in the fury of the moment

what ships are made for

“A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for.”
-- William Shedd

I came across this quote in something I read last night, and I find myself relating to it very well. I have never been someone who fit in well with the “crowd”. When I was younger, while my sisters played house with the girls down the street, you could find me with the boys building jump ramps at the empty lot on the corner. In high school, while other girls were out shopping at the mall, I was out rollerblading or mountain biking with my friends Damien and Bryan, jumping off of curbs and cliffs and stairs. While my friends from church were hosting slumber parties, I was camping out in a backyard or in the woods or on the bank of a river. I never have been much for conventional things … I actually start to feel uncomfortable when things are too comfortable.

Spending too much time in the tidy, quiet suburbs makes me itch and want to break out into a sprint toward one of two extremes: desolate, country, dirt roads or dirty, crowded, concrete sidewalks. I feel out of my element if I feel too safe, and I feel gluttonous when I spend too much time focused on myself or indulging in “creature comforts”. I don’t feel like the easy, safe, comfortable, quiet, self-centered life is something for which I am cut out.

After a recent conversation with someone about church, I was reflecting on a time in my life that probably represented the opposite of anything easy, safe, comfortable, quiet, or self-centered. It was when I was still up in Rochester – I used to help a bunch at a soup kitchen in the city, and I was also pretty involved with an outreach to homeless people. Looking back on it now, I don't know how I did so much with so little time. I used to basically get out of my work (at the publishing company) and walk the two miles home, then drive over to the soup kitchen. I did that almost every night for quite a while – if the doors were open, I was there. I prepared meals, I went out and did street evangelism, I drove people home, and I led worship or sometimes sang for the “coffee house” that they held on Friday nights. I lived on that stuff … I thrived on the energy of other people.

Although that time was probably a time in my life that I left most alive, I also remember it being a time when I felt most alone. Though I knew quite a few people who came to the soup kitchen occasionally to help, they always seemed to arrive late and leave early, and their presence was inconsistent and unreliable. As I began to build relationships with the people coming to the center, I made a commitment to myself, and a silent commitment to them, to do all that I could to be sure that there was no possible way they could avoid hearing the Gospel, or experiencing God’s love. My heart grew incredibly during that time, but it also broke often. There were lots of times when I had a trunk full of grocery bags filled with food to take to some of the homeless people, but there was no one around or willing to go with me. I used to plead with God to send along at least one person (preferably a male) who shared my passion and desire to do all that I could to be His hands and feet … but week after week, I found myself alone.

It got to the point where I would get angry, and - even though it was probably pretty foolish to do this – I would go alone. I usually had to try to work around the warnings and looks of concern from the leaders of the soup kitchen (who always seemed to have other things to do once the doors were closed) – I probably lied sometimes and told them I was meeting someone else, or maybe I just snuck out before they had a chance to ask … but I could not ignore the stirring inside about going and being there when people expected me to be. Sometimes I would not take groceries at all, but would instead go buy a couple pizzas and drive to the old subway tunnels (where a bunch of guys I knew lived). I was always careful to just holler in for them to come to me, instead of going into the dark tunnels alone. For a few months, this is what I did every Friday night. The toothless, alcohol-scented men used to tease me that I was the luckiest girl in town, to have a date every week with five or six such handsome guys as them. As I continued to build friendships with the guys, I felt safe, and they actually said they would "take care of me" whenever any new guys came around and weren't all that respectful.

Right around that same time, I was helping at a church plant that met in a low-income apartment complex. I helped lead worship, make coffee (not brew coffee, but pour coffee and add the right amount of tea and sugar – I still remember that David liked two sugars and one cream, and Willie liked two creams and one sugar), and do whatever else needed to be done … and I still feel that THAT church was the best picture I have seen so far of what heaven will be like. People who were confined to wheelchairs smiled and clapped their hands and overflowed with the joy of Christ. Some weeks, I was convinced I could see huge, beaming smiles on faces that were paralyzed by disease and illness. People who smelled terrible and looked like they hadn't bathed in weeks suddenly became beautiful as the love of God radiated from their ruddy cheeks.

One man whose face is permanently written on my heart is Willie, whose body was confined to a wheelchair, but whose heart freely chased after, tackled, and captured mine, week after week. From the front of the community room, as I sang “The Battle Belongs to the Lord” or “Victory is Mine”, my eyes would well up again and again as I saw Willie clapping and laughing and singing with his eyes. He was unable to speak, and I never did quite determine what it was that led to him being bound in a wheelchair (though I think it had something to do with a major accident), but his life screamed out words of love and joy and victory. Every week, he would motion for me to come over to his chair, and he would open his Bible and show me very specific verses or pictures. There seemed to be a specific order to his story too, as he would show me one verse and then grunt “and then” (one of the few phrases I could understand) and then motion to another verse. Willie taught me how to listen without actually hearing, and how to recognize Christ in a person who was of a different skin color, age, and ability than any handsomely painted Jesus I had ever seen.

Thinking back, I realize that that part of my life was one of the times when I felt I was closest to seeing what worshipping, serving, and growing (what I think church is SUPPOSED to be about) look like.

Though I continued to be involved at the church, eventually I pulled away from the homeless outreach to lead a neighborhood outreach in which we designated two blocks in a pretty rough part of the city, and intentionally positioned ourselves in the houses and lives of those people every Saturday morning. We termed this outreach “Adopt a Block”, and it was actually modeled after a larger ministry that I had seen while on a missions trip in Los Angeles, California. The idea behind the outreach was incredibly simple, yet wildly profound: knock on someone’s door and talk to them about any needs they have, then do the best that you can to meet that need and love them while doing it. For the first six or seven months, our “group” consisted of three people. In time it grew, as various young men decided to pursue the only young woman of the group, but then quickly lost heart and stamina when they realized that she was not there for them, but for the people of the neighborhood. The same type of thing happened with a couple different women, who came only to request to be on so-and-so’s team, and seemed inconvenienced by the thought that they should be carrying bags of groceries and talking to residents, instead of carrying on conversations with the object of their crush. My prayers during this time were lengthy and full of lots of me asking “why, God?”

I found myself pushing through the week with my focus on Saturday morning, and how excited I was to sit down and talk to Nilka, Abraham, Joseph and all of the other friends I grew to know and love. I was able to experience the privilege and honor of praying with people who claimed that they didn’t believe in God. I sat in houses that I had heard were drug houses and opened my Bible and shared stories and tears with large Hispanic men with layers of gold chains and sleeves of tattoos, and I felt God there with us. It almost hurts to think back on those times now, because I feel so far removed from any of that. My life almost seems too safe again, and I wonder why that is.

One reason for all of this reflection is because tonight I am starting out on something new. I won’t be knocking on any front doors or shouting into any subway tunnels, but I will be sitting down at a piano in front of a group of elderly people. I will open up a hymnal and sing songs and hopefully meet some needs or touch on some desires. I will pray and touch frail hands and probably cry a little bit. The hope is that I will somehow carry God to that rest home tonight. I was asked out to dinner tonight, and that would be the safe thing, and maybe the enjoyable thing … but in my heart, I know it’s not what I’m made for. As long as there are people somewhere hurting, I know where I need to be. God has put too much inside of me for me to ignore that and turn that off as I sit on the couch, watch a movie, and stuff myself with popcorn. My heart is screaming way too loud for me to somehow tune it out as I sit down to eat an overpriced dinner in a stuffy restaurant and engage in a conversation involving things about which I really do not care. Life is big and scary and dangerous and tiring and loud, and love is messy and painful and inconvenient … but it’s what I have been made for, and it’s what I’m chasing after.

posted by Krista @ 12:51 PM 0 comments

the perfect church

I am hungry. Not for food. But for a real church. For a real community. To be a part of an organism that has been built by God: a living being that infects its community and points people toward God, constantly and with every single activity and outreach and gathering that it holds.

