I just called to say "Olive Juice"

Tapestry blog

2009-04-09T14:12:00.003-05:00

Ok, so now I'm a regular (every other week) on the Tapestry blog that's mentioned below. I'll still try to keep this one up, but let's be honest, I don't do a good job at that. Maybe one day I'll change. Maybe. One day. Come on. It's a possiblity.

tapestry blog

2009-01-07T08:11:00.002-06:00

If you're looking for me, I've blogged on a different page this week. It's a Christian women's blog called Tapestry and has some pretty cool stuff.

a Christmas gift

2008-12-24T09:14:00.004-06:00

In light of the season of giving, I offer you just one picture (yes, the octopus is carved from the book) from this wonderful website. It's amazing what a book can do to you (and I do love books), but it's more amazing what these people can do to books. Enjoy!

dreaming answers to questions unknown

2008-11-28T12:48:00.007-06:00

So, I'm one of those who can't watch anything or read anything without being convinced that it might happen to me. We watch some movie where the husband turns out to be some serial killer and the wife had no idea, and I'm questioning my husband on his whereabouts last night. Yeah sure, he's going to kung fu, but can I call and make sure he showed up?

Or I'm reading a book right now about a married woman who falls in love with another man about 20 years into her marriage. Suddenly, I'm wondering if my husband and I will fall into a rut where it's just all familiar and habitual, and then one of us fall in love with someone else.
"How can we keep this from happening?" I cry out. My husband just smiles knowing that next I'll be sure that one day we will have to leave this planet due to the massive amount of pollution and leave a little robot here to clean it up. I like to look at all this entering into things as amazing empathy, not crazy. Others may disagree.

A few nights ago, I had a dream. Inspired by both this wondering how our love (and we are in love now which makes the possible loss more tragic) will survive and my wanderings in trying to figure out what to do with my life (you know, "it'd be great if someone would just hand me the plan" type of thoughts), I dreamt something that helped me see what I already knew. Life is a journey and it's work, but it's worth it because the alternative is just not good. You'll see.

The Dream
People start talking about how we are going to have to leave Earth. It's going to blow up, be swept by a tidal wave, or something. The reason for leaving is fuzzy, but you can pick anyone of those Armageddon type movies to fill it in.

We all pile into spaceships, and they get us onto another planet (and, no, I don't even really watch Sci-fi). In the midst of all these people, I lose my husband but have two friends with me. I stick close to them.

We are in a building with conveyor belts and escalators zooming everywhere. The first thing the booming voice tells us to do is to step onto one of the numbers that is gliding past on one of those belts. The numbers are all out of order, and as we step on a number, we are popped back off. The voice explains that if the number is already taken we must try again. My friends and I try again. Two more times and we all have numbers. I am 257.

Standing on those numbers, the belt zooms us up to another room. The voice now says we must choose our job. At random, we have to step on any one of the many spots on the floor. My friends and I all put our feet on the same spot with no idea what will happen. We are informed we are now Runners. I don't like to run.

We zoom up to another room and have to get new shoes. Running shoes. I'm not into running. They take my running shoes off of me (the ones I own and never run in). I like those shoes, but they say they'll give me better ones. The give me a new pair, but they're ugly. They say mine will go somewhere else. I guess someone who doesn't need to run will get my beat-up pair. I hate to run.

I am then turned loose on my assignment. Walking through a room, I see my husband. I yell his name. He says, "My name is 734." I tell him that he's my husband.

"I'm so glad to see you," I say. "I missed you so much."

"No, I don't have a wife. They are going to give me one later though," he responds. "I am a doctor. You are not on my list, 257. I must go to my patients."

Whoa. I guess I missed the brainwashing room, but he didn't. I let him walk away from me.

A day or two later, I am in my truck making deliveries (I guess Runners don't always run, hallelujah), and I see my husband on the side of the road. He is laying in the ditch, and he has cuts all over him. In that way you know in a dream, I know his new "wife" did this to him. I go over to him and help him.

The booming voice tells me that I must leave him there. "No, he's my husband and he needs help," I tell that stupid voice.

"This is in the plan for him. You must leave him," the voice says.

"Leave him to die?" I ask. "No, he's my husband."

"He's not your husband, 257."

"Yes, he is. We were married on earth, before God, and what God has put together, no man can tear apart."

I grab my husband, and we flee back to earth. Because I know, in that way you know in dreams, that this has all been a lie. There was no reason to leave earth, my husband and I really are one, and I can't just arbitrarily be told what to do with my life. Besides, I hate to run.

solomon summaries

2008-11-25T13:43:00.004-06:00

I have a friend who has started Solomon Summaries. What is it? Well, to quote them, "Solomon Summaries is like CliffNotes for Christian books." They look at new and classic Christian literature and then send you an 8-10 page summary. You can glean the wisdom of centuries of Christian work within minutes. You can see which ones you really want to delve into and which ones might not be your cup of tea. Either way, you'll be able to familiarize yourself with the Christian terrain out there from classics to contemporary thinkers. You know it's better than being so familiar with the nightly TV schedule!

The great thing is that during their Beta launch period, you can join for free. I'm a bit behind in writing about this and the free trial only lasts through December 1, but it's still worth it to give it a little looksey.

So, here's the website. Enjoy getting a peek at what's out there.

facing pony fear

2008-11-21T16:10:00.002-06:00

On Sunday's, I help out in the preschool area at my church. We have this large group teaching time when the kids come out and hear a Bible story in a theatrical format. The main star of this time is Bible Story Bob—a cowboy who loves to tell those little youngsters about God. His sidekick is a horse named Big Puddin'. Now this horse is usually inhabited by a fifth grader, and it is a rather impressive costume. A little too impressive at times. Because to some children, there is nothing natural about a four to five foot tall horse that stands on two legs and looks like a stuffed animal come to life. That's just plain spooky to a few.

A new kid came this Sunday, and he lost it over the horse. I took him around the side where he couldn't see that darn horse, but he was convinced we needed to flee the area, perhaps the church or even the state (my interpretation of the desperation he was exhibiting). I tried talking him down as he pulled on my hand and kept saying, "Come on. We need to go. Let's find my mommy." I told him that we'd just stay there, and then go back to class when the horse was gone. I told him that his mommy was in her class too, and it'd be better if she could stay. He wasn't crying. Just a bit panicked. So, I figured the situation would ease in time.

That's when he started saying something new: "We don't need to be afraid of ponies." Ah, self-talk from a five-year-old. I didn't say the phrase first, so it must be something he's heard at home. I don't know if he's often scared of ponies, or just often plain scared, but the fact that he was talking himself down was, well, good and strange.

So, I told him that what he was saying was true. That Big Puddin' was a nice pony, and we didn't have to be afraid of him. He kept repeating those phrases for the next five minutes as we waited it out.

I then suggested that he close his eyes as we walked past the horse to line up with his class to go back. He let me cover his eyes, but just as we got in sight of that pesky, furry thing, he pulled my hand away. He held on tighter to me but looked at the horse, which was doling out hugs and high fives to his fans. "We don't have to be afraid of ponies," the kid said. He began to shake a little while facing his fear but kept up his mantra.

I handed him off to his teacher, and he went on his way. I went on mine. But today, as I face the fact that I've been unemployed for a few months now and no closer to getting a job, that I've sent out some writing and not heard back (except for one that has decided to cease publication--hopefully not after reading the quality of submissions they were getting), and that the jobs I wanted most are the ones that I get turned down for (for random reasons like someone suddenly decided to come back so they're going to hire within and no longer have an opening), I must remember that "we don't have to be afraid of ponies"—or rejection, or following our dreams, or sitting still while we wait to figure out what those dreams even are. If a five year old can look a fearsome, cuddly costumed horse in the face, then so can I.

loser?

2008-11-12T11:55:00.000-06:00

So, I lost the contest and didn't get the job. And I'll confess, I'm having trouble distinguishing between losing and being a loser. For all of us that have a little trouble with that kind of stuff, I've decided to write out five reasons that I'm not a loser:

1) My mom still loves me. Oh, wait...does that count? Actually, it doesn't, does it? I think it actually might be a step in the wrong direction. Not that you loving me isn't great, Mom, but you know, you kind of have to love me.

Ok. Do-over.

1) I still got over 6k votes. Now, I am aware that some of those votes could possibly be from one person voting multiple times. But I know that one person didn't vote 6000 times (not even my momma loves me that much). So, there were a few thousand out there that who were behind me.

2) I still like to write. They may not have hired me to write, but I can still do it on my own. They can't take that away. They can take everything else, but they can't take that.

3) I still like to be overdramatic. See #2.

4) I still crack myself up. And yes, I'm ok if I'm the only one smiling at me and my wittiness. Besides, I'm pretty sure at least a few of you think I'm funny too (or at least my mom does).

