"Why is Deanna posting a note today? It is not Monday or Thursday,” you might ask and say. ‘Tis true, dear friends, ‘tis true. However, I will not be near a computer tomorrow because I’ll be traveling to Atlanta and back for work and then going to opening night of Bowling Season #3! And so…I write today.
Not surprisingly, I’m still thinking about words. On Monday I mentioned that my primary love language is words of affirmation. I stated that I need words like I need air. And I do. I suppose that’s why I have two cards sitting in my inbox right now so that I can easily reach and read them. I received one card on Tuesday. I received the other card today. Each was very simple, yet both had a profound impact on me.
Card One. This card is from a 71-year-old woman who feels a burning desire to begin an Acteens group in her church. God has lain it upon her heart that teenagers need a safe space to come, grow, and be heard, and she wants to create that space through Acteens because she loves missions even more than she loves teenagers. She is so excited about starting her group that she came to two church trainings and gave me a huge hug at the end of the second. Then she sent a card that read:
Outside: There are things only you can do, and you are alive to do them. In the great orchestra we call life, you have an instrument and a song, and you owe it to God to play them both sublimely (Max Lucado). Inside: Play on. Handwritten text: Thank you.
Those two simple words—thank you—coupled with the musical theme of the card—mean so much to me…
Card Two. This card is from an 85+-year-old woman who has supported SC WMU for more decades than I have been alive. It wasn’t actually sent to me, but Boss brought it to me because of its content. It says:
Just want to let you and the staff know what a great job you did on the last issue of the Missions Link. Thanks!
Now, I can’t take much credit for Link because I’m just the text editor, but…still…I often feel like an idiot of an editor, so reading this simple statement helps me believe that I’m not that much of an idiot editor :-).
Have you recently received any words—expected, unexpected, spoken, or written—that have impacted you in a positive way? If so, please share.
I truly believe that words have power and that when we intentionally share kind words—good words—words that build up rather than tear down—then we are sharing words of love that come from the heart of God.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Words
My primary love language is words of affirmation. I need words like I need air. As such, words have the tremendous capacity to build me up or tear me down. I carry this knowledge with me every day. Yet I started thinking about it even more Sunday at church…and I have continued to think about it throughout the day today. And so…I think you should think about words, too :-).
Take a few moments to slowly, and possibly dramatically, read the following text from James. Then reflect: what is this text saying to you? What is it saying to us as a society today? Should we spend more time focusing on words we should NOT say or words that we should? Very simply, what are your thoughts on the power of words?
Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check.
When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go.
Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.
All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and sea creatures are being tamed and have been tamed by mankind, but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness.
Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water. James 3:1-12
Take a few moments to slowly, and possibly dramatically, read the following text from James. Then reflect: what is this text saying to you? What is it saying to us as a society today? Should we spend more time focusing on words we should NOT say or words that we should? Very simply, what are your thoughts on the power of words?
Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check.
When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go.
Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.
All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and sea creatures are being tamed and have been tamed by mankind, but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness.
Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water. James 3:1-12
How Did I Get Here?
Have you ever stopped and wondered: how did I get here?
I found myself wondering that all afternoon as I walked around North Greenville University with the Vice President of Denominational Relations last Thursday. I’ve wondered it before as I’ve talked with National WMU staff members and presidents, spoken with denominational heads, met with presidents of universities, laughed with missionaries, worked with state WMU staffs, and driven all over both North and South Carolina to meet with pastors and lay persons who desire to serve God with their lives and to know God more. Sometimes I feel a little out of place in my own life…
Thursday was the first day of school for many of my teacher friends from home. A few years ago, it would have been my first day with students as well…and I probably would have spent the day helping kindergarten students know how to hold a lunch tray and walk in line and do those other school tasks that we quickly take for granted. Eventually, I would have started teaching classes—assigning seats so that I could remember names—and teaching kids about music—stretching their hearts and minds.
Despite the challenges of working in the public schools, I loved my job. I loved the kids. And I loved the colleagues that I worked with. I loved watching my students grow from kindergarten to 5th grade and I loved having students run up to me in Wal-mart and give me a hug. It’s as if I were a celebrity…and it was kind of neat…especially since I truly loved my students and believed the best about them—even when no one else did.
After eight years in one school, working side by side with my art teacher who became one of my dearest friends—we were like two peas in a pod—where one went, the other went—so much so that some teachers never learned to tell us part—it was hard to leave what I had finally accepted as my mission field. It was hard to leave the public schools that I believe are the foundation to our future—the place where I believe those who follow in the way of God’s love can impact countless lives through the light and freedom that our lives can exhibit. We may not be able to openly share our faith, but we can live with a sense of integrity and respect that opens dialogue and demonstrates a peace that this world can not offer.
Yet…God called me away from the diversity of the public schools and into the not-so-diverse land of Presidents and Vice Presidents and Executive Directors and Pastors that sometimes makes me look around and question how did I get here? Do I even belong?
And then the quiet answer comes that…yes I do belong. I do have a place. I do have a call. I do have a purpose. I can hold my own with the Vice President of NGU (who, by the way, is SUPER nice and welcoming).
And then I smile in wonder and realize just how blessed I am. And I say a little prayer of thanksgiving for all of the people who have brought me here—especially my family and teacher friends today—and then I sit down and write (and find a bug at the bottom of my afternoon cup of coffee.)
