Greshniku

It’s the place I go to pray.

Well, not literally. I curl up in my covers, close my eyes, sigh, and then imagine myself in the middle of the sea. Sometimes, I imagine that Jesus is already there - squatting patiently, watching the waves. Sometimes, I imagine that He comes gently and patiently after I’ve been calmly waiting for a minute or two. Then, I imagine walking with him slowly, the waves cresting on our bare feet while we talk through my day.

It’s peaceful. It’s safe. I’m completely without distraction. It’s a beautiful mental image.

But yesterday, I started thinking about another encounter on the sea that Jesus had with one of his followers. But this situation was anything but serene.

It had been a long day for all of them. Jesus found out about the death of  John the Baptist. He tried to retreat, but the crowds had followed him. He set aside his grief for the moment, and healed their sick late into the evening. His compassion continued, and he provided the dinner for more than 4,000 people. Then, he put the wide-eyed disciples in a boat and he slipped off to the mountain to pray.

Imagine Peter, sitting in the boat that was being pushed farther from his grieving Teacher. The wind-swept waves were crashing against the side of the boat, and his eyes scanned the horizon where they’d just left Jesus. Suddenly, there’s a figure. The other disciples notice it, too.  They automatically assumed that it was a ghost. It was a stormy night, they were emotionally and physically exhausted, and there was a man walking. On the water. It’s not like this is a normal occurrence. So, quite naturally, they turn into six-year-old girls.

Jesus offers quick words of comfort and assurance, and Peter - always juggling his toddling faith with his blind impetuousness, says basically, “OK, prove it.”  I wonder what went through his mind when Jesus said, “Deal - come out here.” Did he hesitate when he swung his legs over the side?

Of course, the second part of the story is when Peter started to get scared. He took his eyes off Him who even the winds and waves obey, and he immediately began to sink. While he trusted that Jesus was controlling the laws of nature, he could move forward, but as soon as he defined the situation by what he could experience with his own senses, he was bound to sink.

Faithfully, Jesus immediately took hold of him. His response sounds like a rebuke, but comes out so gently. “Why did you doubt?” Of course, Jesus knows why Peter doubted and panicked - He knows that He was inviting Peter into the realm of impossible. But Jesus also knows that before all is said and done, Peter’s going to have to encounter a lot more of the impossible.

As I thought about this story, I realized that Peter is a lot braver than I am. When the storm rages around me, I want Jesus in the boat with me. I don’t want to walk out and find Him in the midst of it. I’ve never obeyed Him in such a way that rejects all reason, science, and experience. Sure, I’ll walk with Him on dry ground. I’ll follow Him to the ends of the earth, but get out of the boat? Throw out all caution, security, and inhibitions? It’s one thing to have faith, but it’s quite another to fearlessly leap into the unknown and uncharted at the invitation of Jesus.

Or is it?

Have you ever noticed how the sky fills with light well before the sun actually rises? That’s the way I realize things. I get a hint of the idea long before I fully grasp it. I stand in the light preceding the source for a long time, and then when the sun actually rises in my mind, it’s not that much of a stretch for me to accept the change.

I think I’m standing in the pre-light of a pretty huge revelation. It seems, much to my shock and amazement, I might be considered an “artist.”

In the last couple of months, it’s been suggested to me several times that this is the category where I am classified. Of course, my medium is not clay, canvas, sculpture, music, or anything else in the physical realm. My art exists in the sphere where words meet the imagination and create new worlds.

While I’m slowly adjusting to identifying myself as a writer, it hadn’t really occurred to me that writers fall into the “artist” category. Several incidents have prepared me to accept this shiny reality, and I’m attempting to adjust my thinking accordingly.

And that’s when the insecurities come.

I openly and earnestly admit how much I love to write. It’s my release, my small act of worship, my favorite form of expression. It’s the lens I use to view and process the world. All of this I understand. I even acknowledge that this isn’t true for most people, so it’s something special for me.

But for it to be an art form - for me to be an artist - I have to be creating new experiences and expressions with the things I’m writing. I have to be taking something you’ve seen before and turning it into something you haven’t. Each story would need to usher you toward Truth. Is this not what artists do?

Perhaps the only balm for my insecurity is that I’ve never sought to be an artist. I stumbled into the category quite unknowingly. I’ve desired to chronicle my pursuit of beauty and emotion and holiness and failure and redemption and worship and …

And, I suppose, that is more important than any pressure I put on myself by accidentally noticing that I landed in a category of people who create passageways toward Truth.

