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Friend Friday–Erin
Every Thursday night, I have a “date” with my friend Erin. At 6:58, I start up my computer, and wander around trying to find a wireless signal (I’m cheap, I borrow wifi from my neighbors–don’t judge me). I set my laptop in my lap (clever, I know), log-in to Facebook, and wait for Erin to arrive.
I don’t think I’ve actually seen Erin in person in nearly eight years. We worked at a camp together when we were in college. In my mind, Erin was this incredible, beautiful, vivacious person–and I was shy and awkward and uncomfortable in my own skin.
In the years following college, in the flurry of marrying and having a family (her) and moving and moving (me) we lost touch. But around a year ago, thanks to the miracle of social media, we reconnected. And every week, I look forward to our chats.
After eight years, we’ve had a lot of catching up to do. But we have moved past the “where do you live and what are you dong” to “tell me about your life.” Some weeks we have difficult discussions, about hard relationships and grief and fear. Other weeks we ask each other mundane questions that inevitably end with the phrase “Oh my gosh, me too!”
In Erin, I have found a true friend. Someone I trust and admire. I hope that she has found a similar friend in me.
We have both shared so deeply that sometimes we pause and say “I can’t believe I told you that.”
And in our honesty, we have moved past beautiful and vivacious (her) and shy and awkward (me), to falling down and getting back up (us).
So every Thursday night, after our chat is done, I close my laptop, stand up and stretch, and feel a little less alone.
Posted in Friends, Uncategorized
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Refreshing
Over the weekend, I shared a meal with a group of friends. Every month we gather together, fellowship, eat, and then have communion.
Communion has always been a special, but sometimes confusing time for me. Growing up, I attended a church where we had communion once a quarter. We passed the silver trays of miniature saltine crackers and plastic thimbles of juice. I ate, I drank, but felt little.
In my college years, we traded the crackers for 99 cent loaves of French bread from Wal-mart. But it was a Baptist college, so we held onto the Welch’s grape juice. There, the act of communion began to take more shape. I vividly remember a time when we tore off the bread, dipped it into the juice, then served it to someone else in the room. I cupped my hand under the dripping, purple-stained bread and offered it to someone who I had struggled to love in the past. I ate, I drank, and felt a little more.
As an adult, I still struggle to know how I should feel when I take communion. Sometimes I hold the wafers with the edges biting into my fingers, wanting to feel the tiniest fraction of His pain. I have taken communion in a common cup, felt the bitter wine in my throat. I have picked up crumbs of crackers with tears on my face. Stared down at the tiny cup of juice in my hand, feeling too burdened to even raise my head.
Which brings me to this weekend. We passed a small styrofoam plate filled with broken crackers. We ate, in remembrance of Him. Then a little girl walked around with a small tray of Dixie cups. Each cup held an inch of juice. We drank, in remembrance of Him.
And what happened next changed how I felt about communion. That little girl who had passed around the juice held her cup to her lips. She gulped it down, brought the cup away from her mouth, and uttered the most satisfied “ahhhhhhhh” I’ve ever heard.
It was the sound of thirst quenched. The satisfied sound of Living Water on a dry soul. It may have been socially inappropriate, but it was the most appropriate response to communion I had ever heard.
And suddenly what kind of bread didn’t matter. Juice versus wine was irrelevant. Even my emotions were unimportant.
It was really all about a hungry heart and the Bread of Life. A thirsty soul and the Living Water.
And the satisfied “ahhhh” of a child cared for by her Father.
Oh, that did not come out right…
I have a really bad habit. Okay, I have a lot of really bad habits. But there’s one that bites me in the rear all the time.
My brain is constantly on the run. I see something, which makes me think of something, then something else, and on and on. And then I blurt out my final thought. But nobody else was privy to my whole internal conversation.
Confused? Let me give you an example.
A few years ago, I was with some friends in Denver. There was a big event going on downtown, so a lot of streets were closed. At one point, there were four lanes all trying to merge into one.
Watching the traffic chaos reminded me of my time in Ethiopia–a country where traffic laws are merely suggestions, and lane designations are laughable.
The honking horns and nearly grazed bumpers took me back to the crowded city of Addis Ababa. I remember sitting in our van, knowing with full certainty that if I lived in that crowded city, I would have to walk everywhere. That if I ever had to turn left there, it would take me approximately 17 hours.
