Many of you know that I like to read books with my ears. I finished the first book of The Heroes of Olympus series on my way to Candlestick, and I started the second book yesterday on my way to Boone. I went to see Horn in the West.
On my way back to camp last night, though I truly enjoy listening to books, I decided to listen to music instead. Windows rolled down, heat blasting to balance out the crisp 56 degree temperature, left arm periodically waving in the wind, I drove the curvy mountain roads singing as loudly as I could without damaging my voice.
It was awesome.
As I drove, I found myself flashing back to another night of music listening seventeen years ago. I wasn’t in the mountains. I wasn’t even driving. In fact, I was laying in my little bed in my little room, trying to figure out where God was calling me to serve that next summer.
The previous summer, I had worked at Mundo Vista for the first time. I had had a good summer and made some good friends, and I’d even successfully made it through the summer wearing closed-toes shoes! But camp was comfortable to me. I was good at it—gifted, even. And “Doesn’t God call us to step out of our comfort zones? Doesn’t God call us to take risks so that we will rely fully on him?”
That summer, there was a position open for a person to minister to migrant workers in Eastern NC. Speaking Spanish (which I do not do) was highly recommended but not required, and somehow I had gotten it into my head that this was the job I should attempt—because it was way out of my comfort zone and would mean total reliance on God.
Sometime over Christmas break, as I was discussing summer mission options with my parents and talking through my leap of faith migrant ministry option, my dad told me that he believes that God desires us to minister out of our giftedness—that trusting in God and relying on God doesn’t mean being totally unprepared or fighting an upstream battle. He believed that I was gifted for camp ministry and that I should go back if I had the desire. Yet I was a stubborn college sophomore and couldn’t get past the idea of getting out of my comfort zone, so I didn’t humbly listen to my dad.
As I was lying in bed that night, though, listening to a new group that my friend Allie had introduced to me the summer before, God swooped down and covered my body with a sense of knowing that I had never before experienced. Though I can’t remember the exact song that was playing, I know that it came from one of Caedmon’s Call’s first two albums--My Calm//Your Storm or Just Don’t Want Coffee—and I have a feeling that it was either “There’s A Stirring” or “April Showers.”
Regardless, in that moment, on that night, I knew as clearly as I know my name is Deanna that I’d be going back to camp that next summer. I wish I could describe how I knew, but I can’t. The knowing just settled upon and surrounded me. All of my self-imposed struggles faded. And my desire to return to camp suddenly became right.
And you know what? Even in the middle of my giftedness, I was taken out of my comfort zone that summer and pushed to rely totally on God even though I was surrounded by and able to minister with persons who have become some of my dearest friends. From co-leading worship for the first time to co-leading a cabin full of angel tree campers and learning what it meant to host girls whose lives were very broken, I lived outside my comfort zone…yet I lived out of and within the giftedness that God had given me.
It was a beautiful juxtaposition.
Music is a powerful thing. God has used it to speak to me more times than I can count.
What about you? Do you have a mountain driving experience or a lying in bed moment of clarity that you’d like to share? I’d love to hear. And if you share the song, I’d love to sing along.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Defining Moments: Oh, Vera
This morning as I was packing for my 8th annual trip to The Candlestick Retreat Center in Minneapolis, NC, I found myself flashing back to a few months after my second visit to Candlestick—to the moment when I fell for Vera Bradley (VB).
I had seen Vera Bradley’s patterns and bags before Spring 2009, but it wasn’t until one fateful moment in a Hallmark store that my life as a consumer took a pretty dramatic turn toward pretty fabric.
One of my good friends had received a Large Mediterranean White Duffel Bag from her sister the previous Christmas. I knew that many people liked to collect different bags of the same pattern, so I decided to buy my friend another type of Mediterranean White bag around the time of her birthday.
I vividly remember standing in the Vera Bradley aisle, looking at all of the different patterns and types of bags and thinking, “I actually like this stuff.”
Now, if you know me at all, then you know that I’m not, as my friend Barb would say, a dainty flower. I don’t dress in style because I value comfort over trendiness and because I despise buying new clothes—both because of the shopping experience and because of the money it involves. I don’t often change my accessories because, quite honestly, I forget. And once I find a product that works for me—a pencil, a car, a bookbag, a monkey—I keep it until it absolutely cannot be used anymore.
So for me to fall for Vera Bradley is, well, strange.
Odd.
Unlikely.
Weird.
But fall I did. And I fell hard.
I bought my friend three different cosmetic bags that day—large, medium, and small—I couldn’t decide between them so I bought them all. She really liked them. I did, too…which is precisely why I packed my own set of cosmetic bags for Candlestick this morning…and I put them inside my own Large Mediterranean White Duffel Bag. And, no. I don’t use my cosmetic bags for cosmetics. I use them for other travel items.
As to my own duffel bag…It just so happened that Vera retired Mediterranean White shortly after that momentous day in the Hallmark store and that I was able to buy myself a full duffel-y luggage set for 50-75% off.
That’s how Vera is, you know. She comes out with patterns and bag styles and then she retires them. And when they’re retired, they go on sale. And when they go on sale, I buy them…not so much for myself…but for various friends and family members. Yet I can’t buy just anything. A pattern first must speak to me for a particular person, and then, and only then, will I make the VB purchase.
Are VB bags priced too high? Probably.
Does the company use fair trade practices? Probably not.
Has VB started coming out with entirely too many different products too quickly? I think so.
Do I know that Vera Bradley is not a reason person? Yes.
And yet…I still like the imaginary her and find myself drawn to her somewhat expensive, non-fair trade products...which partially explains why I must limit exposure to Hallmark stores and not open my e-mails from the VB company.
Some things about us can easily be explained. They click. They make sense. They fit.
Some things about us, however, cannot be easily explained yet they still define part of who we are…and my admiration for Vera Bradley bags is one of those things (although I suppose I could argue that they’re very well made and practical).
