I was reading bothered me. They only mentioned the poverty on one page in one sentence.
I understand that children are vulnerable to harsh facts and that they should be protected. That does not lessen the impact that many children actually live in those harsh facts of starvation and illiteracy while our American children are being read to in an air-conditioned classroom. Did they even catch that sentence?
This blog is not meant to argue whether or not the book should have revealed more of the reality of poverty. It is meant to reprimand myself from ever letting the impact of my trip to Kenya begin to blur into only a sentence. The "matope" (mud) has been washed off my shoes. The pictures of dirty-faced toddlers have been put into an album and placed on a shelf. The emails from connections that I made there have slowed. Some of the memories are not quite as vivid as they were on the plane ride home. Still, the influence that those images made on my soul and my beliefs should never weaken.
Now, I'm back in school. My classes are so demanding. My life is on a schedule. My actions are absorbed by my agenda. Donald Miller wrote, "Six billion people live in this world, and I can only muster thoughts for one. Me." (p.22) This summer, I rarely had time to think about me, but now, I can't get myself out of my own mind. I'm always planning for the next class or the next appointment, or the next date, or the next outing with my friends. Even spiritual things are about me and my own relationship with Christ. I'm not insinuating that any of these thing are bad as they are, only that I'm capable of so much more if I only think outside myself.
This hurts my pride, especially when Miller asks a tough question : "Do I want social justice for the oppressed, or do I just want to be known as the socially active person?" (p.20) How could I see the faces of those children in the orphanage or see Kibera or watch a teenager take drugs to numb his hunger and not want social justice? I don't want to be the spoiled "mzungu" (white person) who just wants to be recognized for charity. I want to care, and I want my social activeness to flow from that care.
"Can you imagine if Christians actually believed that God was trying to rescue us from the pit of our own self-addiction? Can you imagine? Can you imagine what Americans would do if they understood over half the world was living in poverty? Do you think they would change the way they live, the products they purchase, and the politicians they elect? If we believed the right things, the true things, there wouldn't be very many problems on earth. ... But the trouble with deep belief is that it costs something. And there is something inside me, some selfish beast of a subtle thing that doesn't like the truth at all because it carries responsibility, and if I actually believe these things I have to do something about them. It is so, so cumbersome to believe anything." (p.107)
Cumbersome? Yes. Simple? Also, yes.
"All great Christian leaders are simple thinkers. . . . he actually believes that when Jesus says feed the poor, He means you should do this directly." (p.110)
I believe that giving money and praying is a very powerful way to enable others to help those in need. I also believe that actually helping those in need is what we as the church have been called to do. There is a cure, a remedy. Pastor Steven Furtick of Elevation Church in Charlotte, NC, said, "The Church is God's plan A. It's His plan B. It's his plan C, his plan D, his plan E, his plan F. The Church is God's plan for the earth. It is His chosen way. The people of God. . . . When the Church is being the Church, there's nothing like it. The reason most of us have a hard time figuring it out is because most of us have never seen it. . . the church extending mercy, the church becoming a community of healing." When will we stop being so stuck and start moving to further this plan? Many are moving. I refuse to be stationary.
One of the most powerful statements that I read all summer was this one. It's is so vivid, passionate, and urgent. "The human struggle bothered [him], as if something was broken in the world and we were supposed to hold our palms against the wound." (p.114) The world is bleeding. Why are we just watching it hemorrhage on the evening news or in missions slide shows on Sunday mornings? We have the first aid kit.
*Quotes here are from Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller.*
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