I found myself wondering that all afternoon as I walked around North Greenville University with the Vice President of Denominational Relations last Thursday. I’ve wondered it before as I’ve talked with National WMU staff members and presidents, spoken with denominational heads, met with presidents of universities, laughed with missionaries, worked with state WMU staffs, and driven all over both North and South Carolina to meet with pastors and lay persons who desire to serve God with their lives and to know God more. Sometimes I feel a little out of place in my own life…
Thursday was the first day of school for many of my teacher friends from home. A few years ago, it would have been my first day with students as well…and I probably would have spent the day helping kindergarten students know how to hold a lunch tray and walk in line and do those other school tasks that we quickly take for granted. Eventually, I would have started teaching classes—assigning seats so that I could remember names—and teaching kids about music—stretching their hearts and minds.
Despite the challenges of working in the public schools, I loved my job. I loved the kids. And I loved the colleagues that I worked with. I loved watching my students grow from kindergarten to 5th grade and I loved having students run up to me in Wal-mart and give me a hug. It’s as if I were a celebrity…and it was kind of neat…especially since I truly loved my students and believed the best about them—even when no one else did.
After eight years in one school, working side by side with my art teacher who became one of my dearest friends—we were like two peas in a pod—where one went, the other went—so much so that some teachers never learned to tell us part—it was hard to leave what I had finally accepted as my mission field. It was hard to leave the public schools that I believe are the foundation to our future—the place where I believe those who follow in the way of God’s love can impact countless lives through the light and freedom that our lives can exhibit. We may not be able to openly share our faith, but we can live with a sense of integrity and respect that opens dialogue and demonstrates a peace that this world can not offer.
Yet…God called me away from the diversity of the public schools and into the not-so-diverse land of Presidents and Vice Presidents and Executive Directors and Pastors that sometimes makes me look around and question how did I get here? Do I even belong?
And then the quiet answer comes that…yes I do belong. I do have a place. I do have a call. I do have a purpose. I can hold my own with the Vice President of NGU (who, by the way, is SUPER nice and welcoming).
And then I smile in wonder and realize just how blessed I am. And I say a little prayer of thanksgiving for all of the people who have brought me here—especially my family and teacher friends today—and then I sit down and write (and find a bug at the bottom of my afternoon cup of coffee.)
Monday, August 22, 2011
I Don't Want To Think
The other night, I told one of my friends that I didn’t want to think.
Her response? “Hahahahaha! You don’t want to think?!”
Yes, friends, it’s true: there are times when I don’t want to think.
It’s rare that those times actually occur—because I can turn even a pointless, silly movie or activity into something serious and life-impacting—because I have such vivid dreams that I wake up tired from working all night long—but there are times that I do, indeed, desire not to think.
Right now is one of those moments.
However, I’ve been working on a human exploitation presentation all day, and my mind is, unfortunately, so bombarded with thoughts that it can’t sort through any of them to make enough sense to write a profound note…much less to have a moment of non-thinking.
And so…I will soon leave the office to drive to a fall training event, head full of thoughts, body in a rental Mazda that has a key with a button to make the metal part pop out, and to-do list marked off: Deanna Note (done).
Writing every Monday and Thursday is both a blessing and a curse. Yet it is a discipline that I am glad to have started. And even though I’m not a man, or an elder, or an overseer, I find comfort in these words today…and a challenge to be so much more than I am:
Since an overseer manages God’s household, he must be blameless—not overbearing, not quick-tempered, not given to drunkenness, not violent, not pursuing dishonest gain. Rather, he must be hospitable, one who loves what is good, who is self-controlled, upright, holy and disciplined. He must hold firmly to the trustworthy message as it has been taught, so that he can encourage others by sound doctrine and refute those who oppose it. Titus 1:7-9
Her response? “Hahahahaha! You don’t want to think?!”
Yes, friends, it’s true: there are times when I don’t want to think.
It’s rare that those times actually occur—because I can turn even a pointless, silly movie or activity into something serious and life-impacting—because I have such vivid dreams that I wake up tired from working all night long—but there are times that I do, indeed, desire not to think.
Right now is one of those moments.
However, I’ve been working on a human exploitation presentation all day, and my mind is, unfortunately, so bombarded with thoughts that it can’t sort through any of them to make enough sense to write a profound note…much less to have a moment of non-thinking.
And so…I will soon leave the office to drive to a fall training event, head full of thoughts, body in a rental Mazda that has a key with a button to make the metal part pop out, and to-do list marked off: Deanna Note (done).
Writing every Monday and Thursday is both a blessing and a curse. Yet it is a discipline that I am glad to have started. And even though I’m not a man, or an elder, or an overseer, I find comfort in these words today…and a challenge to be so much more than I am:
Since an overseer manages God’s household, he must be blameless—not overbearing, not quick-tempered, not given to drunkenness, not violent, not pursuing dishonest gain. Rather, he must be hospitable, one who loves what is good, who is self-controlled, upright, holy and disciplined. He must hold firmly to the trustworthy message as it has been taught, so that he can encourage others by sound doctrine and refute those who oppose it. Titus 1:7-9
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The Fear of Being Seen
When I was 10 years old, my dad went to Ecuador with his Army Reserves Unit. I don’t remember much about the trip except that I got to ride on the riding lawn mower with the man who cut our grass and that dad brought me a ring from Ecuador that I still sometimes wear.
On Sunday morning, Dad referenced this trip in his sermon. He said that he was so anxious about leaving the family behind that he couldn’t even tell us bye. He said that he left in the middle of the night while we were sleeping so that we wouldn’t see him cry. The true irony of that last statement is that my dad now cries at the drop of a hat!
I don’t know why my dad didn’t want us to see him cry back then. I don’t know if it’s because he’s a man and men aren’t supposed to cry or if there was some other reason that compelled him to leave in the middle of the night. But I do know this: he was full of anxiety as he left for his trip. He was full of sadness for having to say goodbye—wondering if that goodbye would be his last. He was full of grief for the time that he would be away and the events in our lives that he would miss.