Even so, that day in the Hallmark store unexpectedly altered the course of my gift buying for many, many people.
Thanks, K, for being the friend who started it all. I think of you every time I look at my Mediterranean White bags, and I smile and offer a prayer for you each time that I do.
I had seen Vera Bradley’s patterns and bags before Spring 2009, but it wasn’t until one fateful moment in a Hallmark store that my life as a consumer took a pretty dramatic turn toward pretty fabric.
One of my good friends had received a Large Mediterranean White Duffel Bag from her sister the previous Christmas. I knew that many people liked to collect different bags of the same pattern, so I decided to buy my friend another type of Mediterranean White bag around the time of her birthday.
I vividly remember standing in the Vera Bradley aisle, looking at all of the different patterns and types of bags and thinking, “I actually like this stuff.”
Now, if you know me at all, then you know that I’m not, as my friend Barb would say, a dainty flower. I don’t dress in style because I value comfort over trendiness and because I despise buying new clothes—both because of the shopping experience and because of the money it involves. I don’t often change my accessories because, quite honestly, I forget. And once I find a product that works for me—a pencil, a car, a bookbag, a monkey—I keep it until it absolutely cannot be used anymore.
So for me to fall for Vera Bradley is, well, strange.
Odd.
Unlikely.
Weird.
But fall I did. And I fell hard.
I bought my friend three different cosmetic bags that day—large, medium, and small—I couldn’t decide between them so I bought them all. She really liked them. I did, too…which is precisely why I packed my own set of cosmetic bags for Candlestick this morning…and I put them inside my own Large Mediterranean White Duffel Bag. And, no. I don’t use my cosmetic bags for cosmetics. I use them for other travel items.
As to my own duffel bag…It just so happened that Vera retired Mediterranean White shortly after that momentous day in the Hallmark store and that I was able to buy myself a full duffel-y luggage set for 50-75% off.
That’s how Vera is, you know. She comes out with patterns and bag styles and then she retires them. And when they’re retired, they go on sale. And when they go on sale, I buy them…not so much for myself…but for various friends and family members. Yet I can’t buy just anything. A pattern first must speak to me for a particular person, and then, and only then, will I make the VB purchase.
Are VB bags priced too high? Probably.
Does the company use fair trade practices? Probably not.
Has VB started coming out with entirely too many different products too quickly? I think so.
Do I know that Vera Bradley is not a reason person? Yes.
And yet…I still like the imaginary her and find myself drawn to her somewhat expensive, non-fair trade products...which partially explains why I must limit exposure to Hallmark stores and not open my e-mails from the VB company.
Some things about us can easily be explained. They click. They make sense. They fit.
Some things about us, however, cannot be easily explained yet they still define part of who we are…and my admiration for Vera Bradley bags is one of those things (although I suppose I could argue that they’re very well made and practical).
Even so, that day in the Hallmark store unexpectedly altered the course of my gift buying for many, many people.
Thanks, K, for being the friend who started it all. I think of you every time I look at my Mediterranean White bags, and I smile and offer a prayer for you each time that I do.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Defining Moments: Worry and Prayer
I have vivid dreams.
For instance, I dreamed last night that I hadn’t completed my English project and that my failure to do so was going to result in my making a B in the class. I sat my parents down and warned them that my 4.0 was going to be blemished and then I agonized over the fact that the project had stumped me. While agonizing over lunch, a student showed me an art project that he had completed for class and I was so fascinated by it that I stayed in the cafeteria to discuss it. I got so caught up in discussing the student’s artwork that I completely missed English class. Knowing that I never missed class, my teacher/professor—a combination of my favorite junior English teacher and my favorite college English professor—called for me over the intercom. I was to report to the principal’s office. As I walked through the hall to the principal’s office, one of my bottom front teeth fell out. At first, I was proud to have lost my tooth, but then I realized that it wasn’t a baby tooth and that it wasn’t a positive thing that it had come out. And that’s when, all at the same moment, the hallway traffic became so crowded that I couldn’t move, I realized that it was time for car duty, and I realized that I wasn’t going to make it to the principal’s office as summoned. As I called the school to let the principal know that I had car duty and would thus not be reporting as requested, I began flying to the parking lot. As I flew, I saw a couple sitting outside on a picnic blanket and we waved. And that’s the last thing I remember…from that dream.
Unfortunately, most of my dreams for the past couple of weeks have had something to do with school—and most of them have been full of complications, angst, problems, or worries. I suppose that my dreams are reflecting the anxiety that I feel about returning to school—a somewhat unwarranted anxiety brought on my unknown scheduling, classes, committees, duties, meetings, and lesson plans—and I suppose that both my waking and sleeping thoughts are working together to multiply whatever anxieties I’m feeling.
So I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised that I heard a wise voice say to me this morning, “If you’re going to pray about it, don’t worry. If you’re going to worry about it, don’t pray.”
While interviewing for my chaplaincy internship, I heard about a placement at a skilled nursing facility. Though the placement was far outside my comfort zone, I felt an immediate pull toward the location that could not be explained. After volunteering for the position, I quickly began to wonder what I’d gotten myself into. After visiting the facility for the first time, I felt completely overwhelmed. Yet it was that placement and those people that eventually stole my heart and changed the way that I see and value the dignity of all human life.
It was during one of my visits that I heard the voice that spoke to me this morning. Amongst other things, I was extremely worried about my parents traveling alone to Florida and I was sharing my worries with my friend Keisha. After listening to me for a few minutes, she looked at me with a sassy look in her eyes, clicked her tongue, and emphatically told me, “If you’re going to pray about it, don’t worry. If you’re going to worry about it, don’t pray.” Then she puckered her mouth and raised her eyebrows as if to dare me to argue with her.