Besides, I can’t ever figure out how they all know how to dress like artists, anyway.

A very wise friend of mine recently suggested I memorize Psalm 23 and meditate on it during the course of the day. This advice I promptly disregarded, until I mentioned her suggestion to another wise friend, and then the wisdom of the suggestion sank in. (Yes, I surround myself with wise friends for just such reasons.)

Psalm 23 is the one most people memorized as small children, but I was apparently uninterested at the time. Of course, I’ve heard it and read it and “recited” it hundreds of times, so I knew the general idea, but this week was the first time I’ve ever memorized it in any sort of exact way. And it’s remarkably clear why other, smarter people memorized it a long time ago: it’s amazingly applicable.

And because you were probably one of those people who were fortunate enough to memorize it as a child, you’ve probably already considered the things I have just recently found so powerful. Nevertheless, here’s what struck me:

Switching from “The Lord” to “You” (aka, breaking all the rules of “good writing” and switching narrative styles in the middle of the poem)

David, the writer, starts with “The Lord is my shepherd…He makes me lie down … He leads me … He restores … He guides.” Then, he switches gears: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”  He sticks with “you” for the middle of the psalm (which, in my life, is the most intense and powerful part).

So, of course, I have no real way of knowing WHY David did this, but here’s what I like to think: As I’m reading it, it’s easy to recite the first few lines, like the things you hear all the time about God, and so you know they’re true. But then, it’s like I suddenly realize the truth of the lines I’m reciting. I move beyond the Sunday School response and into the realm of personal truth. I start thinking about walking through my own valleys, and how God’s been there with me, and it’s no longer possible to remain detached. I’m no longer reciting facts about God, I’m reliving a relationship with my God. And at that moment, it switches into a conversation with God instead of ceremony about Him.

You Prepare a Table in the Presence of my Enemies (Or…OK? Where did that come from?)

I mean, really, weren’t we talking about God being a shepherd? Weren’t we just hanging out by some quiet waters? Nope. We were in a valley. In the shadow of death. Where there’s evil that we aren’t afraid of because God’s with us. So, picture this:

You’re in a room with your enemies. They are getting more and more vocal, intimidating, and powerful. You’re getting weaker and more scared.

Suddenly, casually, God walks in. He’s ripped and confident and calm. He starts setting the table nonchalantly, chatting with you in an everyday way, talking about what’s for dinner, teasing you about familiar things, completely ignoring the fact that the enemies are even in the room.

As He continues to walk in and out of the room, bringing food to the table, asking your opinion, humming softly to Himself, you feel the tension drain out of you as you watch your enemies. Their confidence is gone, their eagerness to fight is seeping out of them as they realize that God is completely, comfortably on your side.

You realize that by casually entering the room in the presence of your enemies, He’s changed the entire situation, and you’re not only not alone, you’re powerfully protected.

And it’s in this moment that you think to yourself, “Yeah, I could hang out here for a good long time.” Or, you know, if you were a poet like David, you’d think, “Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

I have one of those old alarm clocks. It’s bright red with a yellow face, sits precariously on three knobby legs, and rings obnoxiously when the alarm is set.

That is, when I wind it up.

When I first received it, I wound it every day, pretty faithfully. I enjoyed the consistent metal metronome as the thin hand ticked off the seconds. I even appreciated the abrupt clamor of the alarm, because it forced me to move forward and face the day.

Of course, toward the end of each day, the clocked ceased to measure time effectively. As it reached the end of its cycle, the seconds grew longer and less regular, until the time reflected no longer resembled the actual time. And it wasn’t the clock’s fault - that’s the way it was meant to work. Most days, I’d remember to wind it up again while it was still faithfully ticking. Other days, I’d have to reset the clock hands on the actual time before I wound it up, because I’d waited too long.

I haven’t wound the clock in more than a year. Now it sits on my shelf - a pretty trinket with no function or form. I’m not surprised that I don’t hear its persistent ticking. In fact, I’d be shocked and terrified if it suddenly began ringing in full force one early morning.

I don’t expect my clock to work when it hasn’t been set, but somehow I expect my heart to honor God even when I haven’t set it do so.

Malachi 2 says “”And now this admonition is for you, O priests. If you do not listen, and if you do not set your heart to honor my name,” says the LORD Almighty, “I will send a curse upon you, and I will curse your blessings. Yes, I have already cursed them, because you have not set your heart to honor me.” (Emphasis mine.)