Today I listened to a sermon online that dealt with this topic, and it gave me goosebumps. The pastor spoke about us catching even just a tiny glimpse of what God wants to build here on earth, and as I listened to the excitement in his voice I felt my pulse quickening. The text for the sermon was Acts 2:41 – 47:

Those who accepted his message were baptized, and about three thousand were added to their number that day. They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.

I know I have written about this before, but it has taken on a renewed importance for me, as it seems I have once again discovered myself “church-less.” I have had several conversations with different people, in which I have been accused of searching for the “perfect church” or being “too critical.” It has gotten to the point where I have started to question if maybe I am looking for something that doesn’t really exist. But I can’t ignore the conviction in my heart that “church” is more than teams or committees or clever props or cool bulletin graphics. It’s more than perfectly coordinated church choir robes and family singing groups and whether or not you make a big deal out of wearing a suit, or a big deal out of wearing flip-flops. How much we must insult God by our Sunday morning circus acts! How foolish we must appear to the outside world, who honestly probably doesn’t care whether or not the pew cushions match the new carpet, or whether or not they can bring their coffee cup into the sanctuary with them.

I am being reminded lately that church has nothing to do with a building or a denomination. Church, if it’s done right, is completely about people … about people doing normal, everyday things like eating bread together and giving someone a pair of pants if they don’t have any. It’s about walking by someone on the street and looking up and acknowledging them, instead of casting your eyes to the ground to avoid saying “hi” to a stranger. Church is not limited to Sunday mornings – we have the opportunity and the privilege to “do” church at any given moment on any given day. We don’t need a degree from a seminary to be a pastor … because of the country in which we live, we have the incredible freedom to carry our Bible with us, and to open it and share truth with someone, whether we know that person or not. We don’t need to be elected to a committee to lead worship – we can grab a guitar and a song book and stand on a street corner or in the community room of a rest home, and we can sing songs about Jesus and the hope we have through Him. We don’t need to wear a special nametag that designates us as a greeter, we can look all around us and see people just yearning for someone to say hello to them and to make them feel welcome, wherever they happen to be. If you want to be involved in outreach, open your door, walk out of your house, knock on your neighbor’s door, and invite them to come over. Open up your Bible and pray and talk and challenge each other and stay up late wrestling with truth and ideas and passions. If you want to be a part of a prayer ministry, turn off the tv and fall to your knees and talk and listen to God. Think about the people you talked to that day and ask God to bless them and reach them and touch needs that you don’t even know exist.

When I heard that message today, I was filled with a renewed sense of hope, as I am reminded what church really is supposed to look like. I am not searching for the perfect church, I am searching for a church that IS chasing after a perfect God. The passage mentions that “everyone was filled with awe” … how often do any of us find that about churches today? What are the chances of finding a church that functions so well that it inspires awe within you – or even more, that it inspires awe within someone who is not saved?

The believers in the passage couldn’t get enough – they couldn’t get enough of God, of prayer, of fellowship with each other. They weren’t looking at their watches or craning their necks toward the clock on the wall to see if it was noon yet, and if they were free to go their own ways toward all-you-can-eat buffets and Sunday afternoon naps. No! They were glad and sincere about enjoying the favor of all the people. They gave things away so that they could bless their brothers and sisters. They left one place (a church building, maybe?) and went together to another (homes) … they shared stimulating conversation and joy and tears and a hunger and a unified passion and vision. They worshipped God through all that they did. THIS is what I am looking for, and I am convinced that until I find it – I will continue to feel that I am missing out on something big.

This doesn’t mean that I stop going to church, or that I decide to start holding my own services on Sunday morning with my dogs. It means that, until I connect with a community that has a real focus on God, I "do" church on my own. I visit, I pray, I reach out, I love, I write notes to friends, I send cards to missionaries, I open doors and let in strangers, I get in front of groups of elderly people and sing my off-tune heart out, I bake cookies for neighborhood children, I keep sandwiches in my car to hand out to homeless people, I open my Bible and share a verse with a friend who is discouraged, I engage … I live church as best I know how, not because I am any better than anyone else, but because I can not compromise what I know to be true. God has done something within me, and for that I will have to answer to Him.

This hunger for community within me is there for a reason, and I am starting to think that reason is so that somehow God can show me what church should be about. The ultimate end in all of this, in what a church should be, and in anything I do, is the glory of God … so I will keep on doing what God shows me to do, and maybe someday (soon, hopefully) I will find myself beside other people who are doing the same.

posted by Krista @ 12:35 PM 0 comments

consider the daisies

Lately it seems my thoughts have been focused on children. You might think that this would be the norm with me, since my full-time job is all about youth, and then I also work with them in a volunteer capacity in a variety of settings. But I guess sometimes, to my shame, I find myself going through the motions and not really engaging in what it is that I am doing. I call a child and have a conversation so that I can check a box on my monthly contact log. I type a name into a computer so that a file is created in my client tracking system, but I don’t always pause to consider that the name represents a small life, full of pain and joy and tears and laughter.

This past weekend I was reminded again and again of how precious life is, especially when it is found in small bodies and young hearts. On Saturday, I spent the day with a group of kids from church. I found myself in a canoe for several hours with two little girls named Courtney and Jordan. They are sisters, and they are living through moments and days that no child should have to experience. They ask questions and make statements that hurt a heart as big and supposedly strong as my adult one. While paddling along a river, we talked about God and about families and about things that we fear. Both of these girls told me that when they are home, they really don’t feel “at home” … they said that their lives are “crazy” (yes, an 11-year-old actually said this) and that sometimes they wish things could just be normal. They don’t have a dad, but it’s ok because they have a pastor that they like. They are sometimes scared of going to sleep at night, because they wonder if things will “be ok” when they wake up in the morning.

This was my first time meeting them, so I didn’t pry for more details on some of the more sensitive topics, but I got the sense that these little ladies deal with more on a daily basis than some adults ever even think about in a lifetime. We made it through the day, and it seems that I made at least one special friend as a result of that time … but I also now have two little lives on my heart, and I am asking God to show me what to do to help them know that they have every right to wake up and expect things to be “ok”, for the rest of their lives.

Yesterday I ended up thinking about youth in a totally different way. In the afternoon, while driving past a cemetery, I noticed a big church van parked there, and a group of seven or eight kids filtering out of the van. Curious to know more, I pulled over and watched as the group gathered around a tombstone, and linked hands. They were obviously praying – some of the teens fell to their knees, while others seemed to be comforting each other. I wanted desperately to walk over and ask them the story behind their actions, but I very strongly felt the desire to respect their privacy and space in that moment. I waited until they walked slowly back to the van and pulled away, and I drove over to the area where they had been. I got out and carefully walked over to where I had seen them, and scanned the tombstones for some kind of an explanation for what I had just witnessed.

And then I saw it: the grave marker for a 14-year-old girl. There was a picture of her lovingly taped to the marble stone - the scotch tape wasn't holding too well, and the color on the photograph was faded and yellow. There were various stuffed animals and trinkets piled around the stone, and as I looked at the date of her death, I realized it had been exactly one year before the date on which I stood there. I knelt before the stone and carefully poked through the objects, and I found a tattered piece of notebook paper. The writing (obviously that of a teenage girl) was faded and some words were impossible to make out, but I got a sense that this death had been the result of an illness. I don’t remember all of what was written, but this is what I jotted down in the notebook that I went and got out of my car:

Dear Lindsay,

You’ve only been gone for a week, and I miss you so much. I saw the prettiest daisy the other day, and I picked it for you, because I know that is your favorite flower. And then I realized I wouldn’t be able to give it to you because you’re gone. I went back home and I cried when I thought about how you wouldn’t be here this summer to splash in the pool, or to stay up late and eat ice cream with, or to laugh and joke about the boys in school with. But I feel better when I think about your body and how it doesn’t hurt now. Your pretty blonde hair is there again, and your legs are strong now. You’re running and jumping around and laughing way more than you ever did here, and if I close my eyes I can almost hear your crazy laugh. When I start to feel sorry for myself or to worry about things, I think about you and how strong you were, and I know that I can do anything I set my mind to. I went out this morning and picked a whole bunch of flowers and put them in a vase in my room. I will keep on doing this to help me remember how you lived your life, and I won’t be able to be sad anymore. Thank you for being my friend.