Anxiety. Sadness. Grief. Worry. Concern. Doubt. Hurt. Regret. Anger. Sadness. These are emotions that we all feel—some of us more than others—yet they’re emotions that we often don’t want others to see—especially in the church. Why is this? Why do we feel that we must hide so much?
I’ve recently talked with individuals—Christian individuals with a genuine desire to love and serve God—who are:
• struggling with the aftershock of abortion;
• attempting to overcome the addiction of pornography;
• dealing with the repercussions of an affair;
• grieving from being fired from a job for misconduct;
• embarrassed about admitting that she’s an ordained Baptist minister not because she’s embarrassed by her faith but because she’s embarrassed by the reputation that Christians have of being closed minded and judgmental and because she doesn’t want her non-Christian friends to build a wall of protection around their souls;
• healing from being raped; trying to survive in an abusive relationship;
• trying to pretend she’s okay after her dad died;
• trying to figure out how to apply for bankruptcy;
• trying to figure out where to go next after he senses a change in call;
• wondering about the existence and reality of hell;
• wrestling through thoughts of a loving God sending Jews from the Holocaust to hell;
• figuring out how to end a ministry well;
• coming to terms with really harsh, negative thoughts and feelings in a friendship;
• feeling completely alone in this world;
• questioning the meaning of life;
• feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of her job and so afraid of not being a good leader that she has migraines and ulcers and constantly lives in fear;
• realizing that she hates religion and simply wants a relationship with God—who is proclaimed as love but portrayed as a picture completely different;
• wondering how he’s supposed to live a life of faith in the world when his church friends judge him for spending time with friends who don’t live the life approved by the church;
• trying to find the courage to finally say that they do not feel called to teach youth Sunday School or VBS even though there’s no one else in the church to do it;
• trying to find the words to speak her truth to her family when she fears that her family will disown her for not holding “traditional American values”;
• afraid to admit that she voted for Obama and that she doesn’t think it’s his fault that our country is struggling;
• battling sickness and disease;
• wanting to hash out a healthy view of sexuality and sexual ethics but having no one to talk to;
• fighting depression;
All while pretending that everything is okay. All while holding it together and only letting it out late at night (if at all) so that no one sees them cry—so that no one knows their pain…
I’m crying as I write this today. I’m crying behind a closed door because I don’t want my coworkers to see. My boss came in earlier. I was wiping a tear from my eye and was embarrassed that she had caught me in the act. But why? Why was I embarrassed? Why is it bad that I hurt for the hurts of this world? Why is it bad that I feel my heart breaking with what also breaks the heart of God?
In the front of WMU’s Associational Leadership Tool, we read:
Luke recorded the mission that Jesus identified as his mission: “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Juke 4:18-19).
Jesus proclaimed the Kingdom of God and gave witness to the redemptive acts of God. He taught his disciples to do likewise, and they saw him practice this as he went from place to place. They saw Jesus teach the people, forgive their sins, and heal their diseases and sicknesses.
I don’t know about you. But to me, today, freedom for the prisoners is freedom from the fear of being seen.
On Monday I wrote that Jesus saw them. And Jesus loved them. So I’m thinking that maybe we should do the same. I’m thinking that maybe we should start living lives that give people the space to be seen. I’m thinking that maybe we should live lives that allow speaking truth—however scary and ugly it is—to be the vehicle by which the oppressed (and isn’t that all of us) are released. And I’m thinking that maybe we should spend more time giving witness to the redemptive acts of God rather than the damning acts of humankind.
My dad told me last night that we Deatons don’t say goodbye very easily—that we hold on tightly to people and don’t quickly let go. He’s right. We do hold on. And goodbyes are difficult. Which I suppose is why he didn’t tell me bye when I called last night. Instead he said I love you. He left for a mission trip to Armenia this morning. But this time he left wearing his emotions on his sleeve. This time he left being seen…
On Sunday morning, Dad referenced this trip in his sermon. He said that he was so anxious about leaving the family behind that he couldn’t even tell us bye. He said that he left in the middle of the night while we were sleeping so that we wouldn’t see him cry. The true irony of that last statement is that my dad now cries at the drop of a hat!
I don’t know why my dad didn’t want us to see him cry back then. I don’t know if it’s because he’s a man and men aren’t supposed to cry or if there was some other reason that compelled him to leave in the middle of the night. But I do know this: he was full of anxiety as he left for his trip. He was full of sadness for having to say goodbye—wondering if that goodbye would be his last. He was full of grief for the time that he would be away and the events in our lives that he would miss.
Anxiety. Sadness. Grief. Worry. Concern. Doubt. Hurt. Regret. Anger. Sadness. These are emotions that we all feel—some of us more than others—yet they’re emotions that we often don’t want others to see—especially in the church. Why is this? Why do we feel that we must hide so much?