Too often, my life is a pretty trinket on a shelf. To my frustration and confusion, my heart doesn’t reflect the correct things. There are no alarms calling me to action or pushing me forward, or they come much too late.

I’m not electric. I can’t plug into the wall and expect my life to automatically keep up. I require upkeep. If I don’t consciously set my heart regularly, I wind down and lose my effectiveness. And a tired clock is worse than a dead clock, because it gives the wrong information while appearing trustworthy.

I’m designed with a purpose. My face and hands should reflect the Truth, but that only happens if I actively and regularly set my heart to honor God.

I have this gorgeous zip spider outside of the window my desk faces. I’ve apparently gotten a little attached to her (yeah - I named her - Irina.) And, you know, started using her as the voice for my thoughts…

July 23, 2009
The fly I caught yesterday was delicious, but its struggle had torn and stripped my beautiful home, so last night I remade the web. This morning, my finished artwork glistened with the morning dew in elaborate and intricate perfection. I sat proudly in the middle of my creation and home, watching the geese in the distance and feeling connected to God in that way that only art could create. I had made something beautiful with grace and excellence, and I was content.

Of course, all things are temporary.

I knew it was risky to connect the west side of my thin net to a stack of plastic deck chairs, which are hardly stationary during the day. But the chairs’ stored location offered me the ability to anchor my web in the corner of the window and stretch across, just barely teasing the sunshine on the other side. It was an ideal location, and the risk was worth the reward.

I had just settled in to enjoy the day from my precariously invisible masterpiece, when two women arrived. They needed to use the porch for their scheduled prayer time. The day was glorious, the sun barely shining through the gathered clouds and the wind gently whispering through the trees. The porch was an ideal place for them to experience the glory of God together. But in their pursuit of such glory, they inadvertently disturbed my expression of it.

As they pulled chairs from the stack, unknowingly stretching and shredding my fragile creation, I clung to the strings of my toppling home and hoped that something would remain in the aftermath for me to hold on to. Fortunately, a few threads graciously held fast, and my life - at least today - is still intact.

I’ve begun rebuilding, but I decided to take a break to recognize the absolute beauty - and fragility - of my existence. But that’s the way it goes sometimes…

I didn’t expect to like it.

I noticed the tiny Baptist church off the highway, and decided to go purely because I needed a church to go to the first Sunday I was in town. So I noted the time of the service and tucked it away in my mind as an easily dismissed alternative.

Sunday morning, I rose and dressed up just enough to blend in. My goal was to slip in the back and spend the hour in unnoticed participation and observation, and then go on my way. It seemed like the perfect plan.

I pulled into the parking lot and noticed with relief that there were plenty of cars and that I should be able to remain anonymous.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Upon walking in, I was immediately spotted as a visitor and eager natives began swarming around me. Introductions were made. Smiles were exchanged. I answered repeated questions about where I lived, where I came from, and what I was doing in Louisville. The pastor wrote down my name, and to my surprise and embarrassment, he introduced me from the pulpit to the few people in the room who had not already noticed the presence of an outsider among them. The greeting time that followed brought another wave of introductions, smiles, and questions.

Once the service started, the critical side of me started in. The church was tiny - maybe 40 attenders. The songs were old hymns chalk-full of tradition and conservatism. There wasn’t a single other person in my life category (unmarried, mid 20s).

In the midst of my critique, I stopped. Sitting around me were people. Beautiful, genuine people who were showing an eagerness to love and include me. Their lives were flawed and chipped and completely enchanting. In their tiny gestures of greeting, they were offering me protection and friendship and family. I found myself thinking about how I could be at home there, and how I was already attached to the people sitting around me. How could I ever leave these people? I knew, sitting there, that they would be hurt if I didn’t come back, because they’d offered me a doorway into their lives and given me the opportunity to accept them.

And despite all of my intentions to be aloof, mysterious, and disconnected, I found myself involved, open, and with a serious and tangible desire to be intertwined.

Which was, you know, the last thing I’d expected.

There are currently no fewer than 40 boxes, bags, or suitcases packed and stacked around my house, not to mention the awkwardly tilting piles of furniture, or the couch completely covered in rejected possessions bound for goodwill. I’m close enough that I could be completely done with just a few hours of dedicated labor. I have a few hours that I could be usefully employing in such a way.

Instead, I’m sitting on my bedroom floor with a vanilla coke zero and a handful of oreos.