5) Losing doesn't actually equal loser. Yeah, that's a hard one in this society, but I'm learning slowly that who I am is more important that what I have accomplished. We can define ourselves by our roles (and right now I have little to define me when it comes to employment), but all of that has little to do with who Jamie, or Laura, or Kim, or Judy (that's my momma) really is. I've been working on being myself lately, and I'm starting to see that I can't be me until I break away from what people expect (or more often, what I think they expect) and just make a fool of myself being me. So, if I think that losing equals being a loser, then I have a definition problem. Because I simply am not a loser. No one is (well, maybe no one except for that guy that really is only loved by his mom--ok, not even him).

So fair thee well, and don't listen to the lies when they try to get you down. Call your mom instead (unless she's one of those guilt tripping crazy moms), then you should call someone you know will give you a little pick-me-up. Or dance around the living room like a crazy person to your favorite song. Either one usually works for me.

frugal entertainment

2008-10-31T09:31:00.003-05:00

This is a blog I published on mylifemymoney.org where I'm trying to get a job as a spokesperson, but I thought you guys might like to read it here as well. And if you haven't voted, today (Oct 31) is the last day. Just go here and vote for me!

Saving money is not just about stashing it in a savings account (although that is a brilliant idea); it's also about how you spend it. So, because I've had a necessity to save those pennies lately, I'm going to let you in on the few things I've found work when you have little money but are still looking for a little fun:

1) Watch TV on the Internet. It's like having your own personal TiVo because you can stop and start it whenever you want (thus saving money by dumping TiVo). Also, you can even watch some cable shows (thus saving money by dumping your cable). And, there are less commercials to have to sit through. Even better, try hulu.com cuz they've got full-length tv shows and movies online for free.

2) Dollar movies. Forego the regular theater (when did those ticket prices get so high, even for student tickets?), and wait paitently for it to get over to the dollar theater, espeically for those flicks you're not sure are even worth a dollar. Feeling adventurous (or bored)? Get some friends together and play "Dollar Movie Roulette"--just go to the theater and see the next movie that's playing. Warning: it can get ugly.

3) Public Library. This is one of my favorites. They've got books, CDs, DVDs, magazines, and more, and all for free. Cities with multiple libraries will even send the item you want to your local branch. So, just get online and tell them what you want sent to a library near you.

4) Free events. The best way I know to find these is through the "Intown Dallas" newsletter. They tell you all the things happening in the area and how much it'll cost you. Now some of it's rather pricey, but they also tell you all the complimentary stuff. So, if you wanna get it in your inbox (for free), just email "Sign Me Up!" at donna@donnaharriscompany.com. It's worth a weekly perusal.

5) Storytelling. There are storytelling guilds all over the country. They usually meet about once a month to sit around and tell stories (I'm not kidding). Most are totally up for you showing up to tell stories or just to listen to others--for free! In Texas, click here to find info, although I'd contact them to verify that it's all correct.

6) Stay home. You know, like back in the old days when they didn't have all this new fandangled stuff. Invite some friends over and play cards, games, charades, tell stories, or just talk. It may feel lame at first (we're attached to electronics by umbilical cords, aren't we?), but the simple things often turn out the most fun.

Any other ideas? Let me know.
Jamie

a new adventure

2008-10-23T15:41:00.002-05:00

So, I'm trying out a new adventure in blogging as well as job hunting. It's a competition to be a spokesperson for a credit union. So, if you've got a moment, stop by and give me a vote. No spamming will be involved. Jamie in '08!

same ol', same ol'

2008-10-09T12:42:00.002-05:00

Someone asked me today how things were going, and I said, "Oh, it's alright. Nothing new." And that's true. Things seem to be flowing the same as yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Each morning staying in bed a bit longer makes more sense as the days smudge into one another. Sure, there are new things happening, but nothing seems too different.

Then, I remembered this quote from Sister Barabara Hance I got on a card once: "Show me a day when the world wasn't new." The card shows a kid looking through a window at a baby bird stretching its wings. So, I looked out the window too.

I saw the sun shining brightly on a tree that's leaves tiptoed in the breeze. The leaves burned green and acorns scattered across the cement of my balcony floor. The air felt soft and light as it beckoned autumn and me to come out and play.

I think I'd change my answer to that question now. Newness surrounds if we'll just open our eyes to it. And, that's worth getting out of bed for after all.

bringing out the blocks

2008-10-07T11:58:00.000-05:00

In the past two months that I have been unemployed and figuring out what to do, I've had to face the fact that I am gifted in certain ways. Now, I don't know why there's dread in facing your gifts, other than facing them means owning them and deciding what to do with them. I happen to be a fan of hiding them under the bed and ignoring things, rather than putting myself out there.

It's just that when you work within your giftings, you're more vulnerable because it's really you that you're putting out there. So when people criticize (not if, but when), it hurts more. It's harder to separate somebody not liking your idea, or writing, or dancing, or choice in music from somebody not liking you when you have put your heart on the line. But in the past two months, I've started to realize people criticize no matter what, and it's actually no better to have them criticize something that's not you than something that is you.

I see now that I have been given certain gifts that I should use in certain ways, and when I just let them sit around, life loses, well, it loses it's life. So, now I hope I can use the building blocks I've been given to actually build with because there's nothing sadder than a foundation laid but never been built upon.

stiff stuff

2008-10-03T14:08:00.003-05:00

I have a crick in my neck. I don't know why they call it that. I'd like to call it a "vise around my neck that is keeping me from turning my head fully, and if by some chance I forget and give it a swing, then I have a knife in my neck." But I guess that's too long so someone decided to go with "crick." Right.

I read this article yesterday about listening to your body. So, I thought I should listen. And well, this crick, I think it's talking about stress. Actually yelling it. The funny thing is that my job isn't stressing me out. Because, well, I don't have a job, not for two months. And as much as those with jobs won't believe it, this is stressing me out. The figuring out which job might be right for me. The applying and not getting it because they just hired someone (happened twice). The Dallas ISD suddenly realizing they overspent a billion dollars and not hiring any more subs right when I was almost in. The taking on of riskier things like writing, blogging, and even a youtube video. And listening to people say that Great Depression II is coming because of the $700 billion bailout when we are living paycheck to paycheck now. I don't have the money for a depression. Crick. Ah, no wonder.

So, I'm sitting here at the computer with a heating pad trying to get the offended muscles to loosen up and reminding myself that God is in control to get my worried attitude to loosen up. Do they make a heating pad for the heart?

beauty blind

2007-06-04T14:39:00.000-05:00

Every morning and every evening, the sun finds its way in and out of view in a spectacular rush of colors that make artists purple with envy. I notice this phenomena maybe once every couple of weeks. I’m asleep or just indoors or busy moving about with no notice to the beauty that smears across the skies 365 days of the year.

A recent Washington Post article, “Pearls Before Breakfast,” talked our inability to notice the beauty that surrounds us. They placed a world-renowned violinist, Joshua Bell, in a Washington, DC subway during morning rush masquerading as a street musician. Although he played the same music in the same manner that others pay money to hear, very few people slowed down to hear him that morning.

Bell talked about being nervous before he went in to play at the subway, even though he has played before many dignitaries and crowds numbering in the thousands. “When you play for ticket-holders, you are already validated,” Bell said. “I have no sense that I need to be accepted. I’m already accepted. Here, there was this thought: What if they don’t like me? What if they resent my presence...” The article goes on to describe him as “art without a frame.” This is probably why so many didn’t stop that day.

A senior curator at the National Gallery, Mark Leithauser, who oversees the framing of paintings, further clarified the topic of context. Leithauser had a theory that the framing (or context) of the event was one of the primary reasons that few took in the beauty of the event: “Let’s say I took one of our more abstract masterpieces, say an Ellsworth Kelly, and removed it from its frame, marched it down the 52 steps that people walk up to get to the National Gallery, past the giant columns, and brought it into a restaurant. It’s a $5 million painting. And it’s one of those restaurants where there are pieces of original art for sale, by some industrious kids from the Corcoran School, and I hang that Kelly on the wall with a price tag of $150. No one is going to notice it. An art curator might look up and say: ‘Hey, that looks a little like an Ellsworth Kelly. Please pass the salt.’” So, the point is that in some ways, we can cut those passersby, and ourselves, a little slack. The distractions of the world do take us away from seeing the present beauties. Art without a frame is harder to appreciate; the frame tells us to stop and see.

But I wonder, even with all the good reasoning in the world as to why I might pass up beauty, if I want to live that way still. I may understand it. I may have reasons for it. But I’d like to change it. I’d like to see the joys in front of me—the gifts of loved ones in my presence, not the work that looms to take me away from them even when I’ve left the “office.” Besides, it doesn’t seem that we were born with the ability to pass beauty without a glance. The Post comments on the fact that every time a child walked past, he or she tried to listen, but every time, a parent pulled him or her along. The author then talks of poet Billy Collins’ observation that “all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother’s heart is in iambic meter. Then life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us.” We’ve learned this method of ignoring. I’d like to relearn the method of paying attention.