That’s how Keisha is. Unable to move from the neck down but totally able to express herself with her face. Unable to use her vocal chords but able completely and clearly able to communicate with words. Unable to breathe through her mouth and nose but able to taste and swallow—hot fries are her favorite! Unable to physically leave her bed alone but able to soar through the heavens with her thoughts and prayers.
“If you’re going to pray about it, don’t worry. If you’re going to worry about it, don’t pray.”
Thanks, Keisha, for that defining moment in your old room, standing by your printer, surrounded by butterflies, filled with love for one another.
I will begin praying about school and attempt to stop worrying. Hopefully my dreams will listen, and I will not fail anymore projects or lose anymore teeth.
For instance, I dreamed last night that I hadn’t completed my English project and that my failure to do so was going to result in my making a B in the class. I sat my parents down and warned them that my 4.0 was going to be blemished and then I agonized over the fact that the project had stumped me. While agonizing over lunch, a student showed me an art project that he had completed for class and I was so fascinated by it that I stayed in the cafeteria to discuss it. I got so caught up in discussing the student’s artwork that I completely missed English class. Knowing that I never missed class, my teacher/professor—a combination of my favorite junior English teacher and my favorite college English professor—called for me over the intercom. I was to report to the principal’s office. As I walked through the hall to the principal’s office, one of my bottom front teeth fell out. At first, I was proud to have lost my tooth, but then I realized that it wasn’t a baby tooth and that it wasn’t a positive thing that it had come out. And that’s when, all at the same moment, the hallway traffic became so crowded that I couldn’t move, I realized that it was time for car duty, and I realized that I wasn’t going to make it to the principal’s office as summoned. As I called the school to let the principal know that I had car duty and would thus not be reporting as requested, I began flying to the parking lot. As I flew, I saw a couple sitting outside on a picnic blanket and we waved. And that’s the last thing I remember…from that dream.
Unfortunately, most of my dreams for the past couple of weeks have had something to do with school—and most of them have been full of complications, angst, problems, or worries. I suppose that my dreams are reflecting the anxiety that I feel about returning to school—a somewhat unwarranted anxiety brought on my unknown scheduling, classes, committees, duties, meetings, and lesson plans—and I suppose that both my waking and sleeping thoughts are working together to multiply whatever anxieties I’m feeling.
So I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised that I heard a wise voice say to me this morning, “If you’re going to pray about it, don’t worry. If you’re going to worry about it, don’t pray.”
While interviewing for my chaplaincy internship, I heard about a placement at a skilled nursing facility. Though the placement was far outside my comfort zone, I felt an immediate pull toward the location that could not be explained. After volunteering for the position, I quickly began to wonder what I’d gotten myself into. After visiting the facility for the first time, I felt completely overwhelmed. Yet it was that placement and those people that eventually stole my heart and changed the way that I see and value the dignity of all human life.
It was during one of my visits that I heard the voice that spoke to me this morning. Amongst other things, I was extremely worried about my parents traveling alone to Florida and I was sharing my worries with my friend Keisha. After listening to me for a few minutes, she looked at me with a sassy look in her eyes, clicked her tongue, and emphatically told me, “If you’re going to pray about it, don’t worry. If you’re going to worry about it, don’t pray.” Then she puckered her mouth and raised her eyebrows as if to dare me to argue with her.
That’s how Keisha is. Unable to move from the neck down but totally able to express herself with her face. Unable to use her vocal chords but able completely and clearly able to communicate with words. Unable to breathe through her mouth and nose but able to taste and swallow—hot fries are her favorite! Unable to physically leave her bed alone but able to soar through the heavens with her thoughts and prayers.
“If you’re going to pray about it, don’t worry. If you’re going to worry about it, don’t pray.”
Thanks, Keisha, for that defining moment in your old room, standing by your printer, surrounded by butterflies, filled with love for one another.
I will begin praying about school and attempt to stop worrying. Hopefully my dreams will listen, and I will not fail anymore projects or lose anymore teeth.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Defining Moments: Whispered Identity
My preferred seat of meeting or learning is at the back of the classroom near a window, away from the door. As such, I try to make a point to be early to classes or meetings on the first day so that I can get a seat in which I will feel both comfortable and safe. I am not a seat hopper. I believe in the sanctity of the seat. Once I find my seat, I return to my seat. And if someone takes my seat, then I feel a slight sense of panic. I’m not a confronter, though. [I’ve only seen one person confront a seat stealer, and that moment was priceless.] Instead, I sit as close to my original seat as possible or try to find another seat at the end of a row.
February 15, 2007, however, was a day that I found myself completely displaced. I have no idea why my seat was taken by the time I managed to drag a very weary body and soul into class, but it was. And so were all the seats around it. I think it may have been visitation day at the divinity school. So I had to sit somewhere really weird—near the middle of the class or something—and it was horrible—because all I wanted to do that day was disappear.
I had a really bad day that day. If you remember a day seven and a half years later, then you know it was a really bad day. I remember standing in the bathroom after getting to divinity school from elementary school work, wanting desperately to go home and sleep, but knowing that I needed to go to class. I needed to go to class not because of anything special but because going to class is what I did. I only missed one class during my entire under-graduate career, and if I missed a class during my divinity school career then it was because I had mono.
I am a people-pleaser.
Students going to and participating in class is pleasing to (most) professors.
So I went to class.
I always went to class.
But I almost skipped class that day.
And if I had, then I would have made one of the biggest mistakes of my life—
which would have been fitting on February 15, 2007—
but instead, that class became one of the biggest blessings of my life.
“I believe that as God is forming us from golem, God holds us to God’s chest and whispers into our ear who God desires us to be. Once we are born, the world begins telling us who it wants us to be. Family. Friends. Society. The church. So many voices tell us who to be. They wage battles within us, trying to form us into their image. But I think that our life’s journey is learn to hear through those outside voices and into the voice of God—the voice that once whispered to us who we were created us to be. This is perfection—being exactly who God desires—and Jesus was the only person ever to reach perfection—the only person ever to live into the fullness of who he was created to be—despite all that the world tried to make him.”