I stare absently at the curtains that are too high for me to reach, or the half-dozen boxes half packed and sitting on my bed. These problems I could solve. Think of what a great sense of accomplishment I’d feel if I just got to work and finished! And yet, here I sit.

Of course, there are practical reasons why I shouldn’t really finish completely yet. I’m already concerned about where I’m going to sleep the rest of the week, as all of the blankets are washed, folded, and packed away, and the bed is significantly less comfortable without the luxury of sheets.  And I had to buy plastic forks after I zealously stashed all of my kitchenware three days ago. I have to keep reminding myself that I can’t pack all of my clothes, as I do need to wear something between now and when I officially land in Louisville. And there are always things that I really shouldn’t attempt to do by myself, such as moving heavy furniture, or collecting the vases stored a good two feet above my reach.

But as I sit here, munching on an oreo and thinking about renting a movie (yeah, mine are packed…), I realize that there are probably some deeper reasons why I don’t want to finish. That great feeling of accomplishment will likely be partnered with a sinking feeling of completion - with the realization that I’m ending a really great chapter.

I’ve lived in this house for two amazing years - my first two as a true grown-up. Gone are the free days of college, with all of their late nights, last-minute papers, easy access to my closest friends, and part-time pay-the-bills jobs. In the last two years, I’ve had to find my feet in the adult world, put specific and deliberate effort into my relationships, and learn how to be responsible and comfortable on my own. And I’ve loved it from the beginning, but especially now as I begin to really appreciate it.

I’ve also had two years’ worth of Wednesdays full of Jr. High girls who come in with all of their drama, wisdom, humor, and adventures. I’ve had to make my house a metaphorical haven for them - a safe place where they’d love to come and where they’d always feel welcome. Within these now-barren walls are the echos of hundreds of jokes, stories, lessons, and high-pitched squeals. Not to mention the occasional splatter of pumpkin goo, craft paint, or ketchup-as-blood.

In a lot of ways, this house was a witness and host for all of the ways I’ve grown in the last couple years. So I really shouldn’t be too surprised at my reluctance to remove all indications that I lived here. But it would be ridiculous for me to read only a few chapters of a book, no matter how much I loved those chapters. At some point, you have to turn the page and start the next one.

And judging by these two years, the rest of my book is going to be pretty stinking amazing.

Maybe I can reach those vases, afterall…

We talked in our Bible Study about becoming like one of the little children to enter the kingdom of Heaven, and it brought this story to mind. Sorry for the girls who are hearing this for the second time…

My dad pulled up to the elementary school in our little family car, a broad smile on his face. “Hop in!” His eyes sparkled in that way that eyes do when there’s a surprise coming. My brother, sister and I climbed in, feeling the effect of his enthusiasm, but not knowing what was in store for us.

We noticed right away that we weren’t heading back to our house. But Dad was driving, and he probably knew what he was doing. Afterall, he’d been driving us around for years, and hadn’t accidently forgotten to go home even once. Maybe, our hopefull hearts thought, we get to go to the gas station and get a soda! But much to our dismay, Dad drove right past the gas station. As my young vision had only managed to imagine an ice-cold coke-a-cola, my hopes faded with the view of the gas station out the back window.

Fresh out of ideas, I turned my curiosity toward my dad, whose trademark dimples betrayed his otherwise calm exterior. We imediately began pelting him with eager questions, each inquiry implying that maybe he wasn’t quite as in control as we’d thought. “Daddy, did you mean to miss the station?” “Does Mom know about this?” And finally, the obvious, “Daddy, where are we going, then?”

He just smiled, mm-hmmed, and laughed at our peppered questions, telling us with that familiar spark that it was a surprise and we were going to have to just trust him.

Throughout the duration of that hour-long car trip, we asked a thousand questions; we poked and pried and guessed and sighed, and he loved it. But behind each question was unwavering trust, enthusiasm for the adventure, and a willingness to go absolutely anywhere our daddy wanted to take us. We never for a moment assumed he was taking us anywhere unsafe, or that he was going to take us far away and then leave us behind. We never questioned his right to disrupt our daily routine. We thrived in his adventure, and he rewarded us for our williness to participate wholeheartedly.

Sometimes, I think God pulls up, opens the car door, and asks me simply to hop in. His eyes sparkle as He thinks about all the plans He has, knowing that if I just trust Him, I’m in for an adventure. But I stand on the sidewalk and waver. How do I know I even want to go? When will I be back? How much am I going to miss if I go? How do I know He isn’t asking me to go somewhere terrible? Instead of trusting Him, sharing in His joy, and thriving in the moment, I stand back and demand answers.

