Read this~

I don't do two posts in a day because.... well, for one, no one needs that much of my brain in one day. In spite of my last post, I just had to put this here. I was about to start school with the non-sick school age kid, and I happened upon this. Now I'm just sitting, starting at the computer. I don't know why this has undone me so. I think it's because where my heart longs to be. Or maybe because I'm jealous. Or maybe because it's what I've been spinning over in my head. Oh who cares. It's not about me. Read this with me, please. (It was written by a high school friend of mine.)

This Ain’t Where You From

by "_________" on Tuesday, January 11, 2011 at 2:08pm

Since I have been in East Lake, I have really struggled with an identity crisis.  It reached a climax last week when I met a man while out walking in search of a place that provides free Wi-Fi.  Since my van is out of gas and has a flat tire, I have been reduced to walking, a reduction I now know to be a blessing given how familiar I have become with the local area and people as a result.  On my first walk, I came to a group of people that looked like fellow transients congregating outside The Episcopal Church in Woodlawn.   So, seeing an ideal opportunity to network with a local ministry, I decided to stop and introduce myself.  One of them standing just outside the door said he worked there as a part of their food ministry.  He told me in about an hour they would be serving ham, black-eyed peas and collard greens and I was welcome to stay and eat.  Excited by the chance for such a fine meal, I gratefully accepted his invitation.  After conversing for a while with him and a few others in the group, I told him about my original quest to find Wi-Fi.  He pointed across the street to a sign outside what he said was the library that read “Free Wi-Fi,” a sign I am certain to have missed had I not stopped to talk since I did not know Woodlawn even had a library.  I thanked him for the clue I so did not have then began looking both ways to find a crosswalk.  They said “No!  Across the street!”  I said, “I know!  I’m looking for a crosswalk!”  They said “Just cross the street!”  Concerned I might misrepresent my faith by breaking the law I asked, “Isn’t that jaywalking?”   Though stunned for a moment, one of them chuckled as he responded, “This ain’t where you from!”  Offended by his stereotype, I told him I grew up not far from here.  I started to explain I am not as alien as he assumes me to be as I thought about how similar he and I really are.  He interrupted before I could, reiterating with a smile, “No!  You don’t understand!  This ain’t where you from!”  I never cease to be amazed by how God so often speaks with such characteristic profundity through such seemingly unintentional, unlikely and unrehearsed ways.  As he said it again, I was stunned into silence as I heard God say, “This ain’t where you from!”    

I am fascinated by the complexity of the perceptions of identity and purpose developed in response to the God given ability to ask, “Who am I?”  Generally, the question is answered by a personal name and a list of categorized attributes that more explain “who we are.”  The majorities of humanity huddle in groups of likeness that establish singular identities among their many members, identities otherwise known as cultures.  Many cultural categories are global such as economic class, gender, common interests, vocations and religions.  For example, as a wealthy man, it may be assumed I like to buy nice things and I am attracted to beautiful women.  If I am concerned about my physique, it may be assumed I am careful about what I eat and I exercise.  If I am a master carpenter, it may be assumed I am skilled in woodwork.  If I am a Christian, it may be assumed I am a follower of Jesus Christ.  Other categories are characterized by geography and history such as language, race, food, nationality and traditions.  For example, as an American, it may be assumed I speak English and I celebrate our country’s independence day on the 4th of July.  Further, having been born and raised in Alabama, it may be assumed I eat Bar-B-Q on the 4th of July and I recommend Bar-B-Q by saying, “Ya’ll should try it.”  All of these are legitimate cultural assumptions to me because they are true of the majority of individuals I know in each category.  These assumptions are also called stereotypes.  Stereotypes are efficient but, as I’m sure you have already guessed, they are not always reliable since an individual may be representative of the minority.  Minorities are an exception to the majority rule of the same category that makes one distinct from it though they are still part of it.  For example, I may be wealthy but live poor, a man who prefers men, vain but eat junk food, a master carpenter who is not skilled, a Christian who does not follow Christ, an American who speaks Spanish, or a southerner who is a vegan and says “you all should try tofu.”  People are not necessarily who they seem to be or even who they once claimed to be, much less who they should be.   