As my professor spoke that day, I sat in a strange seat surrounded by strange people and wept.
It was as if he was speaking those words directly to me and
I was being held against God’s chest as he did.
It was also as if God were telling me,
“I created you.
I believe in you.
I’ve got you.
Even when all else fails.
You are not who they tell you that you are.
You have failed but you are not a failure.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Always.”
That moment forever changed my view of God, life, and self.
And to think I almost missed it.
And that it happened in the wrong seat...
Thank you, Dr. Brock, for allowing God to use you to change me.
February 15, 2007, however, was a day that I found myself completely displaced. I have no idea why my seat was taken by the time I managed to drag a very weary body and soul into class, but it was. And so were all the seats around it. I think it may have been visitation day at the divinity school. So I had to sit somewhere really weird—near the middle of the class or something—and it was horrible—because all I wanted to do that day was disappear.
I had a really bad day that day. If you remember a day seven and a half years later, then you know it was a really bad day. I remember standing in the bathroom after getting to divinity school from elementary school work, wanting desperately to go home and sleep, but knowing that I needed to go to class. I needed to go to class not because of anything special but because going to class is what I did. I only missed one class during my entire under-graduate career, and if I missed a class during my divinity school career then it was because I had mono.
I am a people-pleaser.
Students going to and participating in class is pleasing to (most) professors.
So I went to class.
I always went to class.
But I almost skipped class that day.
And if I had, then I would have made one of the biggest mistakes of my life—
which would have been fitting on February 15, 2007—
but instead, that class became one of the biggest blessings of my life.
“I believe that as God is forming us from golem, God holds us to God’s chest and whispers into our ear who God desires us to be. Once we are born, the world begins telling us who it wants us to be. Family. Friends. Society. The church. So many voices tell us who to be. They wage battles within us, trying to form us into their image. But I think that our life’s journey is learn to hear through those outside voices and into the voice of God—the voice that once whispered to us who we were created us to be. This is perfection—being exactly who God desires—and Jesus was the only person ever to reach perfection—the only person ever to live into the fullness of who he was created to be—despite all that the world tried to make him.”
As my professor spoke that day, I sat in a strange seat surrounded by strange people and wept.
It was as if he was speaking those words directly to me and
I was being held against God’s chest as he did.
It was also as if God were telling me,
“I created you.
I believe in you.
I’ve got you.
Even when all else fails.
You are not who they tell you that you are.
You have failed but you are not a failure.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Always.”
That moment forever changed my view of God, life, and self.
And to think I almost missed it.
And that it happened in the wrong seat...
Thank you, Dr. Brock, for allowing God to use you to change me.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Defining Moments: One Moment in One Class during One Summer
The boys and I went to “play bowling” today. I think it’s ironic that they say “play bowling” because I always said the same thing.
On the way, we stopped at our local coffee shop to get everyone “coolachies” (Henry’s name for frappuccinos). As we were leaving the coffee shop, I first ran into a friend whom I hadn’t seen since we spent the summer together at Governor’s School in 1993 and then into one of my Divinity School professors and his wife.
When I got back into the car, the boys asked why my professor’s van was so low to the ground. I explained to them that he has Parkinson’s disease and is confined to his wheelchair, so he rides in a van equipped for the chair.
We talked about Parkinson’s disease and how it affects the body and as we talked I recalled a specific night in my professor’s class that changed my life.
The class was Ethics, Religion, and Spirituality in the Helping Professions. It was one of two summer school classes that I was taking in the summer of 2006. The syllabus included a one night discussion of how personality type influences spirituality, but the discussion ended up lasting only a few minutes at the end of that one class.
Yet that one discussion planted a seed in my heart that has grown to fruition in the years that have followed.
In 2007, I paid my own way to become a certified Myers Briggs Type Indicator administrator. I went to a one week class and focused specifically on the Myers Briggs Personality Type theory that was based on the work of Carl Jung.
After that class and further MBTI discussions with another one of my divinity school professors, I led a women’s retreat on how personality type affects spirituality and led training sessions at summer camps to help camp staff members learn how to understand themselves and how they could best relate to fellow staff members.
I have had countless type theory discussions with friends, family members, and coworkers, and I have seen how understanding type theory has helped strengthen and heal relationships with others, God, the church, and self.
Though many doubt the benefits and accuracy of the MBTI, and though I know that there are other effective theories and indicators, I wholeheartedly believe in the benefits of understanding Myers Briggs type theory and I believe that proper understanding can positively influence home, church, school, and corporate environments.
The moment happened so quickly—a passing discussion at the end of one class period in one
summer school session—a moment probably unnoticed by the rest of the class but one that began
a quietly gentle revolution in me.
Thanks, Dr. Hatcher, for providing me with that moment and for having the courage to keep
fighting for life and changing lives when it seems that so much is falling apart.
---
My cousin, Stephen, with whom I often “played bowling,” posted an article about those doubts today. Here’s the link: http://www.vox.com/2014/7/15/5881947/myers-briggs-personality-test-meaningless). And here was my response: I don't agree with this article. For one, the MBTI isn't a test. It's an indicator. The results are meant to indicate a person's tendencies for how he/she gains energy, subconsciously takes in information, consciously makes decisions with that information, and organizes the information for the world to see. The theory is that we are each born with preferences--like right or left handedness--and that when we understand our preferences then we can better understand ourselves and how we interact with the world. It is not supposed to give definitive information to be used to put people in rigid categories or to say what jobs people would be best at. Anyone of any type can do any job. Personality type is not the full definitive mark of a person. But understanding type--how we interact with the world and receive and process information--is VERY helpful in understanding ourselves, our reactions, and how we can be our best. And just because we are a certain type doesn't mean that we don't use the other functions. In fact, the theory states that, over time, we develop and strengthen our non-preference tendencies to become more well-rounded people. If someone wants to use the MBTI for purposes other than it was intended, then maybe it is not fully accurate in the scientific community, but maybe the MBTI is less about scientific certainty than it is about helping persons understand themselves and how they can best function at work and in relationships. Then again, I am an NF--I see possibilities and how things relate to people--not pure raw data and absolute black and whites.