Love Always,
Kelsey

I sat by that tombstone and prayed for a while and thought about how I had just been blessed and educated by someone half my age who wasn’t even in this world anymore. I ended up calling the church and leaving a message on the machine … I am hoping to be able to make contact with an incredible girl named Kelsey and share with her how much her words meant to me, and how much I know she must have meant to Lindsay.

This morning, I experienced a different spin on my reflections on youth and the invaluable lessons that they offer. I read an article about a family in Lebanon that has suffered tremendous loss, and is continuing to undergo extreme difficulty. I am sure this story is just one of many, but given my experiences this past weekend, this story impacted me greatly. Apparently this family of six had set out to enjoy a vacation on the beaches of Lebanon. Their plans understandably changed a bit when all of the fighting broke out, and they were heading north to flee from danger. An Israeli bomb or missile slammed into their car, instantly taking the life of the father and wounding all four of the children. The account that I read takes the reader to the hospital, to the bedside of 8-year-old Mahmood, whose little body is covered with severe burns, and who has blood coming from his eyes. Lying in the bed beside him is his 8-month-old sister Maria, who is also badly burned, and is screaming her little lungs out. Their mother stands by, helplessly wailing at the state of her children and awaiting news of the hopeful success of the intensive surgeries of her two older children, whose fate is unknown.

Today I am tempted to close and lock my office door and spend all day talking to God about Jordan, Courtney, Lindsay, Kelsey, Mahmood, Maria, and hundreds of thousands of other children who experience things that you and I can’t even imagine. I feel convicted, burdened, undeserving, helpless, confused, and a little bit upset … but I also feel hopeful, grateful, assured, and comforted as I look up and realize that God is still in control. Through the hurt and the tears, the shrieks and wails, the life-consuming illness and the excruciating pain, God is still perfect. His ways are incomprehensible. He loves these little ones and He draws them to Him. I don’t understand the “how” or “why”, and I’m not sure I ever will … but I don’t need to. I know the “who” and maybe right now that is enough.

I walk away from this weekend and this morning with a new perspective – I want to walk up to children I don’t know and pick them up and squeeze them and tell them I love them. I want to somehow let them know that it WILL be ok … God, please show me how to do this.

posted by Krista @ 11:24 AM 0 comments

almost famous, but not quite

If you read this, you can say "I knew her when ...". Actually, you can still say it even if you don't read it - but if you read it, you can say "I knew her when ... AND I read an article that she wrote. Which article, you ask? Oh yes, the one where they SPELLED HER NAME WRONG on the author line." Cool.

If you need to further clarify WHICH article it was that you read, you can say that it was the one from which somehow the following was omitted (I am going to have a little chat with the "editors" over there):

I was lulled to sleep by the sound of a steady river, the comfort of strong arms, and a heart beating steadily in time with my own. I was struck with wonder at the magic and excitement of a first kiss, a second kiss, and a third kiss …

posted by Krista @ 9:05 AM 0 comments

Ok, so I know I need to write more about Louis and why I fell in love with him. I think it happened again today, as I remembered some of the lyrics that he sang on Tuesday night and went onto napster and found the song. Even tonight, I felt my heart sink again as I listened to the song.

First let me explain where I went on Tuesday night. It was a local bluegrass venue ... and it might just have been the best kept secret that I have come across since moving down to North Carolina. This is the place I always somehow knew existed, on those quiet Friday summer evenings, when I was itching to hear good music and to feel like someone really understood my soul. I wish I could say that I discovered this place on my own, but I have to give my friend Matthew the credit. He told me about it a while back, but I wasn't able to go until just recently.

On Tuesday night I drove to this little out-of-the-way-town (if you think I'm telling you the name, you're crazy!) and looked for the little pottery shop I had been told about. I pulled up to a barn surrounded by cars - mostly trucks, and most of them looked older than me. There were some older men standing out front and they looked at me suspiciously as I eased my little NY-plated car onto the dirt road alongside the building. As I drove to the back of the building I saw even more cars. In fact the line of parked cars didn't seem to have an end. I had thought for sure I would be arriving to a small building with just a few people buzzing around ... instead it seemed I had stumbled into a local hot spot. It was only about 10 minutes after the festivities were supposed to have started, but there were TONS of people there.

I parked and walked up to the front door, feeling very suspicious in my gender especially (I had not seen another female yet) but somehow feeling a strange sense of familiarity about the place. I said hello to several different groups of men outside and walked in to find myself in a very hot pottery studio. I followed the sounds of laughter and guitars and ended up in a hot room filled with people and chairs and tables. I found a seat at a table, next to a woman who I came to know as Judy. Judy and I talked and she was surprised when I told her it was my first time there. She squeezed my arm and praised my courage for coming to a place like that "all by my lonesome". It seemed that I had associated myself with a woman who knew people, and I was promptly introduced to Jesse, Merv, TJ, and Clyde, "the man behind all the fun" there. I couldn't believe how friendly people were to me (even after hearing my Yankee accent and teasing me about it), and also how much they tried to get me to eat.

Though I was more than satisfied in the company of my new friends, I found myself a bit disappointed that I didn't hear any music playing. At just about the same time as I finished having that thought, I saw a door on the other side of the room quickly open and quickly close, revealing a brief glimpse of soft lighting and sweet music. I asked Judy what was behind the door, and she told me that's "where it all happens". I found out that's where the bluegrass is played. I had thought they played out in that first room, and apparently they had at some point, but the whole event had gotten so big that they built on a performance hall of sorts. I was able to be cordial with Judy for a few more minutes before I walked quickly back to the door I had seen open only a few times.

As I closed the door behind me, my eyes adjusted to the soft glow of white twinkle lights draped along the walls. The stage was filled with eight people of various shapes and sizes, but they all had one thing in common: each of them held in their hands some type of stringed instrument, and from that instrument was flowing pure silk. I found a seat ... at first glance I thought all of the seats in the row were reserved, because they all had homemade seat cushions on them. But I soon discovered that all of the chairs had those cushions on them. I sat down and didn't get up again for about 3 hours.

It was incredible. I couldn't stop smiling, with my mouth, but also with my eyes and with my heart. Every concern and worry and care dropped away as I witnessed people pouring their souls into the strings of a guitar or banjo, and spilling their hearts into a microphone. It was beautiful and magical, and I'm not sure that I have ever experienced anything quite like it.

Several different bands came up to play ... basically the "official procedure" seemed to be that if you wanted to play, you gathered up your "band" and stood by the side of the stage to wait for the band that was on stage to come down. The first band was amazing, and I didn't want them to stop. The second bad was good, but I honestly think my heart had gotten off the stage with the first band and gone somewhere back into the other room to sit down and eat more collard greens and corn.

The second band was almost done with their songs, and I was looking forward to a change ... and THEN Louis sang. I had noticed him before, leaning back against the wall playing the huge stringed bass. He was a big man, and he was wearing a bright orange shirt with his name embroidered on a name tag that was stiched onto the shirt, and he had on a camoflauge baseball hat. He had spoken earlier in the show, and his words had been slurred and spoken in a strong country lilt, and I found it difficult to understand him. Somehow or another there was mention that he worked for the town's water department, and the bulk of what he spoke about seemed to be jokes on why "he's so fat" and how he ate up all the corn at the dinner that night. Nothing really disgusted me about Louis, but nothing really struck me about him either. I had seen him out in the pottery studio earlier, just after being referred to as a "sweet little thang" by several gentlemen. Louis didn't call me a sweet thang with his mouth, but everything about his gaze seemed to suggest he felt the same.