As such, I understand the accurate stereotypes that make me foreign to the men who gave me directions.  I’m white.   I grew up in a middle class family that was very involved in church.  Neither my family nor my church would have welcomed them as family.  I am well educated, well read, and well traveled as a result of choosing options readily available to my culture but unimaginable to his.  They do not see people from my culture here very often and the ones they have seen were only passing through, keeping their distance in fear and revulsion as they made their way out.  I used to be one of them, which is why I felt at first so compelled to confess I’m not one of them now.  Now, to my people, I am one of these people.  I am broken, needy, transient, unemployed, untidy, undignified, unrespectable and unacceptable.  I am a traitor to their values and shunned as an outcaste.   Many of my family and friends are ashamed of me.  Nevertheless, when I was told “this ain’t where you from,” I was reminded I’m not one of these either.  I am a “one of them” to both and a “one of us” to neither; quite the incongruity, serving as quite the reminder of where I am really from. 

Incongruities are a reminder to me because they are common to my people.  We must die so we may live, fall so we may be lifted up, lose to gain, be weak to be made strong, be a doormat to be dignified, be poor to become rich, be the least to be the greatest, and be a slave to be free.  What God does through us is not us.  We love our enemy, serve selflessly, forgive repeatedly, and invest in eternity.   Our real is unreal. The pretend wise are made fools and pretend fools are made wise.  Pretend treasures are made worthless and the worthless are made invaluable.  We are unnatural because we are made supernatural.   We rejoice when we suffer, clap for joy while we weep with sorrow, claim victory in defeat, believe the unbelievable, and love the unlovable.   We are unified though diversified sharing community with the Trinity in whom the unknowable is made knowable, the mundane is made mystical, the fantastical is made trivial, and the unimaginable becomes manageable.  We live partly in infinity until the day we enter it fully.  Such is the incongruity of this present reality and the hope of going home eternally.     

Homesickness is a blessing when the home we miss is heaven.  It reminds me not to even try to get comfortable here because I won’t be here long enough and the people of this world are not my people; not yet anyway.  Though I should not try to fit in I should not try to stay out either.  Instead of trying to identify with them, I am to be Christ so they can decide to identify with him.  “Who I am” is really a “who we are,” for the body of Christ is an every growing community of Christ followers who are possessed by his Spirit.  We are made one and share one purpose; we are to be the body of Christ and draw all men to him by going to them.  The body of Christ is the only stereotype that applies to us because there is no other stereotype that can rightly describe us.  We do not share fellowship with the world; we invite those in the world to come share fellowship with us.  That does not mean we should, as many have, isolate ourselves by building bigger buildings as we include others in our fellowship.  We are the Church who carry the fellowship to them.  Even if I am the only believer within a hundred miles, I worship in community with the Trinity.  I carry the light of the gospel into dark places, looking for those he has given eyes to see and are willing to leave the shadows and walk in the light.  When I find one, I share community with him, teaching him our Way and including him as a new citizen and fellow heir of our kingdom.  When he is ready, I will send him out as we were sent out, as a foreigner carrying the light of the gospel into dark places to draw all people to the One community who lives in him.  My work is not done until all people know and Christ comes to take me home.  When I go home I want my Father to be proud of me for completing the work he sent me here to do, to be able to see his smiling face and hear the words, “Well done!”  My hope in that day drives me on.  Therefore, when I again hear “This ain’t where you from,” my heart will leap with excitement at the reminder I am on my way.

Interesting Read

I did a quick read of this and wanted to post it here to read again later. I think this book might be worth checking out.

 

 

 

Boys Adrift

 

 

 

Another blog?

Good grief. I did, though. Make another blog. Go see:)

"You Won't Starve..." 

Filthy rags

There are times when a phrase rings in my head for days on end. This fact is then compounded by hearing the phrase from outside my head too. Lately it's been the "filthy rags" phrase. My smart friend said, as we talked through some things one day, "You know that means menstrual rags, right?" 

Yeah, I did know that, but the way she said it, and with the odd spin it put on my thought process, I fell in love with the Scriptures all the more. What better way to describe my "best" before God?

Isaiah 64:6

    For all of us have become like one who is unclean,

         And all our righteous deeds are like a filthy garment;

         And all of us wither like a leaf,

         And our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.

I need this. I am just nothing. No matter how great I feel or how much I get congratulated for some show of goodness, it's all just a pile of gross rags. 

I love that. 