On the way, we stopped at our local coffee shop to get everyone “coolachies” (Henry’s name for frappuccinos). As we were leaving the coffee shop, I first ran into a friend whom I hadn’t seen since we spent the summer together at Governor’s School in 1993 and then into one of my Divinity School professors and his wife.
When I got back into the car, the boys asked why my professor’s van was so low to the ground. I explained to them that he has Parkinson’s disease and is confined to his wheelchair, so he rides in a van equipped for the chair.
We talked about Parkinson’s disease and how it affects the body and as we talked I recalled a specific night in my professor’s class that changed my life.
The class was Ethics, Religion, and Spirituality in the Helping Professions. It was one of two summer school classes that I was taking in the summer of 2006. The syllabus included a one night discussion of how personality type influences spirituality, but the discussion ended up lasting only a few minutes at the end of that one class.
Yet that one discussion planted a seed in my heart that has grown to fruition in the years that have followed.
In 2007, I paid my own way to become a certified Myers Briggs Type Indicator administrator. I went to a one week class and focused specifically on the Myers Briggs Personality Type theory that was based on the work of Carl Jung.
After that class and further MBTI discussions with another one of my divinity school professors, I led a women’s retreat on how personality type affects spirituality and led training sessions at summer camps to help camp staff members learn how to understand themselves and how they could best relate to fellow staff members.
I have had countless type theory discussions with friends, family members, and coworkers, and I have seen how understanding type theory has helped strengthen and heal relationships with others, God, the church, and self.
Though many doubt the benefits and accuracy of the MBTI, and though I know that there are other effective theories and indicators, I wholeheartedly believe in the benefits of understanding Myers Briggs type theory and I believe that proper understanding can positively influence home, church, school, and corporate environments.
The moment happened so quickly—a passing discussion at the end of one class period in one
summer school session—a moment probably unnoticed by the rest of the class but one that began
a quietly gentle revolution in me.
Thanks, Dr. Hatcher, for providing me with that moment and for having the courage to keep
fighting for life and changing lives when it seems that so much is falling apart.
---
My cousin, Stephen, with whom I often “played bowling,” posted an article about those doubts today. Here’s the link: http://www.vox.com/2014/7/15/5881947/myers-briggs-personality-test-meaningless). And here was my response: I don't agree with this article. For one, the MBTI isn't a test. It's an indicator. The results are meant to indicate a person's tendencies for how he/she gains energy, subconsciously takes in information, consciously makes decisions with that information, and organizes the information for the world to see. The theory is that we are each born with preferences--like right or left handedness--and that when we understand our preferences then we can better understand ourselves and how we interact with the world. It is not supposed to give definitive information to be used to put people in rigid categories or to say what jobs people would be best at. Anyone of any type can do any job. Personality type is not the full definitive mark of a person. But understanding type--how we interact with the world and receive and process information--is VERY helpful in understanding ourselves, our reactions, and how we can be our best. And just because we are a certain type doesn't mean that we don't use the other functions. In fact, the theory states that, over time, we develop and strengthen our non-preference tendencies to become more well-rounded people. If someone wants to use the MBTI for purposes other than it was intended, then maybe it is not fully accurate in the scientific community, but maybe the MBTI is less about scientific certainty than it is about helping persons understand themselves and how they can best function at work and in relationships. Then again, I am an NF--I see possibilities and how things relate to people--not pure raw data and absolute black and whites.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Defining Moments: The House That Love Built
Proper worship planning takes quite a bit of work.
The goal, for me, is to try to create a safe space for congregants to worship, and I believe that safety comes in comfortable flow, coherent theme, and opportunity to sing, pray, reflect, and respond to God both corporately and independently.
Worship planning takes time and discernment and happens most effectively when planned with a team, so when you physically can’t plan with a team because scheduling doesn’t line up, it’s extremely helpful to have a pastor who plans his sermons in advance.
Before I even started serving as the interim music minister at my church, I have known what Patrick was going to preach in advance. While he doesn’t have his sermons written in detail, he has an idea of his sermon topics and scripture references weeks in advance…because he preaches sermon series.
[Which, for the record, they are amazing.]
And so…tonight, dear friends, I am beginning my own series. Not a sermon series. But a note series.
I’m not as experienced as Patrick with series planning, so I don’t have an outline written for the next couple of months of notes, but I do know my series title: Defining Moments.
I’m going to begin writing about those moments in my life when something clicked into place—when a piece of my life’s puzzle found where it belonged and thus changed the landscape of my existence.
I don’t know how many moments I will share. I haven’t even identified what my defining moments are. I don’t know if I’ll jump around or if I’ll write chronologically. I don’t know if I’ll arrive at inspirational points or I’ll just be telling parts of my story.
All I know is this: I’m starting a note series entitled Defining Moments, and tonight’s defining moment is simple:
My mom is a quiet woman. She holds her emotions close to her heart and seldom allows others to see the depth of all that she is feeling. My dad, on the other hand, is an outgoing man. He, like me, wears his heart on his sleeve and everything he owns and freely offers his feelings to those who will listen.
As my dad prepared to go to Armenia, he outwardly expressed his hopes and fears and allowed tears to flow openly down his face. He made it clear that he was both excited and terrified to be returning to Armenia and that he was going to miss my mom, Bullet, and the rest of the family terribly. Through it all, my mom remained steadily quiet.