Anyway, back to the song ... apparently this is a song that some woman in the audience had asked him to sing, and he had been teasing her by waiting until the end. The song started with the driving low notes of the stringed bass and then the guitar, mandolin, and fiddle came in. I liked the sound but was still ready for the next band. Then Louis opened his mouth and began singing. His voice was like nothing I had heard before. It was all kinds of things wrapped up in one. It was raw emotion and soul and I had to close my eyes in an attempt to filter out the intensity of what I was experiencing. I don't really want to say the name of the song, because it has since taken on a special sacredness for me. I think this will be one of those songs that - if someone knows it - will immediately prove someone's worth and demand my respect for them. Incredible.

As I closed my eyes and rubbed at the goosebumps on my arms, I wondered if I could love a man like Louis. I wondered if I could live a life with my eyes closed, as long as I was with someone who sang like that. It sounds terrible and shallow and mean, but when I had my eyes closed Louis turned into a stunning man with rugged good looks. I didn't want the song to end, but obviously it eventually did. I found myself, along with the people around me, rising to my feet to clap and shout for Louis. It was incredible.

As the next band came on, the music seemed to slow and the twinkle lights seemed to twinkle a bit more softly. Older couples took their places at the fringes of the room and swayed closely to the music. Something about the place felt comfortable and sweet and right. For some reason, the rest of the evening I couldn't stop thinking about my future. I thought what the summer nights of the rest of my life might be like someday ... I thought about being in the arms of my husband. No, I didn't really fall in love with Louis. But I fell in love with the idea of the feeling I got while listening to Louis.

I am learning a little bit more about what I want, for my life, and in a man. I am not a checklist person, where I will completely push someone away if they aren't meeting certain requirements that I think are important. But I have established some non-negotiables, even if I am flexible about how they are expressed. If ever I find someone who is man enough for me, he must do the following things:
- slow-dance with me in the living room, to the song that Louis sang and to others
- hold me in the morning (and kiss me at least once), even if I have morning breath and my hair is scary-looking
- wrestle with me on the front lawn (or really, anywhere) and not be afraid that he is going to hurt or break me
- bring me flowers "just because" ... not flowers from a fancy florist, but wildflowers from a field on the side of the road, or from a garden (mine or someone else's)
- get up earlier than me in the morning to start the coffee and to bring me a cup as I'm waking up
- stay up with me at night to lay under the stars and talk about the rest of our lives
- recognize my strength (see the wrestling comment) but still need to be the "strong one"
- go skinny-dipping with me in a mountain stream (this is AFTER we're married, remember)
- enjoy listening to, and appreciate a wide spectrum of music - from songs like "American Woman" to "Gettin' Jiggy Wit' It" to "Sunshine on My Shoulders"
- be the one to suggest hopping in the car and driving to the mountains or the beach (preferably the mountains), just for the day
- scream louder than me on roller coasters
- pray for me
- cry in front of me
- pray in front of me
- cry for me
- dance not-slow with me (to songs like "American Woman" and "Gettin' Jiggy Wit' It")
- surprise me (not with anything in particular ... I'm just pretty quick, so it takes a lot to surprise me)

... I know there are other things, and maybe it's silly to write a list like that. But those were just things that, for one reason or another, were on my mind on Tuesday night as I looked around that room and saw couples who have probably been married for more years that I have been breathing air in this place. I looked at them dancing closely and felt a happiness about the sweetness of what they were sharing at that moment.

I also have decided that I want to raise up children in this kind of culture. Maybe not in North Carolina, and maybe not exactly with bluegrass music (though that would be wonderful) ... but a culture where a man is not embarassed to call his wife "sug" and to smack her butt as she walks past him. A culture where a man is not too much of a man to walk out onto a dirty cement floor and pull his wife close to him, despite the fact that neither of them is a very good dancer and they move a bit off beat to the music. A culture where a complete stranger invites you to sit down and eat a dinner and won't let you pay a cent for it, despite the fact that everyone else is handing money to the cashier at the end of the table. Sure, the people I met the other night might be "unrefined" ... they might not have college degrees, or even high school degrees. But they have heart. They have soul. And they live life by loving it and loving each other and not worrying about what anyone else might think of them. There were some kids there the other night, and they all seemed to have huge grins on their faces. I didn't hear any whines about the flavor of soda, or whether or not there was an X-box to play ... they were out there dancing and laughing and even playing mandolin. It was good, and right, and real, and it hurts me to think about the fact that some people never ever know that kind of reality exists.

One more thing I look forward to (well, there are lots, but here is just one) ... Louis singing that song at my wedding someday. I will find that big, goofy, giant of a man, and I will buy him a clean bright orange shirt and a new camouflauge hat, and I will dance slowly with my new husband (not Louis, he'll be there with his stringed bass, singing) as he croons and takes the guests' (there won't be many of them) breath away.

posted by Krista @ 9:06 PM 0 comments

today I fell in love

with the God of thunder, lightning, and rain.

*************

Last night I fell in love with a large water maintenance worker named Louis.

*************

more to follow later ...

posted by Krista @ 4:11 PM 0 comments

the wrong formula, the right response

Yesterday, while volunteering at the local outreach center, I experienced an interesting thing. I was only about 5 minutes into my “shift” and I was given the file for a Hispanic woman. The coordinator came over to speak to me about this particular family, warning me that they actually weren’t eligible for food that day (there is a 10-day wait period from one visit to the next, and it had only been 5 days since their last visit). She also told me that the family had come to the center on Saturday to get clothes from the thrift store, and had insisted on receiving one free bag of clothing for each family member. This particular family consists of 10 people (2 adults and 8 children of various ages and parentage).

Armed with a warning not to let the woman take advantage of me, I called out her name and walked her back to the interview area. As it turned out, the girl who was there yesterday was the oldest child of the family, a 17 year old girl with a child on each hip and another little one in tow. As I looked through the application, I learned that the two children on her hips were actually her children and not her siblings. I smiled and introduced myself and asked her if I could pray with her. Unfortunately, none of the other interviewers do this, so she wasn’t quite sure how to answer … but she breathed a sigh of impatience as if to say “whatever” and nodded. I prayed and thanked God for her and her family, and I praised Him for being able to meet her needs better than I or that center ever could, and I also asked that God would somehow use me that day to help to meet her physical needs. When I finished praying, I opened my eyes to see a blank stare and the still-present look of disgust, but I pressed on with a smile stuck to my face.

I explained to Angelica that she was not eligible to receive food again yet, and asked her what it was that she needed. She told me that they didn’t get diapers, formula, or clothes last week – like they asked for. I explained to her that - while we can request specific items from the pantry - there are no guarantees that we have those items. She sighed again and nodded. I asked for more details about clothing, and told her that it looked like we had given her some on the previous Saturday. She replied with a sharp, “well, we didn’t get what we needed.” I smiled again and explained that the thrift store operates under the same circumstances as the food pantry, and that we can never guarantee a specific item but will do what we can to help.

I filled out a request for formula and diapers, and was just about to hand it off to 11-year-old Ashley (the runner for the day) when Angelica spoke up and asked if I had written down what kind of formula it was that she NEEDED. I hadn’t, so I pulled back the request form and wrote the brand and type of formula that she specified. I shook her hand and thanked her for coming, and wished her a good day. She started to walk away but turned on her heel and asked “what about the clothes?” I told her that someone else would be writing out the request for that, and we would give it to her with the food when it was ready. She rolled her eyes and walked away.

Usually I go straight from one interview to the next, but this time I walked back into the office and closed the door and exhaled deeply, hoping that somehow I could breathe out all of the ugliness that was brewing inside of me. I prayed for God to go with Angelica and those children and to help them feel His love. I prayed for God to please remove the thoughts that were burning in my mind and heart. I took a deep breath, walked back to the front, picked up the next folder, and began the interview process again.