I need to create a place of stillness and silence: a place where I slow down and hear what’s going on in my soul and what God has to say about it, both the chaos and the beauty of sin and grace; to try to find the pearls before breakfast, lunch, and dinner; to open my eyes to the sun rising and setting; to try to hear the music beating in my heart in the midst of the bleating traffic of my life.

Link to article “Pearls Before Breakfast”:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html

holding up

2006-11-08T19:52:00.000-06:00

Note: I post-dated this because the event happened last November and I just never got around to posting it then.

The bus wound through the dark, jungled streets of Jamaica taking us from the airport to our hotel where the wedding would be held. Everyone on the bus was in Jamaica for that event.

“Daddy, you’ll keep me safe, right?” the three-year-old niece of the groom asked, as she crawled into her father’s lap.

“Yes, honey.”

She paused. “Why, Daddy?”

“Because that’s what daddys are supposed to do.”

Eavesdropping, my mind wound its way back to the fact that I hadn’t felt safe in days, weeks even. I’d obsessed about this trip to Jamaica. Worried about having fun; worried about being safe; worried about the hotel; worried about getting arrested because I look the kind of innocent, little girl you could plant drugs on and she’d make it through customs, only this time I wouldn’t make it through customs, and I wouldn’t be able to convince anyone that I had no idea how that “ganga” had gotten into my bag, while the real perpetrator stood by watching—some stranger that had bumped into me in the airport terminal just so he could drop his stash on me.

So, there I sat on that bus snaking down the tree-lined roads of Jamaica, popping out to a view of the blackened ocean, and I thought about who keeps me safe. And I knew the answer was me. For over a year now, I’d been in survival mode. Watching people in hospitals taste death and some partake of it entirely. Mourning losses, keeping families rested and together, dealing with anger at God, surviving on odd
jobs and the kindnesses of near-strangers.

No wonder I was now freaked out over the possibility of rotting away in some foreign jail. Anxiety should reign when I’m the one having to take care of everything myself. The world was flat and full of potholes and even if I didn’t fall off the edge, I’d probably just fall through because there sure wasn’t anyone to catch me.

But as I listened to my thoughts, my lies, I knew that somewhere the truth was out there. And it wasn’t tied up in a pretty wedding package. The truth was the world was round, the road—although a bit bumpy—was not swiss cheese, and I couldn’t take care of anything myself anyway.

So, instead, I took a deep breath. Something I hadn’t done in a long time as I panted my way through surviving life. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. And I melted into those arms I’d been pushing away for so long. I’m sure I’d crawl out later, but for that moment, I’d sit still and breathe. Someone else could hold the world up for an hour or two. He’s probably been doing it longer than I have anyway.

for steph

2006-10-27T16:39:00.000-05:00

I've felt all
at loose ends lately,
but then I realized I was never
knit up as tightly as
I thought.

here

2006-06-19T12:48:00.000-05:00

I don’t want to be here—here in Dallas, Texas. I have three friends traipsing around the US right now; road tripping for two months while looking for God in America. I planned on going with them, but my mom went into the hospital. It was just a routine procedure, but I couldn’t leave. It was the sixth time someone close to me had been in the hospital in the last seven months. My grandmother died, my cousin died, and my best friend almost died, and I learned that there’s no such thing as a routine procedure. There was just no space in my soul to get in a cramped car with three other girls. So, I stayed here. I don’t want to be here.

I feel forgotten by God, like He’s busy answering the other line, talking to the children He really likes, and won’t click over to talk to me. I could have gone with these girls, and yet I couldn’t go; like I’m stuck in a cell with no walls. My soul is so deflated I can’t even puff it up a little now and go out to meet them. I can’t get away from here. I can’t get away from me. I’ll just have to stay still and hope God remembers I’m on call waiting.

Or maybe, I’ll go grocery shopping. I need milk. I can’t feed my latest addiction (Chai Tea while watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek at 8 in the morning) without milk. I know. I know. This makes me a 29-year-old watching reruns of teen angst that she was too mature to watch when it first aired. But in my depressed funk, some mornings Dawson’s gave me a reason to get of bed. That, or maybe it was the dreamy Oliver Hudson, who played the bit part of Eddie Doling for their sixth season. Hey, I figure if you’re going to act like 13-year-old girl, you gotta act like a 13-year-old girl. Besides, it’s not that bad. I don’t have his picture from Seventeen pinned up on my wall—at least, not yet.

Anyway, I’m on my way for milk. Must have milk for Chai, must have Chai for Dawson’s, and must have Dawson’s for Eddie. So, I’m sifting through the oranges (ok, it's not milk, but the depressed need their vitamin C too, right?), and a little round woman approaches to ask me how much they are. Her accent carries a Russian edge that breaks the English.

“My eyes, no good,” she says, pointing towards thick slices of rose-colored glass squatting on her nose.

“Six for a dollar,” I respond.

“Six. Dollar. Six. Dollar.” Then she starts grabbing aimlessly at the fruit in her blind state.

Moving into super-helpful mode, I begin selecting less wounded ones and plopping them into the bag in her hands. I count out the six.

“My daughter,” she says. “My daughter.” She reaches for me, and I find my cheek squashed against hers.

“Anything else?” I ask, feeling a swell of pride at how Godly and helpful I am now being sacrificing my time for hers.

“Mushrooms,” she responds.

We get mushrooms and a pound of catfish. The whole times she’s proclaiming our new found relationship. Then she declares she’s finished. With a “Thank you, my daughter,” she wheels away.

I am somebody, I think. I’ve helped an old lady cross the grocery store.

I bask in the glow of my wonderfulness. I smile at everyone while wearing my Miss Christian tiara with pride as I finish my own shopping. Apples. Mangoes. Eggs. Milk. I check out and return to my own apartment and yell, “Eddie, I’m home.” The emptiness yells back at me, and I drop my tiara on the floor in a flash of renewed loneliness. Right, I’m here, and I’m alone, and Eddie isn’t even a real person. I don’t want to be here.

But then I hear a squatty woman say, "My daughter," and I think, I’m glad that I'm here in Dallas. Or rather, then I remember someone’s glad I’m here in Dallas. My Russian rose-colored glasses mother. I may be downhearted. I may be depressed. And, I’m definitely delusional. But maybe God didn't forget me. Maybe He’s not off playing with His favorite kids. I guess He might be here in God-not-so-forsaken Dallas.

Well, maybe.

i'm just saying

2006-05-31T20:24:00.000-05:00

My mom is going into the hospital tomorrow for a “routine procedure.” She’ll probably be in the hospital for about a week and spend six weeks at home recovering. They say it’ll all be fine.

But I’ve learned in the past few months that there’s no such thing as a “routine procedure.” My roommate was almost killed during one of those last November. And people who should recover don’t always. My cousin didn’t make it last month in his fight against leukemia against all odds that he would.

I’ve told God, “I don’t want to lose my mother.” But I realized that I don’t really have a say in it. Not really. Oh, I know that it’s good that He’s sovereign and all—that He calls the shots. But it’s hard to accept sometimes. Hard to trust when you really have to.

So, I wrestle and battle and look forward to the moment when I release this and the freedom that ensues. I don’t have a say, and I don’t need one. Clinging and trying to control will do me no good. Just wear me out when I’m already tired.

He knows my heart, and He knows what’s best. At least that’s what they tell me. That’s what they say. And apparently they have a say in these things. Or maybe they say it because He did. And He has the say in the end, right? He has the say. He is the Word after all. I’ll just say that to myself tomorrow. I’ll just tell myself that.

anchoring

2006-05-03T10:08:00.000-05:00

Nobody told me grief is like an anchor. You sit on your stilled boat. Isolated. Alone. Yet, you find yourself among other anchored boats bobbing on the water. Others who are grieving, but never exactly like you. You endure gentle waves, and survive the violent ones. And all that time, you hope that you will be able to move on, wondering if that’s even an option. But then, one day you realize you’ve started sailing along again, until suddenly the anchor drops. In fact, it wasn’t even until the moment it went down that you realized it had been hauled up. People look at you and ask you what’s wrong. All you can say is that sometimes you just get sad. Sometimes the anchor drops all on it’s own.

Nobody told me grief is like an anchor. And nobody can tell me when we’re going sailing again.