On the Monday my dad left, my mom had tears in her eyes. Her tears quickly dried, though, and we made our way to Florida where she kept her phone close. Every day, she silently waited for my dad to call and tried not worry when he didn’t. And when we got home, and a friend called to see how things were going, she said, “He’s been able to call almost every day, so that’s made things a lot easier.”
In that moment, as my mom stood at the end of the kitchen bar and I passed through downstairs, I realized just how much she loves my dad and that she feels as much of a hole in her heart as him when they are apart.
I guess that being married to your opposite for fifty years creates a companionship and partnership not easily separated.
As we made our way to the airport today to pick up my dad, my mom remained her quiet self. But man was she excited! And he was, too. And now he’s sleeping soundly on the couch with Bullet and she’s happily preparing his place in bed. And all is well in this house that love has built.
The goal, for me, is to try to create a safe space for congregants to worship, and I believe that safety comes in comfortable flow, coherent theme, and opportunity to sing, pray, reflect, and respond to God both corporately and independently.
Worship planning takes time and discernment and happens most effectively when planned with a team, so when you physically can’t plan with a team because scheduling doesn’t line up, it’s extremely helpful to have a pastor who plans his sermons in advance.
Before I even started serving as the interim music minister at my church, I have known what Patrick was going to preach in advance. While he doesn’t have his sermons written in detail, he has an idea of his sermon topics and scripture references weeks in advance…because he preaches sermon series.
[Which, for the record, they are amazing.]
And so…tonight, dear friends, I am beginning my own series. Not a sermon series. But a note series.
I’m not as experienced as Patrick with series planning, so I don’t have an outline written for the next couple of months of notes, but I do know my series title: Defining Moments.
I’m going to begin writing about those moments in my life when something clicked into place—when a piece of my life’s puzzle found where it belonged and thus changed the landscape of my existence.
I don’t know how many moments I will share. I haven’t even identified what my defining moments are. I don’t know if I’ll jump around or if I’ll write chronologically. I don’t know if I’ll arrive at inspirational points or I’ll just be telling parts of my story.
All I know is this: I’m starting a note series entitled Defining Moments, and tonight’s defining moment is simple:
My mom is a quiet woman. She holds her emotions close to her heart and seldom allows others to see the depth of all that she is feeling. My dad, on the other hand, is an outgoing man. He, like me, wears his heart on his sleeve and everything he owns and freely offers his feelings to those who will listen.
As my dad prepared to go to Armenia, he outwardly expressed his hopes and fears and allowed tears to flow openly down his face. He made it clear that he was both excited and terrified to be returning to Armenia and that he was going to miss my mom, Bullet, and the rest of the family terribly. Through it all, my mom remained steadily quiet.
On the Monday my dad left, my mom had tears in her eyes. Her tears quickly dried, though, and we made our way to Florida where she kept her phone close. Every day, she silently waited for my dad to call and tried not worry when he didn’t. And when we got home, and a friend called to see how things were going, she said, “He’s been able to call almost every day, so that’s made things a lot easier.”
In that moment, as my mom stood at the end of the kitchen bar and I passed through downstairs, I realized just how much she loves my dad and that she feels as much of a hole in her heart as him when they are apart.
I guess that being married to your opposite for fifty years creates a companionship and partnership not easily separated.
As we made our way to the airport today to pick up my dad, my mom remained her quiet self. But man was she excited! And he was, too. And now he’s sleeping soundly on the couch with Bullet and she’s happily preparing his place in bed. And all is well in this house that love has built.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Strawberry Salad on Thursday Mornings
“Dear God, thank you for friendship and strawberry salad on Thursday mornings.”
Thus began a four and a half hour lunch date with a dear friend whom I hadn’t seen in over a year. We started our time together with homemade potato chips and ended it with pepperoni pizza. We had salads, sandwiches, and coffee in between, and we talked and talked and talked, both laughing and crying along the way.
Shortly after we parted, I called another dear friend with whom I hadn’t actually spoken in months. We’d been playing phone tag and sending quick texts here and there, but we hadn’t actually talked, and I was feeling the void left by missing our talks.
Conversation is so very important. And words are so very powerful. So for someone who is extraverted and thrives off of words of affirmation, days like today are unusually life-giving.
…
One afternoon while shopping with friends, I found myself magnetically drawn to an area of the store that my friends did not see. It was upstairs, away from everything else, and it was filled with beautiful art. Every piece of art was handmade and depicted a saying that was poignant, humorous, blunt, or wise.
After about fifteen minutes of separation, I heard my friends looking for me. I went to the top of the stairs, looked down, and happily declared, “I’m up here. I found words!”
…
I’ve written about the importance of words in my life before tonight. In fact, I think I once declared myself a word harvester after spending hours saving particularly meaningful and encouraging texts.
So when I hear positive words like,
“I believe that you have all the wisdom you need to make this decision,”
or receive cards in the mail that say,
“Your leading the music at [church] gives our worship services a special mood and effect. Sunday’s service gave me a needed lift,”
I feel very good.
But when I hear negative words like,
“She doesn’t need to speak so much,”
or have someone tell me,
“Everyone in the [group] likes you. Well, maybe not everyone, but almost everyone,”
I feel very bad.
But it’s not just that. I don’t just feel bad. I hear the words over and over again in my mind. They become a broken record that creates so much noise that it drowns out all words of good—and I dare say all words of truth. The power of positive words can be eclipsed by the power of negative words; therefore, as much as words can build me up, they can also tear me down.
Words are both my salvation and my kryptonite.
…
So it’s no wonder that I was so happy when I found words while shopping.
And it’s no wonder that my heart is full tonight after spending hours today talking with friends.
But it’s also no wonder that I’ve been struggling to soften some negative words that surfaced a few weeks ago and have only intensified since.
It’s no wonder that I’ve been struggling to quiet my mind so that I can hear
God’s words of truth.