After I finished the next interview with Chester, a man I am beginning to recognize from the center, the local soup kitchen, and also the streets in my neighborhood, I looked out into the waiting area and saw Angelica. She was walking back in with a plastic grocery bag in hand and a look of mixed disgust and anger on her face. She came up to me and said, “this is not the formula I need.” I told her that it was possible that we didn’t have what she needed, and that I had written the request – but that it was just that: a request, and not a guarantee. She threw the bag on the desk and said, “but that’s the kind I need!” People in the waiting area were craning their necks to see what was going on, and I put my hand on Angelica’s shoulder in an attempt to calm her. She pulled away sharply and glared at me. I took another deep breath (I must have been claiming all of the air in that little building yesterday) and said I would see what I could do. I walked to the pantry area and explained the situation to the man in charge. As it turned out, they happened to have the exact formula Angelica wanted, but for some reason the teenager reading the form didn’t catch what I had written.

I mustered up a smile on my face and pushed open the door to the waiting area. I walked over to Angelica and handed her the bag and apologized for the confusion. Again, she rolled her eyes and began to walk away, but turned and reminded me about the clothing request. I went upstairs and spoke to the coordinator, and she wrote up a voucher so that Angelica and her family could come back on Saturday to get clothing.

It was nearing closing time and there were no more people to interview, so I snuck into the back office and closed the door again. My head was spinning with unbelief at how ungrateful this young Hispanic girl seemed to be. What nerve – to ask for help, and then demand that she receive that help in a specific way or through a specific thing. I was feeling quite self-righteous and pretty smug, when suddenly I was able to see a parallel between Angelica and myself. My eyes welled up with tears at the truth that I am very much like Angelica, in so many ways.

I pray and ask God for help, and I place my requests before Him … and I wait for Him to come through. Sometimes I am good at waiting and trusting and letting go, knowing that He is sovereign and that His plan and timing are perfect. Other times I sit and tap my foot impatiently and wonder what is taking Him so long. And then sometimes He does give an answer, but it’s nothing like the answer that I want or that I think I need. How many times have I “surrendered” something to God, but then been upset or disgusted with the answer that He gives? How many times have I come back to Him and suggested that He made a mistake or didn’t really pay attention to my original request? The truth of it is that He has something better in store for me, no matter what I think I need or what I could ever possibly dream of. And the right (although incredibly difficult) response is “Thank you.”

posted by Krista @ 12:29 PM 0 comments

keep it in perspective

Lately I have been reminded of the importance of keeping things in perspective. I’ve sort of been stumbling around in a haze in my life, with all kinds of decisions surrounding me, and the feeling like I need to take action on ALL of them now. It’s enough to make a girl want to lock herself in her house with coffee and books and lots and lots of blank notebooks. Sometimes I really do think life would be so much easier if I kept to myself and managed a very small and predictable world of my own creation. But how incredibly drab and devoid of variety and “ahhh” moments and tears and belly-laughs that kind of world would be! So I press on, forging through the fog and confusion and uncertainty, trusting fully that my God and His grace is more than enough to sustain me and satisfy my longings better than I ever imagined.

As I move forward, I look around me, and through the mist I see that I am traveling through an awe-inspiring landscape. I catch brief glimpses of mountains and as I reflect on their enormity I realize how small I really am. I have been spending a lot of time in the Psalms lately, and God has been reminding me that, in spite of how accomplished or capable I may feel, I am in actuality just dust. My days are like grass … at times I get distracted by feelings of self-importance, as if the future of the whole world depends on whether I pursue this or follow that desire. But then I read verses like Psalm 103:16, and I am smacked in the face with the truth that all of my achievements and successes are like flowers in the field that can be blown away with one big gust of wind. When all is said and done, none of those things will be remembered.

My soul has been consumed lately with a longing for something more, and I am coming to recognize that the “more” that I crave is nothing that can be found here. There is a land that lies just past the horizon, a place of such indescribable beauty that my mind can barely conceive of its existence. It’s tempting sometimes to think so much on that destination that I no longer desire to continue the journey on which I travel now. My heart grows faint and I (like David) call out to God to lead me to the “rock that is higher than I”. Take me away from this wasteland, Lord, and carry me into the splendor and brightness of that land beyond. But He doesn’t. I’m still here. And lately I have been reminded that I really don’t have it so bad.

I am not a news-watcher. But lately I haven’t been able to stop reading stories about what is going on in the world that exists outside of Krista-land. If anything will help to put these into perspective pretty quickly, it’s stories of what is going on in those far-away lands like Lebanon, Iraq, Indonesia, and other places. Of course it’s easier if I don’t watch the news and don’t think about the thousands of people whose lives are being changed or even lost, but it’s not reality. It sort of makes my little decisions pale in comparison, when I hear stories about worlds being ripped apart as they are. I don’t even know how to pray for these lands or these people or what is going on there, but I can’t stop praying about these things. And when I do so, the whole idea that “I am dust” really becomes even more solid.

Even now, to think about the things that are happening, something like posting on a blog doesn’t really seem all that important. It almost seems like a joke, the things that I do: coming to work to sit in an office, talking on the phone to mentors and kids, filling out spreadsheets and replying to emails. Right now, at this moment, there is someone dying simply because of the fact that they happen to live on a certain street in a certain country, and that street happened to match the coordinates set by a person launching a rocket, with the express purpose of taking the lives of others. I’m not even sure that words do justice to what I’m feeling right now, so I’m going to stop …

posted by Krista @ 10:40 AM 0 comments

to be ME

If you're anything like me (which, chances are you're not - that's kinda the focus of this post), you have a difficult time feeling like you are really "connecting" with someone. This can lead to feelings of frustration and sometimes downright loneliness. I know in my heart that the loneliness part is wrong, and I refuse to give in to that FEELING ... but it threatens sometimes, especially when I have put my hopes on a relationship as being different than others that I've known.

The desire to be known and - even more - to connect with another is something that I believe God has instilled within us for a reason. So many of us view another person as being able to fulfill that desire, and it is easy to do this (sometimes without even realizing it). But ultimately the only One who can satisfy that desire is the One who knows us better than we know ourselves.

You may think I'm talking about a romantic relationship here, and I guess it applies to that, but really I'm just thinking about relationships in general. The most recent experience that led to this post involved me and another woman who is right around my age. She is one of those people that was a promising friend prospect. We have spent time together here and there and had some good conversations, and I thought perhaps there was potential for us to become good friends.

Please don't misunderstand and think that I am saying anything negative at all about this woman. I still see her as a neat-o person, and I enjoy sharing her company ... but today I realized that we are very different in some big ways. I admit, when we ended up in conversations on various topics and we held diametrically opposed views, I couldn't help but feel disappointed and maybe even a little cheated. Here was someone that I thought could maybe "get" me and with whom I thought maybe I might be able to share some of those deep heart desires, and she could be excited with me or frustrated with me or whatever. But what I found myself getting, instead of a sense of camaraderie or empathy, was a bit of a blank stare.

I talked to her about my neighborhood, and the passion I feel about reaching out to those who live around me. Instead of encouraging me in this discussion, she asked if I really leave my front door open and if I feel safe when I do that. When we went to the store together and I made conversation with complete strangers and shared with her how much I enjoy meeting new people and learning from them, she almost seemed a little bit uncomfortable to be beside me as I greeted others and smiled at passersby.

Now I realize that we are all created differently and that this world be an incredibly boring place if we were all monochromatic in our personalities. But I guess I forget that sometimes. I want everyone to share my passions and to understand why I do things. Actually, that's not accurate - I don't want everyone to be that way, I just want someone to be that way. It's difficult sometimes, especially in areas of ministry, to feel like you're on your own ... sometimes it's even enough to cause you to question why you're doing what you're doing.