I’ve recently talked with individuals—Christian individuals with a genuine desire to love and serve God—who are:
• struggling with the aftershock of abortion;
• attempting to overcome the addiction of pornography;
• dealing with the repercussions of an affair;
• grieving from being fired from a job for misconduct;
• embarrassed about admitting that she’s an ordained Baptist minister not because she’s embarrassed by her faith but because she’s embarrassed by the reputation that Christians have of being closed minded and judgmental and because she doesn’t want her non-Christian friends to build a wall of protection around their souls;
• healing from being raped; trying to survive in an abusive relationship;
• trying to pretend she’s okay after her dad died;
• trying to figure out how to apply for bankruptcy;
• trying to figure out where to go next after he senses a change in call;
• wondering about the existence and reality of hell;
• wrestling through thoughts of a loving God sending Jews from the Holocaust to hell;
• figuring out how to end a ministry well;
• coming to terms with really harsh, negative thoughts and feelings in a friendship;
• feeling completely alone in this world;
• questioning the meaning of life;
• feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of her job and so afraid of not being a good leader that she has migraines and ulcers and constantly lives in fear;
• realizing that she hates religion and simply wants a relationship with God—who is proclaimed as love but portrayed as a picture completely different;
• wondering how he’s supposed to live a life of faith in the world when his church friends judge him for spending time with friends who don’t live the life approved by the church;
• trying to find the courage to finally say that they do not feel called to teach youth Sunday School or VBS even though there’s no one else in the church to do it;
• trying to find the words to speak her truth to her family when she fears that her family will disown her for not holding “traditional American values”;
• afraid to admit that she voted for Obama and that she doesn’t think it’s his fault that our country is struggling;
• battling sickness and disease;
• wanting to hash out a healthy view of sexuality and sexual ethics but having no one to talk to;
• fighting depression;
All while pretending that everything is okay. All while holding it together and only letting it out late at night (if at all) so that no one sees them cry—so that no one knows their pain…
I’m crying as I write this today. I’m crying behind a closed door because I don’t want my coworkers to see. My boss came in earlier. I was wiping a tear from my eye and was embarrassed that she had caught me in the act. But why? Why was I embarrassed? Why is it bad that I hurt for the hurts of this world? Why is it bad that I feel my heart breaking with what also breaks the heart of God?
In the front of WMU’s Associational Leadership Tool, we read:
Luke recorded the mission that Jesus identified as his mission: “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Juke 4:18-19).
Jesus proclaimed the Kingdom of God and gave witness to the redemptive acts of God. He taught his disciples to do likewise, and they saw him practice this as he went from place to place. They saw Jesus teach the people, forgive their sins, and heal their diseases and sicknesses.
I don’t know about you. But to me, today, freedom for the prisoners is freedom from the fear of being seen.
On Monday I wrote that Jesus saw them. And Jesus loved them. So I’m thinking that maybe we should do the same. I’m thinking that maybe we should start living lives that give people the space to be seen. I’m thinking that maybe we should live lives that allow speaking truth—however scary and ugly it is—to be the vehicle by which the oppressed (and isn’t that all of us) are released. And I’m thinking that maybe we should spend more time giving witness to the redemptive acts of God rather than the damning acts of humankind.
My dad told me last night that we Deatons don’t say goodbye very easily—that we hold on tightly to people and don’t quickly let go. He’s right. We do hold on. And goodbyes are difficult. Which I suppose is why he didn’t tell me bye when I called last night. Instead he said I love you. He left for a mission trip to Armenia this morning. But this time he left wearing his emotions on his sleeve. This time he left being seen…
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
He Saw Them
I must confess. Every time I hear the song, “People Need The Lord,” I think of Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. When I was a teenager, a couple in my church sang the song as special music on Sunday night and they sounded exactly like Kermit and Miss Piggy. They weren’t trying to. They were being serious. They were singing out of a genuine heart and spirit. Yet their voices just came out...well...like Jim Hinson’s characters.
And so...when I hear, “People need the Lord, People need the Lord, At the end of broken dreams, He’s the open door. People need the Lord, people need the Lord, When will we realize, People need the Lord,” I think about a cute green frog and lovely pink pig. I know, I know, it’s bad. But it’s the truth. And I needed to confess.
However, once I get passed the initial giggles that come when the song begins, I am struck by the power of the words:
Everyday they pass me by, I can see it in their eyes, Empty people filled with care, Headed who knows where? On they go through private pain, Living fear to fear. Laughter hides their silent cries, Only Jesus hears.
Wow. What a profound lyric. We are surrounded by people, day in and day out, who are hurting—struggling—experiencing private pain—being swallowed by emptiness—that most of us never take the time to see.
The speaker in chapel on Monday morning focused his message on three words: “when he saw.”
Taken from Matthew 9, the story says: 35 Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. 36 When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. 37 Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. 38 Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.”
Seeing people—really seeing them—is messy. It takes guts and courage. It takes time and energy. It is risky and demanding and often does not involve neat straight lines or nice rounded edges. It is not black and white. It is not always pretty. It often forces us to see ourselves in ways that we have tried to avoid. Yet seeing people—really seeing them—is the most beautiful act of love that we can give.
Jesus saw people. And when saw them he had compassion on them. And when he had compassion on them, he was moved to action. He was moved to proclaim the good news of God’s kingdom—God’s kingdom of light, love, and freedom—and he was moved to heal disease and sickness because the people were harassed and helpless—they were lost and in need of a shepherd—they needed someone to show them a better way.
Jesus saw people. He didn’t care if they were green or pink or couldn’t sing very well at all. He didn’t care if they were ugly or smelled bad or had played the martyr/victim every day of their lives until that point. Jesus saw people and did the messy work of loving them…
Oh God, open our eyes to see what you see, feel what you feel, and act as you act. Grant us fresh vision so that we might see how to share your life, love, forgiveness, redemption, and freedom with a people who are dying to be seen and heard and loved for who they are now and who they can be the future. Amen.
And so...when I hear, “People need the Lord, People need the Lord, At the end of broken dreams, He’s the open door. People need the Lord, people need the Lord, When will we realize, People need the Lord,” I think about a cute green frog and lovely pink pig. I know, I know, it’s bad. But it’s the truth. And I needed to confess.
However, once I get passed the initial giggles that come when the song begins, I am struck by the power of the words:
Everyday they pass me by, I can see it in their eyes, Empty people filled with care, Headed who knows where? On they go through private pain, Living fear to fear. Laughter hides their silent cries, Only Jesus hears.
Wow. What a profound lyric. We are surrounded by people, day in and day out, who are hurting—struggling—experiencing private pain—being swallowed by emptiness—that most of us never take the time to see.