Frankie

2006-04-21T22:47:00.000-05:00

My cousin passed away yesterday from leukemia. The blue days seem a gray, hazy fog. and numbness has rolled me flat like dough. and sleep doesn’t fit like jeans you “grew out of” and look at fondly but know you won’t be getting into anytime soon. and laughter feels guilty but not as guilty as not laughing at all. and I play with his five-year-old soccer and catch and horsey and piggy back and sometimes she mentions she’s sad. and the world keeps moving but it seems to have the hiccups and I just want to tell it to hold its breath. Breathe.

moving me

2006-04-10T16:43:00.000-05:00

In the process of moving recently, I realized why I hate it. I hate packing. All those ghosts you’ve shoved in closets and under the bed have to be dealt with. Or, at least acknowledged, as you stuff them in a box and take them somewhere else to haunt you.

And then, there are all the people I dreamed of being and all the people I am that I wish I could hide from that come floating to the surface. And, I wonder why I’m keeping all these ghosts and people around anyway. I want to get rid of so many things—to release them into the wild—but I’m afraid I’ll lose pieces of myself that I wanted to keep in the process. Like in cutting off the chains, I might just cut off my arm too.

Now as I’m unpacking, I’m trying to be better about deciding what to discard and what to keep. I want to organize, simplify, and cleanse. Because I really want to be me—the me I was created to be—unburdened, creative, loving, light, dancing, free.

In the process of moving recently, I realized why I needed to move. It wasn’t just for the new city or the new roommate or the new life. I needed to move closer to the real me.

washed-up pre-Olympian

2006-03-03T09:35:00.000-06:00

“How do they do that?” my sister asked as we watched the women’s ice skating last week. The move in question was one in which the skater spun on one leg, while she turned the rest of her body perpendicular and grabbed her other leg, creating a perfect rotating doughnut with her body.

“Oh, I could do that,” I said.

“Go ahead. I’ll spot you,” she said. “It’ll be like old times.”

Ah, yes. Old times. Our childhood was filled with gold medals and acrobatic feats, for we couldn’t see something on television without trying it. Although the Olympics inspired us to try many moves, Circus of the Stars was our real muse. Watching those “regular” people learn death-defying acts on the trapeze, always made us create our own dangerous performances. Our favorite was to put mom’s mini-trampoline (a leftover from some convincing aerobic movement of the early 80s) in front of the two steps that led from our dining room to the living room. We’d pile up all of the couch pillows in front of that. And then, we’d run down the hallway, through the dining room, hit the trampoline, fly through the air, and land on those pillows—hopefully.

So, in honor of old times and the fact that the mini-tramp is now gone, I stood up in my sister’s living room and tried to put the rest of my body at a 90-degree angle. My sister grabbed my raised foot and the collar of my shirt. By choking me just right, she was able to turn me into a sort-of ellipsis. She then told me I had to grab my leg. So, with my sister/coach encouraging me, I reached behind my head and with gasping breaths (between the choking and laughing), I found my foot.

She surveyed her work. “Well, you’re flat horizontally, but I think they definitely make rounder circles than you.”

And there you have it. My Olympic career washed up before it began. So, here’s the real question: does anyone know of a job for a pre-Olympic dry-land ice skater who can only make a elliptical sort-of doughnut with the help of her sister/coach?

you’re squashing me

2006-02-21T08:42:00.000-06:00

I feel flat. Like a bulldozer ran over me and left this thin pancake of a girl on the road and a gust of wind could just pick me up. Then I’d be sailing on the wind like those squashed flat characters on cartoons. Life has rolled over me.

In the past few weeks, my grandmother died, my cousin was diagnosed with leukemia (and now getting treatments at a hospital), and my mother went into the hospital for problems with her intestines (and is still there today). None of these people were even sick when I wrote the preceding blog about being fairly warned. And actually none of them other than my mother read the thing anyway. So, it’s not like I think I’m a curse. It’s more like I’m just plain, old tired of this merry-go-round of hospitals. I want to pick my flattened self up off the ground and do something else.

But I can’t. So, I pray: breathe into me, O breath of God. Breathe your life giving force into me as you did Adam and make this squashed, pancake girl full of life again.

reader be warned

2006-01-14T11:47:00.000-06:00

for the curious:
My friend had a routine surgery in which they accidentally nicked her bowels. No one knew, and she was spilling into her abdominal cavity for a week before anyone noticed. She ended up with a nine day stay in ICU because of a horrible infection and pneumonia. Then, she followed that up with over a month in a regular hospital room. She is doing much better, but we'd appreciate your prayers for her continued recovery.

unbelievably:
I had a friend dislocate her knee last week, and I spent two nights in the hospital staying with her. She's still recovering and could use prayer as well.

conclusion:
Apparently, I've turned into a nurse/care taker of sorts.

the warning:
God seems to be smiting my friends and loved ones, so just know you should be careful around me. Also, be warned that I prefer not to travel across state lines in order to take care of you. So, if you want to be my friend, please move to Texas first.

blog still still paused

2005-12-18T13:42:00.000-06:00

my friend got out of the hospital yesterday. thanks for all the prayers.
blog still paused for recovery (hers and mine). check back in 2006

keep praying

2005-12-05T20:05:00.000-06:00

my friend is doing better. in a regular room at the hospital now.
please keep praying. blog still paused

blog paused

2005-11-25T10:08:00.000-06:00

friend in ICU. please pray

changing seasons

2005-11-08T11:20:00.000-06:00

I see the trees changing color, and I realize, so am I. Autumn sneaks its way into Texas sometime in October or November (and sometimes plays hide-and-seek, like this year). But even in this insulated climate, seasonal change does happen. Greens slowly change to oranges, yellows, and reds. Not vibrant but muted colors. The leaves will eventually fall, and the trees will stand bare. Some people will jump into action, raking and bagging, throwing change away. Others will rake it, so they can jump right into a whole pile of it. And still some will ignore it, letting it clog up drains and sidewalks until it finally receives the attention it demands. The air will turn cold as change prevails. If we're lucky, a blanket of snow will brighten the deadness, reminding us of beauty in bleakness. Otherwise, we'll just have to survive the dull gray of another Texas winter.

But spring will come. It always does, and brings with it promises of life anew. A seed must fall to the ground and die in order that it might crack open and release the life that it holds within. Change is an unavoidable part of life, and that makes some of us want to curl up into the fetal position on our beds. But I think that’s why God gave us the seasons. It’s His way of reassuring us annually that change can be bright and beautiful at first, and then it may turn painful and bleak, but it always brings new life. Autumns bring winters that yield springs that make us live again.

I see the trees changing color, and I realize, so am I.

las sencillas cosas (the simple things)

2005-10-26T21:24:00.000-05:00

So, the other day, I ran into the grocery store to get some mundane item. Found it. Great. No line at the self-service check-out. Wonderful. Look at the screen. Push the button to get started. Suddenly, I’m working in Spanish. I try the “Cancel” button and get no response. Terrific. Or should I say, “Terrifico”? Ok. I can do this. I got an “A” in high school Spanish and all. Besides, I’ve worked these things in English, it’s not that hard. So, I scan my card, scan my items, place them in bags, and it’s all going smoothly. Now, I’ll pay. I’ve got cash. That should be easy. I look over my options. No “casho” button. No “dinero” button. No “dolares” button. Uh-oh. Perusing my other options, I see things like “credito” (which I assume means “credit”) and “regalo” (which I remember to mean “gift”). And so, I brilliantly deduce that I need to push the other, absolutely unknown button. Bingo. Money goes in. I get my change and receipt. Grab my items and run out the door glad that no one even lined up behind me to see my red-faced, bilingual struggle. Safely in my car, it was then that I started to laugh. I mean, a mundane, kind-of cranky, running errands day had turned into a cross-cultural adventure with the mistaken brush of a button. I wonder, why do we get so upset about things like that? Does it make sense to be so embarrassed that someone might see our blundering attempt to check-out at a grocery store? Or does it make more sense that we might brighten their day as we laugh through ours? So, here’s my advice for the week: Lighten up and hit that Spanish button on purpose. Enjoy the adventure of life, especially when you can find it in las sencillas cosas.

recipe for life

2005-10-15T12:28:00.000-05:00

I went to my high school reunion last weekend. A room stuffed full of the lives I hadn’t encountered in ten years made me realize something about myself: I am totally undefined. And more importantly, that makes me horrible at small talk. A sample of a typical conversation from the evening proves my point:

“Jamie! So, good to see you. What are you up to these days? What do you do?”

“Well, I really do nothing right now. Just work odd jobs, part-time stuff.”

Blank stare. “Oh. Well, what have you done lately?”

“I just finished seminary.”

Blank stare. “Seminary? Interesting.” Pause. “Well, are you married?”

“No.”

Nod of head. Pause.

“So, what about you?” I ask.

And then the conversation repeats itself, only they have “real” answers to the questions, and as soon as possible, they take off to speak to someone more relatable. For you see, if you have no job, an association with religion that is more than skin deep, and no significant other, there is no chit-chat to be had.