…
I have a feeling I’m not the only person struggling with words right now.
I have a feeling I’m not the only person in need of more strawberry salad and less condemning noise.
I have a feeling I’m not the only person who needs to hear a clear word from God.
…
May the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in thy sight, oh Lord our God. Our strength and redeemer. Our rock and our salvation. Hear this prayer and guide our paths, oh God.
And bless the hands that prepare our strawberry salad.
Thus began a four and a half hour lunch date with a dear friend whom I hadn’t seen in over a year. We started our time together with homemade potato chips and ended it with pepperoni pizza. We had salads, sandwiches, and coffee in between, and we talked and talked and talked, both laughing and crying along the way.
Shortly after we parted, I called another dear friend with whom I hadn’t actually spoken in months. We’d been playing phone tag and sending quick texts here and there, but we hadn’t actually talked, and I was feeling the void left by missing our talks.
Conversation is so very important. And words are so very powerful. So for someone who is extraverted and thrives off of words of affirmation, days like today are unusually life-giving.
…
One afternoon while shopping with friends, I found myself magnetically drawn to an area of the store that my friends did not see. It was upstairs, away from everything else, and it was filled with beautiful art. Every piece of art was handmade and depicted a saying that was poignant, humorous, blunt, or wise.
After about fifteen minutes of separation, I heard my friends looking for me. I went to the top of the stairs, looked down, and happily declared, “I’m up here. I found words!”
…
I’ve written about the importance of words in my life before tonight. In fact, I think I once declared myself a word harvester after spending hours saving particularly meaningful and encouraging texts.
So when I hear positive words like,
“I believe that you have all the wisdom you need to make this decision,”
or receive cards in the mail that say,
“Your leading the music at [church] gives our worship services a special mood and effect. Sunday’s service gave me a needed lift,”
I feel very good.
But when I hear negative words like,
“She doesn’t need to speak so much,”
or have someone tell me,
“Everyone in the [group] likes you. Well, maybe not everyone, but almost everyone,”
I feel very bad.
But it’s not just that. I don’t just feel bad. I hear the words over and over again in my mind. They become a broken record that creates so much noise that it drowns out all words of good—and I dare say all words of truth. The power of positive words can be eclipsed by the power of negative words; therefore, as much as words can build me up, they can also tear me down.
Words are both my salvation and my kryptonite.
…
So it’s no wonder that I was so happy when I found words while shopping.
And it’s no wonder that my heart is full tonight after spending hours today talking with friends.
But it’s also no wonder that I’ve been struggling to soften some negative words that surfaced a few weeks ago and have only intensified since.
It’s no wonder that I’ve been struggling to quiet my mind so that I can hear
God’s words of truth.
…
I have a feeling I’m not the only person struggling with words right now.
I have a feeling I’m not the only person in need of more strawberry salad and less condemning noise.
I have a feeling I’m not the only person who needs to hear a clear word from God.
…
May the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in thy sight, oh Lord our God. Our strength and redeemer. Our rock and our salvation. Hear this prayer and guide our paths, oh God.
And bless the hands that prepare our strawberry salad.
Monday, July 7, 2014
The Candles Burned Again Today
I gave my mom the rest of my summer Mondays for her birthday.
For today’s Mom Monday, mom decided that we should stay home and do chores. Our main chore was to go through some boxes of candles and continue getting ready for Nana Camp. Currently, as part of an on-going clean-up and -out project, no upstairs room is ready for occupancy by anyone other than me.
Friends, I am a good organizer.
I can sort, file, and clean with the best of them.
But I am terrible at throwing things away if they could possibly be used again and/or redeemed in any way.
This is not a new realization.
I’ve written about it before.
But I was reminded of it today as I found myself lighting almost every candle that mom gave me to throw away.
“There’s nothing wrong with this,” I’d say.
So I’d light the candle and let it burn…
Until all of a sudden I felt sick because I had so many different candles burning that their smells overwhelmed my senses.
Then I had to lie down to recover.
As I was laying on the couch in recovery,
Deal Or No Deal was playing on TV.
I heard the woman on the show repetitively turn down tens of thousands of dollars in hopes of getting more.
On her last chance, she said,
“Please God…”
I thought to myself,
“I was just saying that:
‘Please God…’
Please God, forgive me for buying in excess and creating so much waste.
Forgive me for falling prey to consumerism when I could be helping those in need.
Forgive us, as a country, for producing so much of the world’s trash and destroying your beautiful world.
Forgive us, as a people, for not being good stewards of our resources.
Please God, forgive us.”
The woman on TV was praying for God to honor her greed.
I was praying for God to forgive mine.
The candle room is still a mess.
Mom and I didn’t really accomplish a lot on our first Mom Monday,
but maybe Mom Mondays aren’t about accomplishing things.
The woman on TV won $60.
I fell asleep and awoke headache-free to a text from my sister saying that she was going to take the candles that I’d let burn this afternoon.
I suggested she not burn them all at once, though,
Lest they make her sick.
And then I smiled because redemption visited my house again today.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Holy Cow Exploding Sunroof
Dee’s car
Gigi The White Ant
2000 Toyota Avalon
262,000+ miles
No sunroof
Dad’s car
The Highlander
2013 Toyota Avalon
22,000 miles
Sunroof
-----
January 2013
Caraway Retreat Center
Introduced to a new game: iAssociate
The weekend changed my life
June 2013
Mom’s 70th Birthday Party
Mom given a nice gift: mini iPad
Dee introduces mom to iAssociate
-----
July 2014
Remember that time you were driving 70mph down Interstate 95 and your sunroof exploded?
Friend: Holy cow! Are you guys okay?
Me: Yes. It sounded like an exploding gun! We looked at each other like, “What was that?!” The car was driving fine, so I didn’t think it was a tire. The windshield was in tact. The roof was in tact. But then I heard a wind sound from above, so I cracked the sunroof lid and saw glass shards. I said, “The sunroof exploded!” Then we heard little pieces of glass flying behind us. Mom said, “We should have taken your car!”