The speaker in chapel on Monday morning focused his message on three words: “when he saw.”
Taken from Matthew 9, the story says: 35 Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. 36 When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. 37 Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. 38 Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.”
Seeing people—really seeing them—is messy. It takes guts and courage. It takes time and energy. It is risky and demanding and often does not involve neat straight lines or nice rounded edges. It is not black and white. It is not always pretty. It often forces us to see ourselves in ways that we have tried to avoid. Yet seeing people—really seeing them—is the most beautiful act of love that we can give.
Jesus saw people. And when saw them he had compassion on them. And when he had compassion on them, he was moved to action. He was moved to proclaim the good news of God’s kingdom—God’s kingdom of light, love, and freedom—and he was moved to heal disease and sickness because the people were harassed and helpless—they were lost and in need of a shepherd—they needed someone to show them a better way.
Jesus saw people. He didn’t care if they were green or pink or couldn’t sing very well at all. He didn’t care if they were ugly or smelled bad or had played the martyr/victim every day of their lives until that point. Jesus saw people and did the messy work of loving them…
Oh God, open our eyes to see what you see, feel what you feel, and act as you act. Grant us fresh vision so that we might see how to share your life, love, forgiveness, redemption, and freedom with a people who are dying to be seen and heard and loved for who they are now and who they can be the future. Amen.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
A Little Piece of My Truth
Me, 9pm last night, Sabbath night, throwing down the book I was reading for work, sobbing, and restlessly lying (actually wrestling or squirming) on my couch:
I’m having a really bad night :-(. My thoughts are really negative and all I hear is God screaming damnation and punishment on me and it’s loud and I need it to stop but it will not stop :-(. All I keep thinking is that I don’t want to be dramatic and demanding and insecure and clingy. I don’t want to live in the fear that I’m not good enough or that people will get tired of me and leave. I don’t want to feel like I’m too much. But my thoughts are so bad and I feel so worthless and ugly and wrong and inadequate. I feel like my faith is not strong enough. I just want to love people and love God and enjoy life and go to the state fair. I don’t know why things aren’t always easy for me. Why I can’t be as bubbly as the author I’m reading now. Why things don’t work out easily in my life. I don’t know why I feel lonely like I do. I don’t know why I sometimes get anxious in public places and convince myself that I’m going to die when I’m alone or that everyone in my family is going to die or why my skin always itches or why I cannot read well with my eyes. I don’t know those things and I don’t like them. And I don’t know why anyone else would like them either. But I do know that I want to buy that piece of art that I saw in Orlando and put it in my apartment because it’s how I feel when I’m alone. Like something is missing from deep within my heart. And. I know that my eyes are all puffy and I have no cucumbers to put on them like at a spa.
A little while later, after the image of a loving God and gentle Jesus returned—this happening only after I was able to calm my body, breathe, and cry, out loud, “I need you, God. I need you. I need you.”—I returned to my book and began to read again. I read about being full of God’s power—about God giving us the strength to do whatever God has called us to—about not being ashamed of telling the story of what Christ has done in our lives (my wording, there)—about being set free and not living in fear.
As I read, the reality of the vastness of God settled upon me and I couldn’t help but smile a simple smile as I realized that God was allowing me to hear the words in a way completely different than I imagine the author to have penned them. I’m not afraid of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I’m not afraid to share my faith…but I am often afraid to share the depth of my story because it is full of doubts and questions and struggles and realities that sometimes are perceived as faith not strong enough, belief not deep enough, prayer not good enough, thought not simple or clear enough, action not holy enough, words not righteous enough, emotions not stable enough, or joy not bubbly enough to truly be the faith of a Christian believer.
Oh. But I am a believer.
I am a believer in the Trinity God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer—God bigger than anything the human mind can begin to comprehend—God who longs for the redemption of this world and who works alongside us in this Christ-story that makes redemption possible. I believe in a God whose love is deep enough and wide enough and patient enough and steady enough to endure the darkest night of the soul. I believe in a God who hears questions, cries with doubts, hurts with sorrows, sticks with us in uncertainty, grieves with loss and consequence, laughs at quirks, feels anger for injustice, honors life’s journey, delights in full life, enjoys worship, lives in community, loves and sees the good and possibility in all people, and longs for peace.
Yes. I am a believer. Yet I have friends and family members who are not.
I am a believer. But sometimes I still hate myself (even though I know that God doesn’t feel the same.)
I am a believer. Yet I don’t understand how God can allow genocide and starvation and senseless beatings and hateful oppression.
I am a believer. But I read secular books and listen to secular music and honor the values and traditions
of other cultures and denominations.
I am a believer. And I am pro-dignity-of-all-human-life and I believe in an evolution of change.
I am a believer. Yet sometimes I think only in curse words.
I am believer. But I am open. And seeking. And searching. And doubting. And trying. And struggling. And suffering comes from trying to juggle a fear of rejection and human damnation with the courage to speak the reality of who I believe God to be (love) and who God has created me to be (myself).
Yes. I am a believer. Yet I sometimes have horrible nights. And that’s the truth…of which I’m learning to no longer be afraid.
I’m having a really bad night :-(. My thoughts are really negative and all I hear is God screaming damnation and punishment on me and it’s loud and I need it to stop but it will not stop :-(. All I keep thinking is that I don’t want to be dramatic and demanding and insecure and clingy. I don’t want to live in the fear that I’m not good enough or that people will get tired of me and leave. I don’t want to feel like I’m too much. But my thoughts are so bad and I feel so worthless and ugly and wrong and inadequate. I feel like my faith is not strong enough. I just want to love people and love God and enjoy life and go to the state fair. I don’t know why things aren’t always easy for me. Why I can’t be as bubbly as the author I’m reading now. Why things don’t work out easily in my life. I don’t know why I feel lonely like I do. I don’t know why I sometimes get anxious in public places and convince myself that I’m going to die when I’m alone or that everyone in my family is going to die or why my skin always itches or why I cannot read well with my eyes. I don’t know those things and I don’t like them. And I don’t know why anyone else would like them either. But I do know that I want to buy that piece of art that I saw in Orlando and put it in my apartment because it’s how I feel when I’m alone. Like something is missing from deep within my heart. And. I know that my eyes are all puffy and I have no cucumbers to put on them like at a spa.