I watched them talk to each other: “Oh, you're a teacher? I taught for a little while.” Or, “Here let me show the pictures of my kids.” Or, “You live in San Francisco. I love that city.”

Occupations. Family. Location. People connected as the compartments and labels of their lives intersected. And I, the labeless, had little to relate to. I kept desiring for someone to look at me and say, “So, Jamie, tell me who you are these days,” rather than, “Jamie, tell me what you do.” Is it really true that we are totally defined by what we do? Am I really those labels placed on me? And if I don’t have those labels (which I don’t), than what am I now?

At the moment, I feel like a pantry filled with denuded cans, like someone just went in and ripped off all the labels usually there. It’s a bit stressful never knowing which one is that can of mushroom soup for the chicken you’re about to cook. Will I open the soup? Or is that a can of peaches? You don't cook chicken in peaches.

But maybe I’m just looking at it all wrong. I mean, life is more interesting when not filled with labels. Removed of that which man says defines me, I am free to look for who I truly am—this inner being rather than that outer doing. And there’s some adventure in never knowing what can you’ll open up next. It lacks safety. It lacks order. But it doesn’t lack creativity. And when I look around at the people surrounding me I see busy, overlabeled, overworked, overdoing, very ordered, safe existences. And then, a few odd balls that keep ripping off labels and discovering new recipes for life. Chicken and peaches? Truthfully, sounds better than eating the same chicken and mushrooms every day of my life.

So, maybe not relating to the “normal” people is the best thing that could’ve happened to me after all. I guess in the end. I prefer blank stares and undefinitions and labeless pantries. That is as long as I can still find the important things in life like the peanut butter. As long as I can still find that.

grandma's house

2005-09-29T13:27:00.000-05:00

I sit on my 80’s Miami Vice, palm-laden couch concealed under a blue slip cover looking out the window. I live in my grandmother’s house. She died of cancer five years ago. My mother wrote me a letter telling me about the cancer because I was teaching English in China when she was diagnosed. My mother wrote me an email telling me about her death because I was still teaching English in China when she died. It all happened within a matter of months. I said “See you later” to a healthy grandma and returned to none. Makes me think that I should be more aware of what I say when I leave someone’s presence. Life is a breath; death simply the exhale.

I hadn’t been in my grandmother’s house since she was alive. I came back from China and it was all done and over with. Her house emptied of her stuff and divided amongst her loved ones. The house inherited by my aunt and uncle. They rented it out for a bit, lived here for a bit, rented it out again, and then it sat empty while they tried to fix it up to sell it. All that while I was in school. So I never went into it during that period. Just five years after her death, after I’d graduated from seminary, I came into the empty house to live and help my aunt and uncle fix it up. I don’t know if I’m that much help, but I do try to keep it clean and at least it’s not empty now. With me and my roommates, the house knows fullness again.

Coming into the empty house at first was surprisingly sad, though. Its vacancy spoke of the vacancy in my heart for my grandmother. Something I thought was all good and fine now. But it only makes sense that there would be times of missing someone we love, no matter how long ago the void was created. I walked around and felt the smallness of the house. I’d been there in my adult years (the last time I’d been there I was 22-years-old), but my heart remembered it as if I was a child, and I was shocked to see how small everything was. Her house lived so large in my memory. I guess it was just her quirky personality that made the house so impressive. That and the gargantuan garden in the back. It’s not there anymore. Just grass and a tree growing up right in the middle of where it’d been. I think that was the hardest blow of all. No more garden at Grandma’s.

So, I sit on my hand-me-down couch that I try to hide the ugliness of. Across from me is a chair of my grandmother’s that my great-grandmother used to always sit in. It came back “home” when I came to Grandma’s house. I sat it back in its rightful place next to the window. I have a disco ball hanging up from the ceiling behind me. I think my grandmother used to have some crazy lamp hanging from the hook in the ceiling, and somehow the hook made it through all the tenets. She’d probably laugh to see the disco ball there. I do. Some may feel it’s a little too much for a living room, but I say who cares. You need to do the things that make you laugh in life. It’s too short to be so serious and follow all the rules. If life is just a breath, and death the exhale, I’m holding my breath for as long as I can and giggling as I turn purple in the process. That’s the way to live life. Just ask any grandma.

marbles

2005-09-22T14:36:00.000-05:00

On the hunt for the perfect apple, I spent a few minutes in the produce section of a grocery store. I hate taking one home just to find it worm infested. And unfortunately, even with my incredible attention to details on important things like fruit, I’ve brought home quite a few bruised, lived-in, funky fruity items.

As I laid yet another apple aside, I saw a cute little kid trailing behind his father. Dad on a mission; the kid kept close but his eyes roved the store. He wore a pressed short-sleeved white shirt and plaid shorts that hit just above his knees. His feet shoved into leather loafers, no socks. His brunette hair sat like a bowl on his head. I caught his eye and smiled. He paused and then a sparkle hit those eyes, and he said the most amazing thing: “I’ve got marbles.” Surprised, I looked at his two raised fists, and it was true. In each hand, he held a small marble. Lowering his hands and shoving them back in his pockets, he moved on. The whole exchange had taken a millisecond and yet brought a day’s worth of sunshine to my life. And his dad, he never even noticed.

I may not have any marbles, ask around and others will tell you, but I do have this: the joy of having listened to a child for just a second as he shared with me the thing that brings him the most joy. Nothing stupid about that, now is there? Ask anyone with marbles, and they’ll tell you the same thing. You’ll have to look a little lower to find those people with marbles, though, because they seem to be shorter than most of us mission-minded busy adults, but you won’t regret the search. It’s better than a perfect apple any day.

to believe Him

2005-09-14T12:41:00.000-05:00

I thought I had faith in God. Until that faith got stuck in my throat. Choking on the idea that He was who I wanted Him to be. I thought I had faith in God. Until I found out He’s not the God I planned on. I know He must be better, for He always proves Himself to be so, but it seems a disappointment that He doesn’t act the way I want Him to. Or, rather that He doesn’t make my life act the way I want it to. I thought I had faith in God. Until the dreams I dreamed disappeared. But then again, I’ve often wanted this thing or that thing, and He didn’t allow it and later I was glad. The time wasn’t right or the thing wasn’t right or I wasn’t right. I thought I had faith in God. Until that faith dissolved. But, maybe in my own defunct way I still have faith in God. It’s just that He’s showing me who I really should have faith in and disintegrating the wrong things I believed. I thought I had faith in God. Until I found out I’m fickle and faithless. Thank God when we are faithless, he is faithful, for he can’t disown himself. I thought I had faith in God. Thank God He has more faith than me.

the dryer

2005-09-08T14:56:00.000-05:00

I came home the other day because I have a home. I went to bed that night because I have a bed. The next morning, I went into my closet to decide what to wear because I have clothes to choose from. Then, I went into my kitchen to make breakfast because I have a refrigerator full of food. I filled a glass with water because I have running water.

Living in Texas, working in Dallas, I meet people now who don’t have those things. Adults whose eyes swim with tears as they try to relate the needs they have. Teenagers whose faces tell stories I can’t read. Children who don’t like to answer when you ask them their names.

But (amazingly to me) I’ve also seen smiles and laughter and thank you’s and God bless you’s. There is still some sunshine in their lives. And I thank God for the rainbow that follows the rain. I just pray I can help those that endured this flood and point them to the one that dries rain and tears.

come fly with me

2005-08-31T17:31:00.000-05:00

I went flying with some friends today. The husband has his pilot’s license, and they invited me to tag along. Since it was my first time to fly in a small plane, I got to sit in the front. We took off, and I was ecstatic to be up in the air all feeling unsecure like that (I mean, it feels a bit more vulnerable up there in a small plane). And then, unexpectedly (at least to me), Lloyd asked me if I wanted to fly it.

“Really? How would I go about doing that?” I asked.

So Lloyd told me how to change directions only with small movements, how to keep the altitude the same, and then he said, “You have the controls.”

“I have the controls,” I said.

“You have the controls,” he repeated as he let go.

And there I was, flying an airplane. An unknown joy, deliciously fun, a bit scary, not knowing what would happen next, I flew an airplane.