So, I turned to my friend, on that crowded street in Denver, and said “You would be great at driving in Ethiopia.”
My friend turned to me, confused, and said, “Why, because I’m black?”
Oh. My. Word. I began stammering, trying to explain my internal monologue, babbling about Ethiopia and traffic and oh dear Lord what have I done.
And that, my friend, is what happens when you blurt out the last line of your internal monologue. Glorious awkwardness with a side of accidental racism.
Posted in I'm Such a Dork, Uncategorized
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Did God really say…?
“Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?”
Those were the words the serpent spoke. The slippery words he whispered in Eve’s ear.
So she paused.
Wondered.
Doubted.
Slipped.
Fell.
I don’t judge her. Because every day, Satan whispers those same words in my ear. Sometimes, the words cause me to slip into sin against others.
But even more often, those slippery words encourage me to forget who I am.
“Did God really say He loves YOU?”
His words drip with contempt. I pause.
“Did God really say you are BEAUTIFUL?”
Scorn spills from his lips. I wonder.
“Did God really say you are his DAUGHTER?”
Laughter tinges his words. I doubt.
“Did God really say He FORGETS your sin?”
Words that remind me of my filth. I slip.
“Did God really say you can TRUST Him?”
His lies pull me under. I fall.
And I lay there. Holding the forbidden fruit in my shaking hands. Wondering how I got here, to this place of unbelief and doubt.
But God, in His boundless mercy and grace, has never lost sight of me. And He answers.
“I love you.”
His words sooth my wounded heart. I listen.
“You are beautiful.”
Honey spills from his lips. I look.
“You are my daughter.”
Joy tinges his words. I believe.
“I’ve removed your sin.”
Words that remind me of my purity. I reach out.
“You can trust me.”
His truth gives me life. I stand.
Did God really say…
Yes.
He did.
Posted in Introspective, Uncategorized
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Ushering in the morning
I know I’ve talked about loving sunrises on here before. And the cruel irony of loving something that happens so early in the morning.
But still, they captivate me.
When I was in Guatemala a few weeks ago, I crept out of bed at 5 one morning. In the dark, I threw on my jacket over my pajamas, and felt around on the cool tile floor for my flip flops. I slipped quietly out of the room, leaving my roommate to sleep in the gray darkness of our room.
I tip-toed up the stairs until I reached the roof of our hotel. I listened to the roosters crowing, and watched lights beginning to flicker on in the houses that stretched out below me.
And I waited.
I think one of the reasons I prefer sunrises to sunsets is their gentleness. While sunrises are beautiful, they are also brash. The colors are bright, full of orange and red, lighting the sky up like a fire.
But sunrises, they are quiet and blushing. They start dusty gray, with a smudge of pink, like a child blushing at an unexpected compliment.
The -pink deepens. A blushing child becomes a flush-faced one. Cheeks that have grown rosy from play. Darkness is pushed across the sky.
The blues and blacks lighten to purple. Darkness is dissolved into light.
Even the sun, hot and bright during the day, seems more gentle during the dawn. It peeks and glows, cool and quiet. It lights the clouds from behind, spilling over and dripping onto the mountains.
I stood in the cool Guatemalan air, watching the miracle of a new morning, ushered in before my eyes.
And I was reminded.
Today is a new day.
Filled with gentle beauty.
Darkness flees.
Light enters.
http://rmfo-blogs.com/brandy/2010/01/29/why-are-mornings-so-early/
Ripe
Over the past–days, months, years–I have felt my heart ripen. Some days, the process was gentle. The sweet rain of shared time with friends. The gentle morning sun of self-exploration.
But other times, the process was harsh. There were days when the rain was torrential. When the sun was too hot, and there was no shade to be found. And my heart moved from comfortably ripe, to bruised and soft.
That was the state of my heart when I went to a conference this past weekend. I felt wounded, and I was determined that I was not going to talk to new people. Heck, I wasn’t even going to LIKE new people. I wasn’t going to feel, I was only going to think. I was going to be closed off, and I was going to fiercely protect my over-ripe heart.
But my plan was not the right plan. At every turn, I was engaged in conversations about life and faith and story-telling. And I saw the art of telling stories in a completely new light. I saw it as a unique gifting. A calling to reveal the hidden things of the Father that only I can reveal.*
And all through the weekend, little pieces of grace sliced into my soul.
Quotes, ideas, thoughts, pierced the already bursting flesh of my heart.