As I pulled up to the house today, I spotted the Christmas tree laying on the curb. I wondered to myself if the garbage men would collect it with the trash or if the leaf pick up guys would get it. 

Then it flashed through my mind that the tree was now garbage. Just a few days ago, it was a gorgeous tree that everyone who visited the house lavished with praise. I thought that was funny since it was kind of a janky tree to me this year. I didn't prune it to "perfection" for once, and the kids had a heavy hand in decorating it, which made it look like it was decorated by a bunch of kids instead of perfectly by an adult. I'm glad I let go and let them do. (I really am not that OCD. Fine, I am. But I'm loosening up, okay?)

 A few days ago, this beautifully decorated tree was a glistened up with all sorts of bling and decoration, and was the center of the room-the center of the holiday celebrations in the house, in that I mean we sat around it, looked at it, unwrapped presents under it, and that sort of thing. I don't mean the center in any sort of religious aspect.

Anyway.

Just a few short days and it went from that into garbage.  Trash.

It was just a reminder of all the things that I decorate myself with. Cute shoes, a nice outfit, fluffy hair, makeup, jewelry, kind words, loving touches....

All that conceals what's on the inside. Filthy rags. 

SO. So. 

I go back to this. There's nothing good in me but Christ. Just nothing. That's it. 

I'm a mess. I can't do anything one thing really well. I do manage to do a whole lot of things marginally. I yell at my kids and waste money and drink too much coffee and think judgmental thoughts and say snarky things and lust and crave and covet and lie and watch things I shouldn't and read things I shouldn't and wonder things I shouldn't and cuss in my head even, and for the most part no one knows.

Because I cover it up with fancy things.

And heaven forbid if I stumble and do something right in front of people. Oh, the praise. 

And I think, "Huh. If you only knew."

See as much as I love Christ, and as much as I'm in love with Him, I can do no good. I am no good. Apart from Him I'm just nothing.

And this is just freeing. I'm NOTHING! I'm HOPELESS! I STINK at everything I do. 

Except Him. He makes me able. He's the only good thing about me. And I'm so glad, because that way HE gets all the glory. 

I felt a kinship with that discarded tree. If not for Christ, I'd be laying in a gutter. Probably for real. I loved being reminded that if I even think about boasting in one little thing about myself, that's just me, trying to hang a pretty decoration on a dead tree.  

If I hear a good word about myself, I need to remind myself "That's Christ. I should be in a gutter."

I love it when Christ makes me keep it real.

Snapshots of Christmas

It was a Christmas filled with hope, joy, longing, grief, sadness, gratitude, sickness, peace, chaos, friendship, family, snow and Christ. I'm thankful it came, and I'm thankful that it's gone. I will celebrate the joy of Christ's coming all year long, and that's the way I prefer it be done. Thank you, Lord, for the immeasurable gift of Your Son.

Where dreams go to die

I got engaged on December 23, 1994. We were poor college students, working our ways through school on our own.  There wasn't much money to buy a ring, which wasn't a huge deal to me. My future husband said, "Get something you can live with for a while, and we'll get you want you really want later." 

His step mom worked at an antique shop that carried jewelry. He refused not only to choose the ring himself, he refused to even go with me to choose it. He was afraid, he said, of influencing my monumental decision. He wanted me to get what I wanted. So my mom and I went, meeting his step mom there. 

Did I mention we were poor college students? We decided our price range beforehand, and his step mom had a selection for me to choose from laid out on blue velvet trays. I was like a kid in a candy store. I wanted a solitaire, I thought, but when my eyes landed on a what they called a dinner ring from the 1940's that all changed. It was sparkly and unique, and I fell in love with it. 

A saleslady brought out a telephone on a silver tray with my soon-to-be finance on the line where I cried into the phone that I had found my ring while my mom and future mother-in-law beamed in the background.

It was all very sweet and romantic.

They gave us the ring at cost less 10% since we had a connection. The ring was $800, and they allowed us to make  interest free monthly payments until we paid it off. That was really kind.

I still really love my ring. I love that it's old and that someone else wore it and loved it too. I love that it's not a real engagement ring, and I've only seen one other one like it these 16 years. 