Writing about this, I wanted to come up with some deep thing to say about God giving us the controls, or not giving us the controls, or the unexpected joys of life, or seeing things from a bird’s–eye–perspective, or a million other “wow” things that came to mind while up there in the air. But instead, I think in the end, this story isn’t so much a deep lesson but just about a time of simply enjoying life. And maybe that’s the deeper lesson to be learned for me: sometimes I should stop trying to find out what I’m supposed to be gleaning, sit back, and enjoy the ride, turbulence and all.

i had a dream

2005-08-29T11:38:00.000-05:00

Lost, I climbed onto a bus hoping it would take me to the hotel where I was supposed to meet my friends. I sat down in this seat that faced backwards. All the seats on the bus faced different directions: some people were facing forwards, some the aisles, and me, I was facing the back. The people across from me, their seat faced the aisle, and so they were looking directly at me. I began to talk to them about where I was trying to go, hoping they might know if this bus went the right direction. They had no idea, but as we talked, the bus driver overheard. The driver got out a piece of paper and began taking notes on where I wanted to go while still driving—so intent on figuring out how to get me there that we were almost in an accident. The people on the bus were worried I get to my destination, the driver was worried that I get to my destination, and there I sat facing backwards realizing that although worried, I had nothing on these people surrounding me.

I woke up and the truth of the old adage flung itself at me: the driver is more worried that I get to my destination than I am. God will make sure that I end up where I’m supposed to be—even if it takes longer than I expected or I go places I didn’t anticipate. And one other thing, sitting backwards, well, I knew I was going somewhere, but I could only see where I’d been. And that, as I dwell in my grandmother’s house, in my hometown, helping my mom who is a teacher at my old elementary school, that is exactly what I’m apparently here to do. Live my life looking backwards, but trusting I’m going forward. That’s what’s on the agenda, at least for now.

So, I guess I tell you all this, not because I’m all into dream interpretation (I mean, I get a little wary of people knowing from a dream about a carrot that they are going to turn into a rabbit), but I can’t deny the fact that God is in this with us. And that He does have a plan for each of us. And that He is more concerned than we are about our lives. And that sometimes He whispers to us the fact that He cares while we are trying to sleep the pain off.

hugs

2005-08-25T12:10:00.000-05:00

A week of tears, I laid on my bed to rest. I hugged my teddy bear in my arms. Now, I know that being 28-years-old, I should not even have a teddy bear, but there are times when you need something to hold when there’s no one to hold you. So, I have my bear, Zoe.

But then, I had to leave. I grabbed my bag, my green hoodie, my tiny Nalgene, and made sure the keys to my Jeep found their way into my hands. As I went to shut the door, I looked down to see Zoe still in the crook of my arm. Now, I know even more so that a 28-year-old should not be carrying a teddy bear out with her to a restaurant. But it made me laugh, and I considered it for just a moment. To take that bear and let the world know that I needed a hug. Instead, I smiled, kissed Zoe on her head for putting that smile on my face, and set her back on my bed.

And now, I’m letting you know. Hug someone today. You never know if they need it. Besides, you may need it too.

to love Him

2005-08-19T07:58:00.000-05:00

I thought I loved God. Then he tested that love. Taking away the things I’d loved him for. He broke the conditions of the contract. The contract that said if I don’t feel pain, I’ll love you. I thought I loved God, but I only loved him conditionally. No one wants to be loved for what they can do. I don’t. He doesn’t. I thought I loved God, but my love was meager and weak. Especially in comparison to his for me. So he tested that love to strengthen it. Not to dissolve it. But I feel dissolved. And unloving. I thought I loved God, until he, in love, showed me how much more my heart had to offer him. And parts of my heart not given to him will only be given elsewhere. Until I find myself surrounded by idols that I closet and cling to. I thought I loved God, but it didn’t take much to chunk it out the window. Just a moment in the wilderness, and I’m “painting pictures of Egypt.” I thought I loved God. Thank God, he loves me.

undo

2005-08-17T09:20:00.000-05:00

Monday, I sat in a funeral for a fourteen-year-old girl, Sally Smitham. Everything within me wanted to stand up and run out screaming, “No, no, no, no, no.” I wanted to take off my sandal and chunk it at the pastor while yelling, “Why are you making this real?” I kept looking for the undo button on life that would change reality and take away sorrow.

After the funeral, there was a reception. Towards the end of it, I found Sally’s younger siblings playing pictionary in a classroom. Bubba, a sixth grader, offered me a stick of Big Red. I turned him down since my mouth already contained Spearmint gum. Earlier, his little brother Collin, a fourth grader, had accosted me for the forty cents necessary to buy it out of a vending machine. I’d anted up with the condition that I get some too. Bubba said that it was better that I not get the Big Red because it burns. I told him that it didn’t burn that much. Then he told me a great secret: “If you take the wrapper of a Big Red, lick it, and stick it on your forehead it’ll burn.” I called his bluff, and he handed me the wrapper of the gum he’d just put in his mouth. I licked it, and nothing.

“Wait,” he said. “Maybe two minutes.”

I waited and then about sixty seconds into the experiment it began to tingle. Then it really burned. I took it off and said, “Ok, you were right.”

Bubba laughed, “And, now you have a red mark on your forehead.”

I went to the bathroom and he was right. I slight red mark roughly the size of a gum wrapper. Not wanting to return in shame to the children’s room, I went into the main hall where the reception had mostly cleared out. The youngest sibling, Jack, ran around the room claiming to be faster than me. I promptly showed him that although a quick little second grader, I could run just about as fast. Then grabbing him up, I declared myself “The Tickle Monster” and gave him the reward for his near defeat. As we sat on the floor, he told me between giggles that they didn’t have the Cookie Monster anymore—now it was the “Fluty Monster.” Confusion ensued, but we finally cleared up that the Cookie Monster had not taken up a woodwind but was eating healthier as the “Fruity Monster.” It was then that I looked closer at the child on my lap. A slight red mark ran across his forehead.

“You tried the Big Red thing, huh?” I asked.

“Yeah, you too!” he laughed as he got up to find another person so foolish as to believe they could run faster.

I looked around the room and saw something I’d forgotten earlier that day. Even though there are tears, there is laughter. Even though there is death, there is life. And, even though we want to push the “undo” button of life, we are not undone. Thank you, young Smithams, for reminding me to trust that.

kneeling

2005-08-12T17:38:00.000-05:00

Do you ever have those times when the world knocks you to your knees and then makes sure you stay there? Lately, the events of life seem to scream the brokenness of the world. Beyond my own personal pain this past week, death has evaded my sphere. One of my professors would often say, “Death is perversion. It is not what we were created for.” And so, as I face this perversion of the Fall, I simply write this blog for prayer.

Prayer for Laura, one of my best friends, whose grandfather died and whose grandmother is ill. Prayer for Annette, a friend's boss, whose parents and sister were murdered. Prayer for Mr. Dixon, our head elder, whose wife died after being ill for quite some time. Prayer for the Smitham's, a family at my church, whose 14-year-old daughter was killed on a jet ski.

I can’t imagine the pain these people feel. I’m tired of crying; I can only guess at how tired they are. So, I ask that you pray. And if you need prayer, leave a comment with whatever details you want. I promise I’ll pray. I’m already on my knees (and it doesn’t look like I’m getting up soon), so why not be of service? I suppose that’s why we get knocked to our knees in the first place anyway, right?

sunshine submission

2005-08-11T20:06:00.000-05:00

I was thinking about the submissiveness of sunshine. It doesn’t have a choice where it shines. It just does. It doesn’t decide where to build the windows on a house, whether the blinds are up or down, whether the clouds cover up its target. Sunshine just spills itself out no matter who sees it or what thing is shutting it out. It submits to its purpose of shining no matter what.

Lord, let me shine like the sun—whether anyone sees or not, whether people close their blinds or not. Help me be who you’ve created me to be no matter the pain I feel or questions I have. Let me shine your light and point toward you in all circumstances. Lord, help me to submit like the sunshine to your will.

as the world turns

2005-08-08T01:20:00.000-05:00

I lie on my parent’s love seat, curled into a comma. In one hand, I hold a book I was trying to read for distraction; my index finger placed in it to hold where I’ve given up. My other hand sits on my heart. My arms wrapped around my torso as if holding myself will keep it all in. As if it can stop this heartache from swelling up over me. I start to wonder where I made the wrong turn in life—small decisions that became larger decisions that ended up breaking my heart.

But then I close my ears to my own thoughts and open them to the music coming from the other room. Classical piano on a badly-needing-to-be-tuned upright. The music is good. The runs and trills wash over me and make me smile. Smile because the pianist is my new roommate. This young Japanese girl that I met at a Bible study that needed a place to live. She said she liked to play the piano, so I took her to my parent’s house to play theirs. This girl who moved in on Saturday to a four-bedroom house that used to be my grandmother’s. This girl who can’t just play the piano but is gifted at it. This girl who’s trying her hardest not to get overwhelmed by the culture shock of living with an American and speaking English all day. I listen to her.

I’m not living the life I dreamed—to live here in this my hometown, with this girl I barely know, with no career in sight, confused and broken. Truly the life chose me. Or rather, this life was chosen for me. As I hear her play, hear her emotions released through her music, I begin to release mine. Maybe I didn’t make a wrong turn in life just because I’m in pain now. I guess right turns can bring pain as well. And either way, I know the one who made the roads and trust that He'll get me home safely. I may cry a few times because I feel so lost on this unknown path, but the unexpected road often brings the best views—as well as the most fear. I'll put up with the ache for the beauty ahead. Or try to.