A little while later, after the image of a loving God and gentle Jesus returned—this happening only after I was able to calm my body, breathe, and cry, out loud, “I need you, God. I need you. I need you.”—I returned to my book and began to read again. I read about being full of God’s power—about God giving us the strength to do whatever God has called us to—about not being ashamed of telling the story of what Christ has done in our lives (my wording, there)—about being set free and not living in fear.
As I read, the reality of the vastness of God settled upon me and I couldn’t help but smile a simple smile as I realized that God was allowing me to hear the words in a way completely different than I imagine the author to have penned them. I’m not afraid of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I’m not afraid to share my faith…but I am often afraid to share the depth of my story because it is full of doubts and questions and struggles and realities that sometimes are perceived as faith not strong enough, belief not deep enough, prayer not good enough, thought not simple or clear enough, action not holy enough, words not righteous enough, emotions not stable enough, or joy not bubbly enough to truly be the faith of a Christian believer.
Oh. But I am a believer.
I am a believer in the Trinity God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer—God bigger than anything the human mind can begin to comprehend—God who longs for the redemption of this world and who works alongside us in this Christ-story that makes redemption possible. I believe in a God whose love is deep enough and wide enough and patient enough and steady enough to endure the darkest night of the soul. I believe in a God who hears questions, cries with doubts, hurts with sorrows, sticks with us in uncertainty, grieves with loss and consequence, laughs at quirks, feels anger for injustice, honors life’s journey, delights in full life, enjoys worship, lives in community, loves and sees the good and possibility in all people, and longs for peace.
Yes. I am a believer. Yet I have friends and family members who are not.
I am a believer. But sometimes I still hate myself (even though I know that God doesn’t feel the same.)
I am a believer. Yet I don’t understand how God can allow genocide and starvation and senseless beatings and hateful oppression.
I am a believer. But I read secular books and listen to secular music and honor the values and traditions
of other cultures and denominations.
I am a believer. And I am pro-dignity-of-all-human-life and I believe in an evolution of change.
I am a believer. Yet sometimes I think only in curse words.
I am believer. But I am open. And seeking. And searching. And doubting. And trying. And struggling. And suffering comes from trying to juggle a fear of rejection and human damnation with the courage to speak the reality of who I believe God to be (love) and who God has created me to be (myself).
Yes. I am a believer. Yet I sometimes have horrible nights. And that’s the truth…of which I’m learning to no longer be afraid.
I Really Do Know How To Read With My Eyes
I’m not a good reader with my eyes. I think we’ve established that fact. Yet in the past week, I have finished three books with my eyes and started on a fourth, not to mention completed a 17 hour audio book and made plans to start another audio book tonight.
The trick? I haven’t been in the office. I was on vacation last week and today I’ve been working from a remote location because I have a training tonight. I haven’t been online or distracted. I haven’t been looking at my to-do list that causes me to feel overwhelmed and behind (like I do at this moment, just writing about it.) I’ve been able to lay down and read—which is my most successful reading position—and I’ve been able to put the book down and rest my eyes a bit after reading for awhile. For the past week, it’s been a little reading here, a little resting there, and…well…the pattern has allowed me to read much more successfully than usual.
I finished “Same Kind of Different As Me,” which I had started in February. I started and finished, “Great Love for Girls,” a New Hope study that some people had asked me about for work. I started and finished, “Thin Enough,” another New Hope book—this one detailing one girl’s journey through disordered eating and food addiction. And I’ve started, “Do This And Live,” a WMU book written by my friends Suzanne and Kym and one that, ironically, shares about the meaning of life and living life to the fullest (which I ecclesiastically addressed on Thursday).
On the docket, I have a whole bunch of Bible studies to read, two books on the history of WMU, and one book that serves as our focus book for the year. I also would like to finish a couple of other books that I’ve started at home AND read two books that I bought last night—“The Dark Night of the Soul” by St. John of the Cross and “Essays by Famous Black Americans.” Unfortunately, if I’m ever to read those, then I may have to stay on vacation for the next two months OR work from remote locations each day…and…well…for some reason, I don’t think that’s going to happen! J
As far as reading with my ears is concerned…I started and finished Jodi Piccoult’s “Sing You Home.” Jodi Piccoult is a good writer, but she is not afraid to address difficult social, moral, and theological issues head on…and…well…that doesn’t always make easy reading for this thinking feeler! Tonight, I’ll start Alice Walker’s, “The Color Purple,” and I’ll once again listen to Walker’s laid back, rhythmic voice as she reads a literary masterpiece that, I’ve heard, is dramatic and difficult in its own right. [When my book club read “The Color Purple” a few years ago, Walker hadn’t released an audio version, so I didn’t bother to read it with my eyes. I’m excited to finally read it now.]
Notice the difference in book selections: I’m reading non-fiction with my eyes and reading fiction with my ears. I can’t imagine setting or keep names straight or let my imagination wonder when I’m reading with my eyes. I read what’s on the page—literally on the page—word for word, and if I skim then I fear that I’ve missed something and make myself go back and reread it, sometimes 5 or more times. You can imagine why it takes me so long to read! And, well, sometimes, I really do think that I have some type of reading disability.