But, as I closed my door this afternoon (after waving to my friend who was still out front, watching to make sure I got into my house safely ... in the daylight!), I prayed to God and thanked Him for making me exactly as He has. I kneeled right there and told God that I will not wish to be someone else, or to live in someone else's neighborhood, or to have someone else's personality. I am special and I am me, and there is a reason that I (and not my friend) am the one living in this house. The things that make me "me" - those are the very things that are needed in the world and moments in which I exist. I am tailor-made to live my life, and to engage in the relationships with which I am blessed, and to BE THERE in the mountains and the valleys of the landscape of my existence.

God is perfect, and His plan and timing are perfect, and He wants me to be the me that He has created me to be, and not to be anyone else. It doesn't matter if I am alone in all that I do, and it doesn't matter if another human being never understands why I am the way I am. He does. He, the Creator of my soul, the Romancer of my heart, the One who prompts me to look up at just the second that a star is in a certain place in the night sky above me, the One who beckons me to look at the horizon at just the moment that there is a specific hue of pink or purple gracing the sky ... He knows my inside and the deepest essence of Krista, and He thinks it's good.

As I think more about this, I realize that there are absolutely other people who could live my life. There are other people who could work the job that I have, and maybe even do a better job at it. There are other people who could take part in the relationships of my life, and maybe have more success in certain areas. I am confident that there is someone who could be a better sister, a better daughter, a better driver, a better pet owner, a better singer or guitar player, a better girlfriend, and someday a better wife or mother than I can. I will always be able to find someone who can outperform me in any one area, but I will never find someone who does any of these things the exact way that I do. No one else will bring exactly the same blend of quirks, life experience, perspective, passions, frustrations, strengths, weaknesses, talents, skills and individuality that I bring to a situation. And so, even if someone might be able to do something better than me, they wouldn't be able to do it the same as me. There's something to that.

I was thinking today about this idea showing up in the Bible. I have always been struck by the differences between Mary and Martha, and how they acted toward Jesus. If I remember correctly, when Jesus first came to their house for dinner, Martha was busy running around in the kitchen and getting frustrated with Mary for not being like her. But later, after their brother Lazarus dies, Jesus comes to dinner again and Martha serves again, but seems to do it with a much different heart this time around. Martha and Mary still show a huge difference in how they act toward Jesus, but the difference here is that Martha seems more willing to let Mary be Mary. Jesus' interaction with them on this second visit seems to suggest the fact that he was pleased with this change in conduct. This example illustrates the idea that while one person's personality shines in one situation, another's does so under different circumstances. Through their individuality, both Mary and Martha were able to make a vital difference in the lives of certain people (in this case, Jesus) in certain situations ... this is something I believe each of us is called to do (ESPECIALLY as Christians).

I like something I recently read:

... if we don't respect our individuality - in how we live, and in the choices we make - others will be deprived of important benefits that God wishes them to reap from our life. Being the individual God has made us takes courage, though, and is a greater challenge than we usually expect. To meet it, we need all the inspiration we can get.

It seems, in truly embracing who we are, we find answers to some of the questions with which we struggle, such as what we are "supposed" to be doing with our lives ... the answer to that question is wrapped up in who we are. I believe that once we fully face the truth of who we are, we are in the best possible position to then make decisions as to how our lives can most powerfully impact and benefit others.

I'm off to go be ME some more and to live my life the way that only I can.

posted by Krista @ 1:43 PM 0 comments

the beauty of aging

Today was another day of contrast, though of a different type. I spent a good part of the day with a 12-year-old girl who is in the program I coordinate. If I were given a choice of what child in the program to spend time with, she would probably be the last one I would choose ... I'm guessing this is exactly why God put us together for several hours today.

This girl is everything I was not as child - chubby, clingy, loud, giggly, boy-crazy, and really just kind of draining to be around. I feel terrible saying all of that, but honestly - it's true. She is the client I dread going to visit - for several reasons ... one is because I can count on her grabbing all over me as soon as I see her, and the other is because of the men that are usually hanging out front or in the porch inside. They chew their tobacco and look me up and down and just cause me to feel really uncomfortable.

Anyway, I picked this girl up today because we were going to go take a birthday cake to her mentor as a surprise. But her mentor wasn't home. So we ended up going out for lunch and also to the park and just walking and talking. And I began to see why this girl is the way she is. About an hour into our time together, she was telling me repeatedly that she loved me, and hugging me and tickling me and just being pretty weird. My impulse was to pull away or even slap her hand, but then I looked in her eyes and there I saw an aching to hear someone tell her that SHE loves her. So I did. And, though I didn't tickle her or poke her or hold onto her waist, I did give her a big hug and tell her that she is full of beauty and that she is absolutely precious to God. She completely changed. She looked happy and her eyes didn't look so hungry for attention or confirmation anymore. She walked beside me and was able to do so without holding on to me. She was like a different person, and it was all because she knew that she was loved.

Later on in the day I went to visit friends of mine in a rest home. When I arrived, the husband was sleeping (and I think he is the loudest snorer I've ever heard!) but the wife was laying in bed and looking toward the window. She was crying softly and saying words that I couldn't understand. I stood beside her bed and took her hand, and as she looked in my eyes I saw the same look I had seen earlier in the eyes of someone 70 years younger. I kissed her on her head and told her that I loved her, and her moans and shouts subsided as a quiet peace came over her. We sat in silence and looked out the window as the sun softly went down and the sky grew dark. She squeezed my hand and I couldn't help but reflect on the day's events.

This world is full of so many different kinds of people. Some are loud and clingy, and some are quiet and reclusive. There are some people who you try to avoid, and others who you can't get enough of. I had spent time that day with both types, and at first thought they seem so incredibly different. But really, in each of those women (both young and old), I saw a commonality ... a desperate desire to be loved, and to be told that they were beautiful. I hope and pray that with time, the grating young girl from the day will become more like the peaceful sweet elderly lady of the evening, but I am not sure of the likelihood of that happening.

I had to pull myself away from that rest home today, for I get the definite feeling lately that my time with my friends there is drawing to a close. Tonight, as I prayed with my friend and grasped her frail hand in mine, there was a moment when my heart sensed that she had left me. Her breathing and paused and all of a sudden her grip loosened. I opened my eyes and saw her piercing blue eyes gazing at mine, and I spoke her name, and she responded with a smile. I knew she was still there, but I have a feeling her heart is ready to leave. I can't blame her. Tonight I reminded her of the full life she has lived, and I apologized to her that she is where she is now ... through it all she stroked my hand and smiled that haunting smile.

I wonder what she was like as a little girl, and if she tickled people and clung to near-strangers as she offered her love a little too freely. I have a feeling she didn't. Sometimes when I look at her, I see the mischief in her eyes and the playfulness of her smile, and I catch a glimpse of a precious little girl. But mostly I see a woman made beautiful by a life lived well. I know very little about the details of her life, but I sense very much by the power of her spirit. Her beauty inside shines through her, and I know that beauty has been growing steadily through the many years of life. She gives me something to strive for. As I walked out of the home tonight and tearfully considered the frail woman lying in that bed, I realized that no diet or workout or beauty regimen will ultimately matter in the end ... beauty is so much bigger than any of those things. It's about grace and mercy and kindess and softness and sweetness and love and wrinkles and saggy skin and thinning hair.

I'm not sure how to end this, but I really think that maybe it is just the beginning of something for me.

posted by Krista @ 9:47 PM 0 comments

what does contrast mean, teacher lady?

I have found contrast to be one of the most powerful ways that I learn or realize something. When I see a light color among darkness, it seems even brighter and more vivid. When I spend time with someone who talks very fast and then have a conversation with a slow-speaking southerner, I am much better able to understand them but also find myself growing a bit impatient with the way their words amble on casually. When I spot something of incredible beauty in the middle of utter ugliness, I am overwhelmed by the way that the loveliness is somehow enhanced by its unattractive surroundings.