They cut through the bruised, soft fruit, until it all fell away.
And all that was left was that seed in the middle. Wrinkled and hard and beautiful.
In that fertile ground of my story, the seed was replanted. To grow and stretch toward the sun. To produce new fruit. Until it is time for the harvest.
Because in the final analysis, all moments are key moments.
And life itself is grace.*
*I didn’t do a great job of noting sources of the incredible ideas I heard at this conference. I believe the first noted idea is from Andrew Peterson. The second is definitely Frederick Buechner.
Posted in Uncategorized
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A little cold, a lot of perspective
I came back from Guatemala with a cold. A sore throat, stuffy nose, cough, congestion, headache, slight fever, and a general sense of icky.
I met a lady in Guatemala. She had a cold too. Or more likely, an infection. Maybe bronchitis. Maybe worse.
I nursed my cold in the comfort of my air conditioned home. I lay in my bed, with clean sheets, and blew my nose on soft clean tissues. Every four hours, I took medicine. I had a glass of juice on my bedside stand, with a bendy straw. I have to have bendy straws when I’m sick.
But as I lay there, I couldn’t stop thinking of her.
Her house was damp and cold. When our group trooped in to visit, we shook out our umbrellas, the cold rain darkening the cement at our feet. Above our heads, sheets of bright blue plastic sagged under the weight of the water.
I couldn’t tell her age. She could have been 60. She could have been 30. I have no idea. Life had lined her face deeply. Her husband was an alcoholic. She couldn’t care for her family.
And she was sick.
Every few minutes, coughs racked her body. She doubled over from the effort, and would demurely lift the hem of her tattered dress to her mouth. She carefully wiped her face with the rough fabric, apologizing after each agonizing spell.
She can’t afford the doctor. She can’t afford medicine. The damp rainy season will only make her sickness worse, her body weaker.
And I couldn’t stop thinking of her.
I have tissues. She has the hem of her skirt.
I have a bed and clean sheets. She has a scratchy blanket she shares with her daughter.
I have medicine at my fingertips. She wonders where her family’s next meal will come from.
I have comfort. She has desperation.
Father, come soon.
Posted in Guatemala, Travel, Uncategorized
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Not a KitchenAid in Sight
I’m a good baker. A really good baker.
Just ask my friends and co-workers. They love me for the cakes, cookies and pies I share with them. I have been told I make pumpkin cream cheese muffins that will change your life.
The other day, I was completely out-baked by a group of Guatemalan girls (and a few boys). It wasn’t even a competition.
They began by making a circle of flour, their hands as quick and experienced as mine were slow and clumsy. There was not a single KitchenAid mixer in sight. I had a bad feeling.
The girls teaching me to bake were part of a baking class at the Compassion student center I was visiting in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. As part of the class, they make snacks for the nearly 400 students at the center. They also make baked goods they can sell in the community. With that money, they have been able to construct new classrooms at the center.
In other words, these were some serious bakers.
After the flour came butter. They handed me several sticks and mimed pounding it on the table until it was soft. Not a microwave in sight. Next, I creamed it with sugar. With my hands. Did I mention there was no mixer?
Would these skills help these children one day? Would they know how to cook nutritious meals for their families? Or bake goods for a living?
One of my baking friends began cracking eggs into my lumpy butter and sugar mixture. I mixed it into a gloopy pile, and felt sweat forming on my forehead. Another girl pointed to a clump of yolk I had missed.
Next they mimed adding the flour. I swept it inward and it poofed toward me. One grinning girl helped me slip an apron over my head. It was like she knew me.
It was amazing to watch their confidence. How good it must feel to start with flour, sugar and eggs, and end with bread, cinnamon rolls and cookies. It may seem like a small sense of accomplishment. But in poverty, children learn they can’t accomplish anything. Even the accomplishments of dough that rises or cookies that don’t burn mean more than we can imagine.
The sticky dough coated my hands and I mixed and mixed until finally, a ball formed. They showed me how to roll it out.
Then they showed me how to re-roll it out when it all stuck to the table.
Finally, we pressed cookie cutters into the dough, making snowmen, hearts and teddy-bear shapes for snack time.
One girl brushed a smudge of flour off of my cheek. Another led me to the sink to wash my hands.
Never have I been so happy to be out-baked in my entire life!
Posted in Guatemala, Travel, Uncategorized
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