I suppose that there is no major point to this note. It sounds silly to say that I’m proud of myself for reading so many books with my eyes, yet I am. And I hope—really hope—that, somehow—and I haven’t figured out how—when I get back into my normal schedule and routine tomorrow that I’ll figure out how to keep reading with my eyes, how to keep feeling accomplished, how to keep feeling calm and relaxed, and not how to get swallowed by that doggone to-do list that feels like it has fangs that chase me and want to eat me alive.
What about you? Are you an eye or ear reader? And what books have you read recently. And, most importantly, what book should I read after “The Color Purple”? I’m very open to, and asking for, suggestions!
The trick? I haven’t been in the office. I was on vacation last week and today I’ve been working from a remote location because I have a training tonight. I haven’t been online or distracted. I haven’t been looking at my to-do list that causes me to feel overwhelmed and behind (like I do at this moment, just writing about it.) I’ve been able to lay down and read—which is my most successful reading position—and I’ve been able to put the book down and rest my eyes a bit after reading for awhile. For the past week, it’s been a little reading here, a little resting there, and…well…the pattern has allowed me to read much more successfully than usual.
I finished “Same Kind of Different As Me,” which I had started in February. I started and finished, “Great Love for Girls,” a New Hope study that some people had asked me about for work. I started and finished, “Thin Enough,” another New Hope book—this one detailing one girl’s journey through disordered eating and food addiction. And I’ve started, “Do This And Live,” a WMU book written by my friends Suzanne and Kym and one that, ironically, shares about the meaning of life and living life to the fullest (which I ecclesiastically addressed on Thursday).
On the docket, I have a whole bunch of Bible studies to read, two books on the history of WMU, and one book that serves as our focus book for the year. I also would like to finish a couple of other books that I’ve started at home AND read two books that I bought last night—“The Dark Night of the Soul” by St. John of the Cross and “Essays by Famous Black Americans.” Unfortunately, if I’m ever to read those, then I may have to stay on vacation for the next two months OR work from remote locations each day…and…well…for some reason, I don’t think that’s going to happen! J
As far as reading with my ears is concerned…I started and finished Jodi Piccoult’s “Sing You Home.” Jodi Piccoult is a good writer, but she is not afraid to address difficult social, moral, and theological issues head on…and…well…that doesn’t always make easy reading for this thinking feeler! Tonight, I’ll start Alice Walker’s, “The Color Purple,” and I’ll once again listen to Walker’s laid back, rhythmic voice as she reads a literary masterpiece that, I’ve heard, is dramatic and difficult in its own right. [When my book club read “The Color Purple” a few years ago, Walker hadn’t released an audio version, so I didn’t bother to read it with my eyes. I’m excited to finally read it now.]
Notice the difference in book selections: I’m reading non-fiction with my eyes and reading fiction with my ears. I can’t imagine setting or keep names straight or let my imagination wonder when I’m reading with my eyes. I read what’s on the page—literally on the page—word for word, and if I skim then I fear that I’ve missed something and make myself go back and reread it, sometimes 5 or more times. You can imagine why it takes me so long to read! And, well, sometimes, I really do think that I have some type of reading disability.
I suppose that there is no major point to this note. It sounds silly to say that I’m proud of myself for reading so many books with my eyes, yet I am. And I hope—really hope—that, somehow—and I haven’t figured out how—when I get back into my normal schedule and routine tomorrow that I’ll figure out how to keep reading with my eyes, how to keep feeling accomplished, how to keep feeling calm and relaxed, and not how to get swallowed by that doggone to-do list that feels like it has fangs that chase me and want to eat me alive.
What about you? Are you an eye or ear reader? And what books have you read recently. And, most importantly, what book should I read after “The Color Purple”? I’m very open to, and asking for, suggestions!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
The Ecclesiast Strikes Again
I had a wonderful weekend--attending a Michael W. Smith concert at the Biltmore, eating delicious meals, treating myself to both the Architecture and Butler's Tours at the Biltmore, walking across the swinging bridge on Grandfather Mountain, and going gem mining. I highly recommend all of those activities! I also recommend coming to the mountains for a few days, and walking in a stream, and fishing (if fishing is your thing). Even so, I went to an Alzheimer's Nursing Home Facility on Tuesday, and I've been reading the book Same Kind of Different As Me this week. And, well, my brain has been doing what it does: thinking. Here are some of my thoughts (started on Tuesday night):
If I'm not careful, then I could become fatalistic in my thoughts tonight...wondering the point of it all and such. Like…
I really don't feel like much has changed in history. Humans are humans, wanting the same things from generation to generation. Always thinking that life is busier than ever before, always thinking that things are worse than ever before, always waiting for an end.
Always a gap between rich and poor, always stereotypes and judgments, always bickering and fighting, always some who look after the well-being of others, always some who don't.
I think about the Vanderbilts. George was a nice rich fellow. Thoughtful. Giving. Truly amazing in so many ways. But there were and are so many more not nice ones.
Slavery has always existed. It still does. The forms of things have changed, but the root issues have not.
If we're supposed to be working toward the redemption of the world, then why does it seem like we're getting no closer?
I think…no amount of work that I do. No amount of records or trainings or keeping words or anything has a point in the end.
I’ve had such a good time on vacation—especially over the weekend. It was fun to live in the moment. To be happy. To experience life. But soon it’ll be over and I look around and think of everything that I should be doing. Calendaring and writing and sorting and keeping records and such...and it feels so heavy. Like. I want to go back on vacation. I want to live in the moment--well--as much as this brain allows me to.
I don’t want to always feel behind or like I should be doing something when I want to do nothing but be. Yet…if I didn’t have things to do, then life would be boring. I get that.