Today was a day of stark contrast, and I really wasn't even looking for that or the lessons that would come from it.

I began my day with a mandatory employee "training" session, in which we learned about a new performance evaluation method that is being implemented this year. I am familiar with the process, as it's something that I had to endure each year at my old job at the publishing company. The title of the training today was "pay for performance", and basically the idea behind it is that employees can be rewarded for the quality of their work. If someone wants to just do their job and meet the basic expectations, they can do that and just ignore the whole process. However, if someone desires to go "above and beyond" their job expectations and establish goals and then get their supervisor to sign off on those goals, they may be eligible for a certain percentage of a bonus at the end of the year. According to this system, there are two levels of increase that you can work toward -- one would be if you exceed job expectations, and the other would be if you are outstanding at exceeding job expectations. I understand the big push these days for incentives in order to try to ensure that people stay motivated and blah blah blah, but I don't buy into it.

What am I getting paid for in the first place? For doing my job, I would hope. Why should someone have to offer me extra for doing extra? Why don't they just ask me to do extra and then I do it? Or why shouldn't the "extra" be a part of my job in the first place? This all seems so ridiculous to me. If there are things that I can do that go above my current job description, then maybe my job description needs to be rewritten. Seems kinda like a big "duh" issue to me, but maybe I'm just strange. It just seems like, to me, that maybe the incentive to go a good job should be just that - doing a good job. Have we set such low standards for ourselves that someone can't take satisfaction in their work, but they need extra in order for them to do something well?

So, these are some of the thoughts running through my head during this meeting. And also, I should mention that I am not even eligible to write out goals this year anyway, because I am still considered a "new employee". But, even if I were eligible, I'm not sure I would do it just because I think this whole thing is ridiculous. Ok, so I was thinking about the stupidity of it all when we were instructed to break off into small groups (as should be done at any effective training session, of course).

Each of the groups was designated as a certain department within the organization and was given the task of establishing a goal. The details here aren't important. My group began to work on a goal, but somehow (and I still have no idea how) we ended up on a discussion of wages and how no one in the county gets paid what they deserve. There was a ___ man in my group (I need to insert blanks so that I don't use other words here) who opened his mouth and began, "I'm not prejudiced against anyone, I have no problems with people of other races, but ..." Ok, here's a hint -- if you have to make clear that you aren't something before you say something else, then you probably shouldn't say any of it in the first place. I have learned that most of the time when people say this kind of thing (especially about race issues), that they are in fact what they are saying they're not.

This man went on to say that he doesn't understand how a particular ethnic group (he said which, I will not) gets such a good deal on life. He went on to talk about totally irrelevant things like how he was in line the other day at a grocery store and ended up behind a family that had two carts and blah blurb blah blurb blah. I know he must have felt the glare that I was giving him, but he still went on and on and on. And then somehow the rest of the group (people who, based on appearances, you would think were educated and somewhat human) started chirping in about this race and that race and people who live in trailers and draw public assistance and don't work and have the easy life. And they moaned and whined about how we are basically punished because we get out there and "bust our butts" (boy, that training session was just SO physically exhausting!) to make a dollar and pay our bills. And they griped and complained about how we are basically supporting these people who just sit around and get to enjoy life.

I thought my tongue was going to split, I was biting it so hard. Several times I brought us back to the task at hand and spoke not a word about their conversation. I wish that I had, but it didn't seem worth my while to step near the pile of dung which seemed to be surrounding me. Anyway, we made it through (by busting our butts, of course), and I left that auditorium as quickly as possible. I still cannot believe what ingrateful people I was with this morning. And sadly I work for the county, and these people are considered "servants to the community." They are social workers and health educators and prison staff, and they are idiots. I have a feeling that they represent only a small sampling of a larger epidemic of people who think that the world owes them everything, and they should have to do nothing to get it.

It seems there is possibly a direct correlation between the mental flabbiness of these individuals and their physical states. Maybe if they exercised their minds and bodies as much as their mouths and their complaining muscles, they probably would be much happier and not have as much to talk about in the first place. That sounds harsh, but I couldn't help but notice it. Obviously this experience affected me more than even I realized (until now), because this post is turning into a bit of a venting forum for me.

Here comes the good part of my day ... the beauty in the midst of the ugliness. Tonight I spent three hours at the local community college, volunteering as a teacher's aide in an ESL class. I arrived a few minutes late (the program director had actually suggested I do so, so that I could be there once the class was actually in session) and took my seat in a classroom full of people with a skin color different than mine. There were 16 students in the class, one teacher, a teacher's assistant, and then me. With the exception of one Asian man, all of the students were Hispanic. I knew that they were all there willingly. No one was forcing them to give three hours of their night to sit and learn a language that was foreign to them. They were because they believed in the importance of furthering their education and expanding their minds and abilities and horizons.

As I had the opportunity to speak to several of the students, I learned that many of them came there straight from work, or were going to a night job straight from the class. Some came from one job and were going to another as soon as the class was over. Without exception, every single student in the class smiled at me when I walked in. If any of them hadn't yet introduced himself or herself to me as I walked around the room and answered questions (and also caught one mischievous looking Honduran student asking a Mexican student for an answer on the vocabulary test), they were sure to come up to me during the break and tell me their names.

The mood of the evening was light and jovial, and the teacher (who I think is quite possibly the best teacher I have ever seen in my life) encouraged the students and praised them and made them feel like geniuses. As a man named Oscar sat beside me and worked on his vocabulary test, his face was wracked with tension and nervousness and uncertainty, and Teacher Lady (as they called her) came and put her hand on his shoulders and told him not to worry, that there would be other tests for him to ace. I looked at his paper and saw that he had only left one question blank, but he was determined to do his very best, even if the rest of the class had been done for quite a while.

As I sat in that room and listened to 16 voices stumble to repeat words that the teacher spoke to them, each of the students refusing to move on to the next word until they had gotten the pronunciation exactly right, I felt my eyes welling up with tears. These were the very people that I had heard being spoken of in such a cruel and belittling way earlier that day. These eyes, so intently focused on the teacher as she unveiled ideas and opened doors simply by speaking new words, were the eyes of people who supposedly just sit around and expect things from people like those I sat with this morning.

There is a major disconnect here for me, and I can't quite express it. But I can tell you without hesitation who I would rather work alongside if I had a choice between those colleagues this morning and those "foreigners" tonight. In a millisecond I can tell you who probably deserves a paycheck and then some, and who deserves to be kicked out to the street. This morning I was forced to listen to people who think the world owes them everything, and tonight I was fortunate enough to listen to and speak with people who can't wait to start to give back to the world that they feel has given them everything. What a sad, but beautiful contrast I experienced today ... and it's something I hope to somehow work towards changing.

posted by Krista @ 9:18 PM 0 comments

check out the kindness on that one

This is really not a profound post at all, but I just need to vent.

There is currently a crew of three men at my house, working on my bathroom. They are installing a new window and hopefully working on some other things there. They arrived this morning shortly after I got out of the shower (they had called to let me know they were coming, but I didn’t hear the phone from the shower so wasn’t forewarned). Luckily I had enough time to get dressed, but I was still left the dilemma of not being able to use my bathroom to get ready for work.

As the sole mirror in my house resides in the bathroom, I was not really all that happy about having to come and use the bathroom at work to finish getting ready. But I have learned that I should embrace those rare “good landlord who is actually doing what I request” moments when they come, so I packed up my stuff and strolled into work with wet hair and morning breath. Ok, not total morning breath – I had brushed my teeth, but then I had a second cup of coffee, so I still had that morning/coffee hybrid breath going.