Especially since I'm getting a better view of you, God; especially since I'm getting a better view of you.

promises, promises

2005-08-04T10:43:00.000-05:00

I waited patiently for the Lord. He turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the desolate pit, out of the miry clay. He set my feet upon a rock and made my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40:1-3

Stuck in quicksand. In a muddy, filthy, inescapable hole. Alone; not so hard to imagine. Waiting to be rescued; that makes sense. Patiently; ah, there’s the part I just don’t get. No kicking. No screaming. Only makes the sinking worse. Just patience. Not even drumming my fingers or tapping my watch. Complete calm and serenity while deep in the depths of crap.

I lift up my hand sometimes. I tell myself that I’m reaching for help, but the clinched fist gives me away. You pulled Peter out of the water, why don’t you pull me out of this? Do you really hear my sorrow song? Do you see the tears that steal out of my eyes and break into my life? Will you hold me close when no one else will? Will I let you?

I cling though. To what I don’t know. A promise of You. I hear the follower’s words, “Where else would I go?” I cling to a promise. Teach me that praise song, and I will sing. I will cling and sing and believe that many will know you better because of my being in this stinking hole. You said so. Just remember, you promised.

I’ll cling; I’ll sing; what else can I do? Just remember, you promised. I know you don't break your promises. But still, remember me?

lady in waiting

2005-08-01T09:22:00.000-05:00

...it’s about postures. Postures of the Spirit. It’s turning oneself upside down so that everything is emptied out and God can flow in. It’s curling up in the fogged spaces of the listening heart, sinking into solitude, wrapping the soul around some little flame of hope that God has ignited. It's sitting on the window sill of the heart, still and waiting.
Madeleine L'Engle, When the Heart Waits

I’m sitting on the window sill. God, do you hear me? And yes, you do.
So then, I wonder, do you care? And yes, you do.
So then, I ask, do you have a watch? And no, you don’t.
So there you go: You hear. You care. You just didn’t set the alarm.
Or at least not for “my” time. But you won’t be late. You can’t.
So I still pray, I still sit, and I still wait—patiently. Sort of.

vacation

2005-07-14T09:24:00.000-05:00

Going to New Mexico for vacation (of course, when you only work part-time, can you take a vacation?). I'm not sure if I'll have internet access so check back with me after July 25th. Thanks,jame

mythology?

2005-07-14T09:19:00.000-05:00

I love you, God.
In my own struggling, sniveling, ludicrous, non-loving loving way.
Please love me.

And I ask for something already a fact, but one that feels like a myth.
Fairy tales of God and love and pixie dust.

Truth.
"Seek and ye shall find."
Do I have a map?
Yeah, the Word. And Light. And the Guide.
And even companions on the journey.
So, why do I sit here?
Too big a risk to go on the trip.

Reality.
The bigger risk is not to go.
Cracked and broken.
I see the world upside down.

Put on the glasses of truth.
Or was that a helmet?
Once I was blind,
But now I see.
Or so they say.

It feels like a myth.
Fairy tales of God and love and pixie dust.

would you listen to my heart?

2005-07-10T12:34:00.000-05:00

Christians have all kinds of feelings. Their hearts groan in many ways. And frankly I believe we’ll all be better off when we take off our religious masks and become more human. Then we can get on with what really matters—the act of cupping our ears to one another’s hearts with compassion.
Madeleine L'Engle, When the Heart Waits

I have a secret to tell you. Sometimes I have feelings. Deep, painful, wonderful feelings. Sometimes I’m happy. Sometimes I’m sad. Sometimes I’m peaceful. Sometimes I’m angry. Sometimes I’m strong. Sometimes I’m weak. Sometimes I believe. Sometimes I believe but need help with my unbelief. Sometimes I’m scared. OK, a lot of the time, I’m scared. Scared you might know me. Might know the truth about me, and then know my unacceptability. Would you listen to me? Listen to my heart? Will I listen to yours? I’ll try. Feel free to tell me when I’ve forgotten to. I might cry when I know I’ve failed you. Sometimes I cry. But, just sometimes and mostly alone. Would you still listen to my heart anyway? I can bring my own cup.

“L” is for the way you look at him

2005-07-08T10:41:00.000-05:00

Upon feeling ill, I spent the other day potatoing on the couch. And lucky me, a chick-flick commandeered every channel. As I marched through a series of explosive relationship battles (from friendship to dating, dating to engagement, engagement to break-up, and break-up to marriage), I realized that the best way to find “the one” is to date the wrong one. Every movie involved someone loving the wrong person and finding the right one while with that wrong one. What kind of discontentment do they hope to breed? Does Meg Ryan always have to be engaged (or practically so) to someone else before meeting Tom Hanks? And how does she know that Tom isn’t just the transitional “right” one until the “more right” one arrives? And, why didn’t I notice this pattern before? I would’ve dated more often.

I guess I should be aware of how these movies affect me though, especially since I do hope one day to hear the love of my life sing: “‘O’ is for the only ones I see.”

hush, little baby

2005-07-05T11:03:00.000-05:00

I feel silence clouding into my soul. Not exactly peace. Not exactly disturbance. A stillness that doesn't oppress but isn't freeing either. It's almost like being sent to time out.

Don't ever tell my parent's this, but sometimes it was nice to be put in time out. I needed to be removed from the world in order to process my five-year-old life. I think God might be putting me in time out. So if you see me in the corner, just know that I can't talk right now. But hey, don't worry. Time out only lasts for a "time." I'll be back. And, I'll be loud again.

At least until I get so loud, I have to be put back in time out. It's a vicious cycle. Well, not really vicious. More like the annoying inevitability of mosquitoes in the summer. A sting, a slap, and a lingering itch that makes you wish for winter. Of course when that's here, you wish for the summer again. Yeah, it's more like the vicious cycle of the seasons. Wouldn't want to meet a season in a dark alley, now would you? It's about as vicious as that.

I feel silence clouding into my soul. Not exactly peace. Not exactly disturbance. I can't talk right now. Shhhhh.

a bug's dreams

2005-07-01T01:32:00.000-05:00

I decided a long time ago to stop dreaming—to ignore all dreams within my heart. If I didn’t have dreams, I wouldn’t have disappointments. Granted, I also had little joy. But, a lack of happiness sacrificed for a lack of pain seemed a fair trade.

Until, I lost a well-hidden and unpursued dream, and my foolishness confronted me. Ignoring dreams doomed them to failure. Holding them so tightly I suffocated them killed dreams quicker than admitting they existed and holding them loosely. But could I open my heart?

Then one day, I saw a little bug fly by my eighth floor apartment window. A bee maybe. What was he doing all the way up there? Eighth floor sightseeing? How high can an insect soar? I guess I’d never thought about it. They seem so lowly, so simple. Why would they need to go up so high? Perhaps, a bug has bigger dreams than I imagined. Perhaps, I do too. I mean, I can’t let a bee outdream me.

I decided that day to start dreaming—to listen to all dreams within my heart. I feel joy; I feel pain; but hey, at least, I feel.

the station wagon test

2005-06-29T20:55:00.000-05:00

Remember sitting in the back of a station wagon facing the rear windshield (during those dangerous days of lesser seat belt laws) watching the world retreat from you? Or sitting in the school bus and spying out the windows? And those drivers trapped at stoplights who had to endure your waves of childhood pleasure? Would they wave back? Giggles exploded with each triumph of a returned wave. A tinge of sadness for the failure to return. Then, the realization that the “unwaver” was changing lanes to get out of your line of fire, and you had a new target to deal with.

It always meant something about those people, whether or not they waved back. As a child, I didn’t know what it meant, but I could feel the import of their decision somehow. Now, I know it means they’ve just grown up.

Sad to say that one of the true tests of being a real adult is the loss of the ability to wave back at a child. I feel like the test should be something like paying bills on time or some other such responsible act that makes one a grown-up. But I’ve come to realize that it’s more the matters of the heart that proves our status. One can still pay the bills and wave back at a child; some of us just forgot how to do both, or why, or the import of a giggling kid.

So you don’t want to grow up? Then don’t. Pay your bills. Work your job. Just don’t forget the more important things. And for goodness sake, stuff your pride and wave back to that child. You’ll be glad you did because giggling is as contagious as the chicken pox, and a lot more fun.

definitions

2005-06-27T17:16:00.000-05:00

I picked up the dictionary to look up “myself.” I’m being redefined right now and hoped to find some help. Here’s what’s left of me:

Graduated from seminary. No longer a student.

Holding only a part-time job. No occupation to speak of.