The grown-up me - the one who doubts and fears and worries and analyzes - she stands on the sidewalk, afraid to start living.  The little girl me - the one who trusted completely and hadn’t fully perfected the art of controlling everything - she couldn’t wait to trust her daddy. She leaped wholeheartedly, without reserve, doubts, or fears. She had questions, but the lack of answers didn’t even challenge her solid faith in the ultimate goodness of her provider and protector. And she got an adventure.

I’d say it’s about time to hop in the car.

I actually wrote this awhile ago, but lately I’ve been reading a lot about Israel the character (embodying the entire nation of God’s chosen children). I’ve always been fascinated/repelled by/drawn to Israel as a character. She had God. She had daily, irreproachable proof. And yet, how often she failed to see Him. Sounds familiar, yes?

I am Israel.

With God walking in front of me - guiding each day and night,

I forget Him.

I give in to every impulse to sin.

And then I slink back to God, like Gomer, who comes home in the early morning hours -

- shame and scandal my only clothes.

Each morning, I promise it was the very last time.

Each night, I crawl out again - hating myself too much to stay.

I am Israel.

The faithfulness of God a daily reminder of my own weakness.

I turn to the things that can never fill me, knowing, at least, that we deserve each other. I can never obey and they can never fulfill.

I am Israel,

Constantly in need of rescue, I call out to the God I’ve abandoned.

He comes back for me every time. Asking, ever asking, “Will you love me this time?”

Knowing my answer and the inevitable future will never match. He scoops me up and carries me home.

If only I could stay.

If only - just once - I could be strong. Stronger than the voice that calls me away - the voice that knows how easy it is to get me back.

I am Israel.

Knowing God - and turning away.

Knowing He’ll always come back for me.

And hating the fact that

I am Israel.

“Well, we had peanut butter and spinach sandwiches for lunch.”

“Oh, so that’s how you got here so fast! Well, I couldn’t make a sandwich, because I’d already gathered all those dandilion greens, and you know, you have to cook them right away, or they go bad.”

Smiling to myself at the foreign-to-me-but-normal-for-them conversation behind me, I thought for what was surely the third or fourth time since I’d arrived, Who are these people? I was sititng in the park, futilely trying to shrug off the lingering cold, and waiting for the annual Poetry Fest to begin. I’d seen a flyer in a flower shop advertising this event, and after appealing to every local friend I knew, I had decided it would be kind of fun and mysterious to attend alone. Among “my people,” I’m the slightly whimsical literary nerd, but I expected to be a little “normal” with this group. I knew it would be mostly older, highly educated and overly cultured participants, and I was more than a little curious to snatch a moment in their world.

The friends behind me continued their conversation about a thousand foreign topics: the best way to cook nettles, the meaning of some French lyrics, the new, non-commercial radio station that would use poems as filler between programs. While I tuned in without appearing to notice, a woman in front of me turned to ask if I intended to recite. “Oh, no. I just wanted to listen, today. I was an English major, you know, and so I can’t resist a good poetry gathering.” I continued to overspeak, feeling like I needed to justify my presence in this elite and mysterious world. She asked me questions about my life, told me she teaches Cultural Anthropology at the University, and then smiled, and let me return to my obscurity.

Things settled down as the recital began. More than a dozen volunteers had signed up to read or recite original or classic works, and the emcee for the afternoon was determined to keep things flowing. After each performance, she’d announce who was next, and who was “in the on-deck hole.” She sort of stumbled over the phrase the first time she said it, but then was quite pleased with it, and used it proudly for the remainder of the event. As I looked around at the crowd of literary professors,yoga instructors, librarians, and even the occassional beat poet (dreads, beads, and beanie cap included), I wondered if any of them there noticed that the phrase was just a little off. They seemed equally pleased with her cleverness, and my lone knowledge further separated the divide between us.

The final poet finished his original work right as the most eager raindrops slipped through the saturated clouds. For the first time that afternoon, the lines of distinction were blurred as we all hurried to fold up chairs and take down the colorful banners. And after the last chair was tucked safely away, and all the loose papers had been secured under the welcome tent, I slipped silently out of their world. As I walked back to my car, slowly waking from the dream of fresh poetry and alternative lives, I smiled - grateful to have been allowed a short visit into a completely different existence.