ANYWAY, for some reason these three men seemed to think they were entitled to gawk at and ogle me while I was getting ready for work (as much as I could, anyway, without the use of my bathroom). I am the first to admit that I am not Cindy Crawford and I do not have the body of Paris Hilton (or whoever else you may happen to lust after if you’re a man), but I think I’m in pretty ok-shape. And I am happy with how I look. Today I happened to be wearing a semi-fitted v-neck shirt and some not-so-baggy pants. I am a firm believer in modesty and I would not step out of the house if I looked like a hoochie-mama. But I know this particular outfit shows a little shape … and I just felt like I looked good.

However, in the safety of my home, I was only concerned with how I felt I looked, not the opinions of three rough-looking men who took it upon themselves to watch me stoop to pick over the keys I just dropped. And I – no lie – caught one of them looking at my chest the whole time I talked to him, and also while I was leaning over to grab my dog who was trying to jump on him (I should have just let her jump!).

Arrrrgh, this stuff gets to me. What ever would cause someone to think that they have the right to assess or even look at someone else and their body like that? This happened to me yesterday too, as I was volunteering at a local outreach center. For some reason, it didn’t affect me as much there because I have come to accept it as part of the territory. When I used to go and do homeless outreach (sometimes alone, stubborn girl that I was), I was constantly hearing words and comments and catching looks that made me want to go home and take a 3-hour-long shower just to wash off the “ick” feeling that I had. I have had some of those types of encounters in my job now, as I have made home visits and spoken to fathers who were checking me out even while their wives/girlfriends/baby’s mamas were sitting beside them. Yuck. I don’t accept that stuff, and I have acknowledged that to those men on several occasions.

But it’s a totally different feeling when that same kind of thing is happening in your own home. I know it’s not really an accurate comparison, but I have heard stories of people whose homes have been broken into, and how they feel incredibly violated afterward. And that’s a little bit like how I feel.

Why don’t I hear men talking about this? Where are the strong godly men who will take a stand and tell their slimy brothers that they need to clean up their act, their thoughts, and their words? And why do we, as women, shake our heads or slouch our bodies or give these men the right to treat us as big slabs of meat? Of course, I admit that we as women are not totally the victims here. We have a responsibility to make it more difficult for men to have the opportunities to say crass things. If we showed a little more modesty and a little more class and covered up a little more skin, maybe we would have more of a platform from which to demand that men treat us with respect and dignity. This is going to sound incredibly cold, but I see way too many women advertising themselves and their bodies and then getting upset or offended when men start yelling out prices or trying to make a bargain. If you don’t want men to come at you with their steak knives and their appetites, then don’t hang yourself out there like a big juicy steak.

I have been really convicted lately too of how I look at my brothers. I remember once reading a quote by CS Lewis, and – though I don’t remember the exact wording – I remember the gist of it was that if we really saw each other in the image of Christ, we would fall down and worship God because of the beauty and wonder that are embodied in another person. What a good thing that would be, and what a thing to strive for. Instead of commenting on whether or not a man is “cute” or a girl is “hot”, we would be captivated by how much they reflect Christ’s glory and His splendor. Maybe that’s really what those guys at my house were checking out (ha!) – I would consider it an honor for someone to do a double-take on me just because they wanted to catch another glimpse of patience, kindness, gentless, self-control, grace, or beauty (God’s beauty, not mine!).

posted by Krista @ 3:37 PM 0 comments

I have had all kinds of crazy things happening lately. It got to the point the other night when I felt completely wiped out, worn out, exhausted, drained, and honestly a little bit defeated. I felt battle-weary and a little bit bruised from the blows that seemed to be coming my way, over and over again. I know from experience that it is such a temptation to entertain thoughts of self-pity at times like that. If I’m not careful, it’s easy to let things grow to the point where I have lost a bit of perspective and I’m totally wrapped up in myself and my circumstances. And I think I did that, for about 5 or 6 days in a row.

I am still not completely over all of that – I still sometimes wish that maybe God didn’t trust with me with quite so much. Sometimes I relish the experience of being in the throes of battle – of course it’s exciting, enthralling, and invigorating to be on the front lines and to be actively engaged in war, especially when I am fighting for someone who can’t fight for himself. I view it as an honor and a privilege to experience hardships and struggles for the cause of Christ, and for the cause of those I am seeking to love for Christ. But there are times when I find myself looking back at the smaller soldiers at the back of the line, the ones who maybe aren’t as trained or don’t yet have all of their armor, and I wish that I could find some rest by hiding out with them. In my heart it feels wrong, and I feel very strongly a duty and responsibility to the One who commands me and trusts me and my abilities enough to place me on the front lines … but when I’m tired and weak, I start focusing on myself and not so much on duties and the incredible honor of my rank.

Yesterday was a day full of prayer and reflection. I was wrestling with these ideas and still giving in a bit to the whole "woe is me" thing … and then I turned my eyes upward. It was right around that time that we (I was in a car with my mother and sister) were nearing the mountains. Immediately I felt relief and comfort, and the strange thing is that I felt relieved because I was suddenly reminded of how very small I am. As I looked at the looming mountains and the clouds that billowed above them, I felt myself and all of my circumstances shrinking in the shadow of their largeness. I wasn’t afraid and I didn’t feel intimidated by their greatness – instead I felt a peace in knowing that everything wasn’t about me … my problems are nowhere near as big as I am making them.

Mountains always seem to have a calming effect on me, and I’m still not completely sure why. I know that they remind me of God, and they direct my thoughts back toward faith. I know it’s a Bible verse too, but there is a song that I used to love when I was little … it was sung by B.J. Thomas, a singer who I didn’t appreciate that much at the time but I have come to really enjoy now. We were subjected to him and his music on road trip after road trip, and I just wanted to listen to the radio or Psalty (the talking, singing Christian song book) or some other fluffy children’s music. Anyway, the chorus of this particular song said, "If you have the faith of a mustard seed, you’ve got all the faith you need. You can do anything. You can walk along with the King. You can move those mountains. If you have the faith of a little child."

It's strange to me, that the mountains and their majesty and mightiness represent God, yet they also represent something that God will give me the power to move if I just have enough faith in Him. Perhaps it is their greatness that reminds me of God and His omnipotence, and their size and sheer vastness that represent things I try to tackle on my own. God is great and mighty and worthy of awe and admiration, and yet sometimes I make Him out to be so small and weak. I have been wrestling with all of this stuff and letting it wear me out, and then I look up and see huge beautiful hills and all of a sudden everything is smacked into perspective. What in the world do I have to worry about? These "things" in my life, these struggles and hardships, are like tiny little molehills compared to the mountains in front of me. It’s so easy to forget about their might and greatness if I look back down at my circumstances and lose perspective again. But walking with God is never something that is static or achieved. It is a process – an act of constantly growing, changing, learning, re-learning, losing focus and gaining it again, hurting, rejoicing, weeping, sinking, soaring, but most of all yielding and surrendering again and again.

For me, my faith grows through times like these. As I look to the mountains, I realize that this battle I fight is just a measly little skirmish compared to the mighty wars that God has already waged for me. Through fighting battles over and over again, my abilities are strengthened and my craft (the art of fighting) is honed a bit. But the mountains that rise above the horizon protect me from greater battles and wars that would most likely defeat me. I press forward in faith, wielding my sword and finding new strength and courage, knowing that I am more than a conqueror in Christ.

This is one of those posts that I am not so sure makes a whole lot of sense. Things are still a bit messy in my head and spirit right now, though they’re beginning to clear up a bit … but I cling to the truth that God is good and mighty and bigger than anything that will ever come into my life.

I'm closing with a quote from one of this morning’s devotionals:

"We never know where God has hidden His streams. We see a large stone and have no idea that it covers the source of a spring. We see a rocky area and never imagine that it is hiding a fountain. God leads me into hard and difficult places, and it is there I realize I am where eternal streams abide."

posted by Krista @ 11:25 AM 0 comments