Greshniku

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.

I could hear the screaming long before I entered the house. The familiar cries of my four-year-old niece were taking on an unfamiliar intensity, and I knew without knowing that she’d figured it out.

My grandpa  -  a strong and meek man, a powerful and humble man, a wise and gentle man – had died three days before. There had been a constant parade of family and friends through my grandma’s house since, and Ashlyn and her little sister, Hannah, had spent long hours playing with toys, diverting attention, traipsing outside with the cousins, and generally going about life.

As I opened the door and walked into the house, the volume of the screams increased. I noticed my brother and sister-in-law, hopelessly negotiating, soothing, and parenting in the kitchen, where Ashlyn was sprawled, unconsolable. My aunt welcomed me with a hug, and my eyes asked the questions. As she hugged me, she whispered, “Ashlyn realized today that she doesn’t get to see Grandpa anymore. She’s been in meltdown mode ever since.”

In that moment, my heart swelled with compassion even as my eyes filled with tears. I hadn’t even imagined how her little mind would wrap around the reality of tangible death. She had been Grandpa’s buddy. Long after the rest of us shied away shamefully in the last months of his life, feeling awkward and sad because the process of loss was too real to us, she’d cozy up next to him and tell him all about her day, her family, her life. He’d listen with joy and rapt attention to the details of her existence. I knew those moments meant everything to him, but I hadn’t thought about what they’d been for her.

As grown ups, we had all of the coping mechanisms. We knew how to talk about our feelings, how to rely on each other for support, and how to look toward Heaven. Ashlyn experienced grief in its truest and most intense form. She didn’t know what her feelings were. She didn’t know how to talk about what was inside. She couldn’t write a poem, sing a favorite song, or even slip away for some solitude. She certainly didn’t understand heaven – all she knew was that she wanted her grandpa, and she couldn’t have him. So, she sat on the kitchen floor and cried.

As I’ve been thinking about my sweet niece and how raw and true her response was, I’ve been overwhelmed with emotions. I’m so touched by the sweetness of her sadness. While the rest of us busied our hands and comforted our hearts, she gave way to the struggles going on inside of her.

I’m excited for her to learn more about Heaven, and for her to one day be Grandpa’s buddy there, too.

But mostly, I’m overwhelmed by the truth of grief. While maybe it gets easier as we get older – as we learn about hope, and we take comfort in the future – I think there’s still a part inside all of us that wants to just sit on the kitchen floor and cry.

And then maybe have a nice bowl of ice-cream.

So, after hours of fidgeting yesterday, today the blog works just fine. I haven’t messed with colors and such much, but at least I’m live and writing.

My favorite (at least lately) verse in the Bible is from the “sinner’s prayer” when the tax collecter whose sins were clear to the world, and who had no hope beyond the grace of God, calls out “Have mercy on me, a sinner!” In Russian, the word for sinner in this context is “greshniku.” Because I want to approach God with that kind of humility – and hope – I’ve become rather attached to the word, and see is as a reminder of who I am, and how much I’ve been given. 

I wrote the following the other day, and it’s amazing how much it fits into this theme. I didn’t even plan it this way!

I walk tentatively toward Your throne, My eyes are cast down, yet I know You’re watching me. The loud and varied sounds begin to hush around me. Some of the sounds are joyous – those who already have been granted freedom in Your presence. The silence they slip into is full of compassion and peace. They remember. The cries of those clamoring for Your attention, desperate that You grant them some large or small favor, grow still, but that silence is full of tension, anger, and judgment. They do not want me here. They don’t understand You, though. They don’t understand that You invited me – that You’ve been inviting me my whole life.

My fingers brush absently at my soiled and torn gown. I believe it was once brilliant and white. I’ve heard that it used to glimmer with unearthly radiance. But it’s been passed down to me for thousands of years. Each wearer added her own stains, and I, too, have left on it terrible, deep marks and blemishes on my journey to You. I fell so many times, and the blood and muck, the tears and rips, have joined the others to make all that was once glorious about it now completely unrecognizable.

The shame of appearing before You in such a state almost causes me to stop. I hesitate, just for a moment, wondering if I should wait until I’m cleaner, prettier, more put together before  I come before you. But then I remember the last note you sent me. So tender and gentle, so full of love and urgency.

“Come to me, now, my dear. Come while you carry too much, while your shoulders sag from the weight of it all. You’re bruised and wounded, and the world continues to bear down on you. Come to me so I can carry you. I love you and I will never leave you. Let me hide you under my wings. Let me give you a new heart and a new songs. Let me lighten your load and wash you white as snow.”

Your words trickle through my mind like the water I long to drink. My journey’s been so long and slow, but I’m so very close to You. Maybe You can’t really keep those promises You so convincingly wrote to me, but my heart soars with the idea that maybe You can.

I look up, my eyes filling with the tears of a thousand thoughts. I’m surprised that Your eyes, too, are wet and hopeful. I walk forward with new confidence. Everything else fades away – all the revelers and their songs, all the politicians and their demands – and there’s only You. You’ve risen from Your throne, You’re taking first steps then leaps toward me. All at once, I find myself wrapped in Your arms. You hold me tight and I can feel Your tears in my hair and hear You whispering “Finally! Oh, finally you’re here! How I’ve waited and hoped you’d come.”

And as I cling to You, I notice the tiniest white sparkle shine like a diamond on my tattered gown. And I know, at last, I’m home.