I thought about the ring I wanted, the ring that I would get later, and I came across this picture in a magazine. It was an add for Tiffany, and along with dreaming about going to Tiffany in New York City one day, I decided this was the ring I wanted. I cut out this picture and it stayed on my refrigerator for about 12 years. 

Really. 

My grandmother got a solitaire for her 23rd wedding anniversary. I think it was 23 years. She loved that ring. She had wed with a simple wedding band and wore it all the years until she got her new ring, although she continued to wear her original band on her right hand. She loved that ring. She wasn't a jewelry person, really. In fact, she is the most frugal person I've ever met. She wasn't a spender. She was a saver. This ring seemed out of character for her, but maybe that's why she treasured it so.

It was to go to my aunt, my dad's older sister. When she was killed in a car accident several years ago, my grandmother looked at me, covered my hand with hers and said, "You'll get my ring now."

Oh boy. 

Well, that got my husband off the hook for having to buy me one. I figured he could get the sapphires to put alongside her diamond and then I'd have my dream ring.
  
Well. 

As I grew in my faith I started to see everything from a different perspective. Things that used to be important fell away. Some slowly at first, painfully. My temporal love of things that sparkled was a strong one. 

I noticed the small clipping of "my" ring buried under family pictures, notes made for myself and drawings from the kids still stuck to the refrigerator this week. I took the clipping down and sat it on the counter. I looked at it for a long time. 

I didn't want that ring anymore. 

Now I feel the burden of my grandmother's ring too. I can't wear it. It's too big. Too beautiful. She's still here, but not really here. When I have that ring, it will mean that she's really gone. 

I don't think I can sell it. How do you sell something so sentimental. I have no idea of its worth, but even $3,000 could put a well in an impoverished community in India to provide drinking water to people who don't have that luxury.

How can I wear a ring that represents so much relief for so many people?

My own ring appraised for much more than what we paid for it. It too could provide a well. 

I can't get past that. 

And this is where I get stuck. I'm not really sure how to live in this world and yet please the God who wrote the Bible. It seems really easy and yet horrifically difficult. I rely on the Spirit to lead and guide and yet then I wonder if He already did. In the Bible. Already. 


And here we are in the Christmas season, where buying and giving are so important. And again I struggle. Do my kids need more? Of course not. They can't keep clean and straight what they already have. I insisted to my husband who loves to give gifts that I don't need or want anything this Christmas either. That made him sad. So again, I feel like I'm swimming upstream.


My dream Christmas would be to spend a couple of weeks cozied up in a cabin in the mountains, with a Charlie Brown tree strung with a string of colorful lights and strings of popcorn. No gifts allowed. Just blazing fires, warm comforting food, board and card games, playing in the snow and lots of reading aloud from the Bible.


No stuff.


I'm tired of stuff.


So. I took this picture off of the kitchen counter where it had laid as I studied it, feeling these thoughts whirling around in my head. I felt sadness. I felt hope. I'm thankful for the promise that God will complete what He started. 


I watched at this small pictured floated into the garbage can. It came to rest among the morning's coffee grinds, old coloring pictures, crumpled up pieces of paper. It gleamed up at me as beautiful and as sparking as it had from the side of my refrigerator all those years. I stood there for just a moment, feeling a bit like I was saying goodbye to an old friend. Then I closed the lid and went off to address Christmas cards.


I guess it could be said that this dream went to the garbage can to die. And I'm okay with that.

I get my blog back

I guess my blog hasn't actually gone anywhere, but I feel like it has. 

I signed the boys up for soccer class and to free up our week, I scheduled the classes for Saturday mornings.

I didn't really think that through.

Like everybody else in the world, Saturday morning is the only morning I don't have to get up and GO. And when you have to leave the house at 8:20 to get to soccer on a Saturday morning, you realize how much you miss your stay-in-your-pj's-and-blog-and-drink-coffee mornings.

Especially those Saturdays after you stay up until 3 or 4 am with your girlfriends or at Secret Church. 

Those were not fun.

Besides my at home pj time, I missed blogging. My brain misses it. And I miss the lazy mornings of not having to be up and going so early. So we're sitting out the next soccer session. Not just so I can sit in my pj's on Saturday mornings, but maybe that's like 40% of the reason. That probably makes me a bad mom, but I'm totally okay with that.

And with that, I'm looking forward to my date with my blog. In the morning. Pj's on, coffee in hand. 

I can't wait.