Moved back to my parent’s house. More of a daughter and a sister than I have been in years. No place to call “home.”

Running into old friends from high school. Left all my now friends in Dallas. Not really a friend here.

I looked in the dictionary for “myself.” It wasn’t so helpful.
Maybe I’ll try “me” next.

yelling at my Father

2005-06-24T09:24:00.000-05:00

I yelled at God again today. I’ve begun to think it’s the only way we’re ever going to talk. Some find it shocking that I yell at Him. I find it shocking that they haven’t. I think the problem is that if we’re really honest, God can be disappointing to us. But who wants to be really honest? I mean, sometimes I just feel like He could use His omnipotence in better ways. Usually I feel that way when it comes to the problem of evil. Like, can't He stop tsunamis or date rape or child prostitution? And of course, the answer is “yes.” So then, the “why doesn’t He?” questions start rumbling.

Now, I know the “answers.” I finished a degree at seminary. I know the whole “He didn't make evil or sin happen” thing, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost the feeling of pain and confusion when it hits me or someone I love. The reason I yell at God is because if I don’t, then I just keep it all in and become silently bitter. I figure if I don’t want to shut Him out, then I better question Him. One of my profs once pointed out that in Job, God answered all his “why” questions with “who” answers. I don’t expect God to respond to my questions with the answers I want. But if I don’t ask, then the only other thing I can think to do is give him the silent treatment, and that, well, it just doesn’t work for our relationship.

Besides, I think that I have a page to stand on Biblically. Take a look at the Psalms. Filled with “what the heck are you doing up there?” statements. Most of those Psalms end with praise. And the funny thing is, the sooner I get out my questions, the sooner I end up with praise as well.

So advice for the day: Tell God what you think of Him. Good or bad. You can’t fool Him, so stop trying to fool yourself. Be real. Don’t PTL (“praise the Lord”) until you’ve found the reason to. I don’t think He’s any more pleased to witness fake PTL than we are. And once you’ve found the reason, praise Him with all you’ve got too. Because He truly is good. As they say in Narnia, “No, he’s not safe, but he’s good.”

nice day for a white wedding

2005-06-22T11:42:00.000-05:00

The vows said, it was time for the bride and groom to give their “sentiments.” Teary-voiced the bride shared her love and admiration for her soon-to-be husband. Then, the groom stepped up and said that he was going to sing a song he’d written—the first song he’d ever written. Boldly and without any qualms about his being tunefully challenged, he belted out a ballad about their relationship. It was one of the most romantic things I’ve ever seen at a wedding. An unabashed statement of love without any thought of public scrutiny or social mores. Now that’s love to me. Crying out at the top of your lungs, “I love you,” even if (or especially if) it means doing so off-key.

Reminds me that I should do likewise with the ones I love. Who cares if the rest of the world knows (and giggles) as I make my emotions known to friends and family? It should only matter that my friends and family clearly know. So, thanks, Thom and Tina, for letting us share in that moment. May it inspire many more brave ballads of love.

(p.s. to all friends and family: I love you.)

calmly storming

2005-06-20T14:38:00.000-05:00

The first wave hits and stings my eyes. I feel them begin to well. The second hits–harder, stronger, deeper. Water piling up around me. Fear encompassing me. I can’t breathe. Soon, I'm drowning. My face wet. The pillow I’m crying on soaked. The loneliness. The anger. The sadness. Each emotion rising and billowing over me in my bed. This storm hit with little warning. Clouds brewing all day, but no forecaster had predicted a gale of this force. I cling to the pillow like a life preserver and cry out for help. But who hears the unvocalized cries of the soul?

My mind floats to the Gospel of Mark. I’d just read today how Christ calmed the sea. It sounds so peaceful to have Him just calm things down. I’d like a little more peace today. But there's another thought that clouds my mind. The story in Mark proves that having Jesus in our lives doesn’t keep us from the storms. The disciples had Him physically there, and they still got slammed.

I can get so angry when it’s stormy, though. Just like the disciples, I yell out, “Don't you care?” But He does. He just knows the ultimate outcome enough to know when to let the waters rise and when to calm them down.

“Peace. Be still.” Is He talking to the storm or to us? My guess is both. If only we’d obey as well as H2O.

the art of the toilet

2005-06-18T13:58:00.000-05:00

I read in the Dallas Observer's Summer Guide 2005 that there exists this museum of unusual toilet seats in San Antonio, Texas. So, I went to the website (http://www.unusualmuseums.org/toilet/) and enjoyed some of the over 700 seats. Barney Smith, 83-year-old retired master plumber and toilet seat artist, uses paint, crayon, photos, lights, and found objects on his creations. He even has one that possibly had Saddam Hussein's buttocks set upon it.

The Observer's article quotes Mr. Smith: "They're universal. Everybody has a relationship with toilet seats." Well, Mr. Smith, I do have to disagree with you there since I've traveled in places where they've divorced the toilet seat and started up other relationships (like the squatty potty of China). I'm afraid not everyone in the universe sits down to go. Either way, your point is made and your museum still sounds like a great time to me.

So, anyone interested in a roadtrip? I know a good place to make a pit stop.

sunset dissatisfaction

2005-06-16T08:42:00.000-05:00

I watched the purples smudge into reds and something within my soul rose as the sun sunk. Colors so vivid they reminded me of leaving my crayons out in the sun as a child. My eyes held to the image for as long as possible, which was only a few seconds, before reverting back to the road. You see, I was traveling east on a highway to a friend’s house, and the sunset I saw existed only in the tiny square of my rearview mirror. I looked longingly at the motorists passing on the other side of the highway. Why couldn’t I be traveling west tonight? Couldn’t God have placed my friend’s house in the opposite direction? Is that too much to ask of an omnipotent God? Doesn’t He care about the little details? Doesn't He care about me?

It then occurred to me how silly a child I was, expecting God to uproot homes just so I could view the sunset (no matter how majestic). I’m sure He had better reasons than a sunset as to why people live where they do. Silly of me, or maybe I should say selfish of me, to be angry for my loss.

Then as I drove, I realized I was really angry over other losses. Angry that I sat alone in a car, rather than with a husband and kids. Angry that I sat in a car in suburbia USA when my heart longed to be in other countries doing missions. I wanted to exit, to turn around and take the route I wanted. Westbound suddenly meant getting what I wanted rather than driving this lonely road the opposite direction from all that I desired. I wanted what those other people had. I wanted the beauty of the sunset.

But, I also wanted to make it to my friend’s house because they make the best pizza I’ve ever tasted. And, I wanted to trust God because He gives my soul the most satisfaction that I’ve ever tasted. So, I kept on my eastbound road enjoying the glimpses of beauty I could catch behind me. And I realized as I drove that going east wasn’t so bad after all. It may not be the view I want at the moment, but if I keep on the route that God has given me, I will see beautiful things as well. The sun does rise in the east after all.

rules for the sheep

2005-06-13T19:54:00.000-05:00

Reading Leviticus for my quiet time (yes, I have one of those daily Bible reading plans because otherwise who reads Leviticus except for a seminary prof?), it occurred to me how good we have it. Can you imagine hauling in all those animals for the slaughter, reaching in grabbing kidneys, and pulling them out with the fat? We just have to haul ourselves down on our knees (and we don't even have to do that literally) for forgiveness. We have it much easier without all those gazillion rules to follow.

Now, I’m not saying that the good ole’ days required only rules and no faith. I am not a “law back then but faith today” person. Faith and grace pervade every page of the Bible. I'm just saying, “Thank you, Jesus.” For without Him, I’d be a shepherd looking for spotless lambs rather than a sinful lamb thanking my Shepherd for taking care of that Spotless Lamb once and for all.

the path of least resistance or the road less traveled?

2005-06-06T18:47:00.000-05:00

Walking down the clogged Wal-Mart aisle with Priyank, he pulled me to the next one saying, “Let’s take the path of least resistance.”

“No,” I thought. “I like going against the flow.” But of course, I actually didn’t want to fight the shoppers on our old, crowded aisle either, so I came up with a better way to say it: “Let’s call this ‘the road less traveled.’”

Now I’m confused, though. How often do I take the path of least resistance and call it the road less traveled? Am I kidding myself as I tell myself that I’m forging new paths when I’m just trying not to fight the crowds? Then again, the crowds usually take the path of least resistance, right? That’s why they were all crowding the aisle close to the groceries, anyway. They needed to be near food, not the clothes. So, maybe I am forging new paths as I shop for groceries on the aisle closer to the clothes. Or maybe I’m just being stupid. How do I know the difference?

And, does it even matter? For if I’m going down the path God wants, should it matter whether it’s a resisting path or one less walked upon? Let’s just say I won't be walking down any paths at Wal-Mart anytime soon. Too much deep thought there.