I’m not trying to complain. I'm just saying that I wonder what the point of life is. Many people say that life on this earth is just a passing time, that true life is eternal. But shouldn’t there be a point to this passing time? Living it only to see if we pass a test that guarantees us eternal life seems…I don’t even know the word.
Many people say the point of life is to enjoy it. And I guess in the end, that's all there is. Isn’t that what the writer of Ecclesiastes concluded? Might as well live the life God has given us, huh? Rather than lagging behind…
Do you ever have thoughts like these? If so, how do you manage them?
Also…what’s something that you’ve done recently that you have truly enjoyed? What’s something that has made you grateful to be alive (regardless of the point of it)?
If I'm not careful, then I could become fatalistic in my thoughts tonight...wondering the point of it all and such. Like…
I really don't feel like much has changed in history. Humans are humans, wanting the same things from generation to generation. Always thinking that life is busier than ever before, always thinking that things are worse than ever before, always waiting for an end.
Always a gap between rich and poor, always stereotypes and judgments, always bickering and fighting, always some who look after the well-being of others, always some who don't.
I think about the Vanderbilts. George was a nice rich fellow. Thoughtful. Giving. Truly amazing in so many ways. But there were and are so many more not nice ones.
Slavery has always existed. It still does. The forms of things have changed, but the root issues have not.
If we're supposed to be working toward the redemption of the world, then why does it seem like we're getting no closer?
I think…no amount of work that I do. No amount of records or trainings or keeping words or anything has a point in the end.
I’ve had such a good time on vacation—especially over the weekend. It was fun to live in the moment. To be happy. To experience life. But soon it’ll be over and I look around and think of everything that I should be doing. Calendaring and writing and sorting and keeping records and such...and it feels so heavy. Like. I want to go back on vacation. I want to live in the moment--well--as much as this brain allows me to.
I don’t want to always feel behind or like I should be doing something when I want to do nothing but be. Yet…if I didn’t have things to do, then life would be boring. I get that.
I’m not trying to complain. I'm just saying that I wonder what the point of life is. Many people say that life on this earth is just a passing time, that true life is eternal. But shouldn’t there be a point to this passing time? Living it only to see if we pass a test that guarantees us eternal life seems…I don’t even know the word.
Many people say the point of life is to enjoy it. And I guess in the end, that's all there is. Isn’t that what the writer of Ecclesiastes concluded? Might as well live the life God has given us, huh? Rather than lagging behind…
Do you ever have thoughts like these? If so, how do you manage them?
Also…what’s something that you’ve done recently that you have truly enjoyed? What’s something that has made you grateful to be alive (regardless of the point of it)?
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
I Love Gem Mining!
The first time I did it was in 1998. I was on a summer mission team in the southwest mountains of NC. On our days off, we drove around and did touristy things. We visited local stores and ice cream shops and Gold City. We went to Santa’s Land and Cherokee and Dollywood. We went to Nashville and Bryson City and tubed down the French Broad River. We did a lot of really cool things! But my very favorite thing was gem mining. I loved it! And to this day, I still do.
I love the dirt and grit and literal connection with nature. I love the water that runs to clean the dirt and grit off of the rocks/gems and my hands. I love the mountain smells and breezes that accompany the experience. I love the reality of an ugly rock being transformed into a beautiful gem only by being cut and chiseled and shaped by a master gem cutter—not by remaining in its raw form. In fact, a few years ago, I wrote:
Gem mining is one of the most pleasurable experiences that anyone can have. Take a bucket of “special dirt,” a sifting pan, a gentle stream of water, some old clothes and a lot of patience, and there’s no telling what you will find. And it’s easy! Simply wash away the dirt and watch the rocks—the gems—appear.
Sometimes I think that we’re all just buckets of dirt. On our own we don’t look like anything special, but when we surrender ourselves into someone else’s hands we find that we are full of precious gems—precious gifts and talents that are vital to this world. These hands, of course, are Jesus’ hands—hands that have the power to wash away all of the dirt—all of the hurt and pain and suffering—that covers up our beauty.
So the next time you hold a gem, remember that you are precious. Just like the gem, however, in order to be manifest into your full beauty you have to be willing to be broken, cut up, and polished. Being found is easy—just let Jesus hold you. But being made into the most beautiful self you can be is difficult. When God finishes working with you, though, you will be the most precious gem in the world—the gem that you were created to be.
No need to write anything new tonight. I think that says it all.
I love the dirt and grit and literal connection with nature. I love the water that runs to clean the dirt and grit off of the rocks/gems and my hands. I love the mountain smells and breezes that accompany the experience. I love the reality of an ugly rock being transformed into a beautiful gem only by being cut and chiseled and shaped by a master gem cutter—not by remaining in its raw form. In fact, a few years ago, I wrote:
Gem mining is one of the most pleasurable experiences that anyone can have. Take a bucket of “special dirt,” a sifting pan, a gentle stream of water, some old clothes and a lot of patience, and there’s no telling what you will find. And it’s easy! Simply wash away the dirt and watch the rocks—the gems—appear.
Sometimes I think that we’re all just buckets of dirt. On our own we don’t look like anything special, but when we surrender ourselves into someone else’s hands we find that we are full of precious gems—precious gifts and talents that are vital to this world. These hands, of course, are Jesus’ hands—hands that have the power to wash away all of the dirt—all of the hurt and pain and suffering—that covers up our beauty.
So the next time you hold a gem, remember that you are precious. Just like the gem, however, in order to be manifest into your full beauty you have to be willing to be broken, cut up, and polished. Being found is easy—just let Jesus hold you. But being made into the most beautiful self you can be is difficult. When God finishes working with you, though, you will be the most precious gem in the world—the gem that you were created to be.
No need to write anything new tonight. I think that says it all.
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