Friend: Holy cow!!!
Me: Yeh. I was just driving along. Mom and I were trying to think of a seven letter word associated with both “golf” and “green” that started with B. We later figured out it was bunker. Ha. We were playing iAssociate.
-----
So what does one do when one’s sunroof explodes?
Wonder no longer:
• Clean up the glass shards as soon as possible. If you are able to go home, then go home and use the shop-vac that you should have either in your garage or somewhere where you can easily access it. Every home should have a shop-vac. If you are on a long road trip, then heed your brother’s advice and find a gas station with a pay-as-you-go vacuum cleaner. Chip off and get rid of as many loose pieces of glass as you can. Be careful not to cut your hand. If you cut your hand, use your car’s first-aid kit to tend your wound.
• Park your car under a carport or in a garage if possible. If not, cover the gaping hole in your car’s head with a tarp or plastic table cloth in case of rain, tropical storm/hurricane, or climbing cat. Secure the cover in the doors of your vehicle.
• Do not contact the car dealership. Though this is becoming a growing problem, car companies are not treating this as an issue for recall or factory fix. Instead, contact your insurance company and file a glass claim.
• Be prepared to pay your deductible directly to your insurance company. Most companies will accept most major credit or debit cards. Then be grateful that you have insurance because the total price of sunroof replacement is at least $1000. Also be prepared with a mom or a psychic to answer your dad’s insurance company security questions in case your dad is in Armenia and has absolutely no idea that his sunroof has exploded and that he has filed a claim.
• Follow your insurance company’s procedures for glass replacement. For example: after fifty minutes on the phone, Matt from Michigan connected me with a lovely sunroof replacement shop in Jacksonville. He over-night shipped the glass piece to James from Jacksonville and James from Jacksonville replaced the sunroof in fifteen minutes. He said that he replaces 7-10 busted sunroofs per month. His coverage area is from Savannah, GA to Gainsville, FL. Both Matt from Michigan and James from Jacksonville were very friendly and lovely to work with. Hope that you are able to work such helpful people during your sunroof explosion emergency.
-----
The Highlander is officially out of the bunker, folks.
But holy cow.
I am now quite afraid of sunroofs and
glad that Gigi The White Ant does not have one and
more grateful than ever to have the
ability, opportunity, resources, support, and freedom to
fix what I know to be a first-world problem
in a society where there are ever increasing third-world needs.
Gigi The White Ant
2000 Toyota Avalon
262,000+ miles
No sunroof
Dad’s car
The Highlander
2013 Toyota Avalon
22,000 miles
Sunroof
-----
January 2013
Caraway Retreat Center
Introduced to a new game: iAssociate
The weekend changed my life
June 2013
Mom’s 70th Birthday Party
Mom given a nice gift: mini iPad
Dee introduces mom to iAssociate
-----
July 2014
Remember that time you were driving 70mph down Interstate 95 and your sunroof exploded?
Friend: Holy cow! Are you guys okay?
Me: Yes. It sounded like an exploding gun! We looked at each other like, “What was that?!” The car was driving fine, so I didn’t think it was a tire. The windshield was in tact. The roof was in tact. But then I heard a wind sound from above, so I cracked the sunroof lid and saw glass shards. I said, “The sunroof exploded!” Then we heard little pieces of glass flying behind us. Mom said, “We should have taken your car!”
Friend: Holy cow!!!
Me: Yeh. I was just driving along. Mom and I were trying to think of a seven letter word associated with both “golf” and “green” that started with B. We later figured out it was bunker. Ha. We were playing iAssociate.
-----
So what does one do when one’s sunroof explodes?
Wonder no longer:
• Clean up the glass shards as soon as possible. If you are able to go home, then go home and use the shop-vac that you should have either in your garage or somewhere where you can easily access it. Every home should have a shop-vac. If you are on a long road trip, then heed your brother’s advice and find a gas station with a pay-as-you-go vacuum cleaner. Chip off and get rid of as many loose pieces of glass as you can. Be careful not to cut your hand. If you cut your hand, use your car’s first-aid kit to tend your wound.
• Park your car under a carport or in a garage if possible. If not, cover the gaping hole in your car’s head with a tarp or plastic table cloth in case of rain, tropical storm/hurricane, or climbing cat. Secure the cover in the doors of your vehicle.
• Do not contact the car dealership. Though this is becoming a growing problem, car companies are not treating this as an issue for recall or factory fix. Instead, contact your insurance company and file a glass claim.
• Be prepared to pay your deductible directly to your insurance company. Most companies will accept most major credit or debit cards. Then be grateful that you have insurance because the total price of sunroof replacement is at least $1000. Also be prepared with a mom or a psychic to answer your dad’s insurance company security questions in case your dad is in Armenia and has absolutely no idea that his sunroof has exploded and that he has filed a claim.
• Follow your insurance company’s procedures for glass replacement. For example: after fifty minutes on the phone, Matt from Michigan connected me with a lovely sunroof replacement shop in Jacksonville. He over-night shipped the glass piece to James from Jacksonville and James from Jacksonville replaced the sunroof in fifteen minutes. He said that he replaces 7-10 busted sunroofs per month. His coverage area is from Savannah, GA to Gainsville, FL. Both Matt from Michigan and James from Jacksonville were very friendly and lovely to work with. Hope that you are able to work such helpful people during your sunroof explosion emergency.
-----
The Highlander is officially out of the bunker, folks.
But holy cow.
I am now quite afraid of sunroofs and
glad that Gigi The White Ant does not have one and
more grateful than ever to have the
ability, opportunity, resources, support, and freedom to
fix what I know to be a first-world problem
in a society where there are ever increasing third-world needs.
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