Category: Introspective

Refreshing

Posted by Brandy – August 26, 2010

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 while tears streamed down my cheeks. 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.

Did God really say…?

Posted by Brandy – August 23, 2010

“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.

Ushering in the morning

Posted by Brandy – August 16, 2010

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/

Be the Change

Posted by Brandy – March 4, 2009

For my birthday, a friend gave me a ring. It’s a simple silver band, with a not-so-simple quote engraved on it.

“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

Leave it to Ghandi to challenge and inspire in just ten words.

In the work that I do, I see lots of things that I wish were different. I wish that children weren’t starving. I wish that little girls weren’t abused. I wish that little boys didn’t have to work 12-hour days. I wish that governments weren’t corrupt. I wish that families always loved.

I wish.

But it’s not just people in far-flung villages. I desire change in my very own community. I wish I knew my neighbors. I wish my friends didn’t hurt. I wish people loved more than they judged.

I wish.

But what am I doing? What am I doing to be that change I want to see?

What are you doing?

I give to a ministry that helps the poor. But am I influencing others to do the same? Am I living out my desire to serve the poor in my daily life?

I write articles about child abandonment. But am I praying for the hundreds of thousands of children who have nobody to care for their most basic needs?

I am even more convicted about those hurting around me. When was the last time I talked to one of my neighbors? Why do I let my fear of rejection stop me from smiling, saying hello, introducing myself?

I believe God has called me to help the poor. To give to the needy. But what am I doing in my own zip code? Is serving a meal at a church once a year enough? What about the other 364 days?

I wish to see more love. Am I loving more?

I wish to see less hurt. Am I praying for healing?

I wish for change. Am I changing?

I can’t stop at the wishing.

I must be.

I Hurt Too

Posted by Brandy – February 10, 2009

I have music playing most of the day when I’m at work. Usually, it’s just background noise, and I’m really not paying a lot of attention to the lyrics. I like the security of having my headphones on, so I can ignore people and they don’t even realize I’m doing it. Hopefully they don’t read this blog though.

But the other day, some lyrics broke through. I heard them through all of the noise in my head. I heard them through the sound of deadlines whizzing by. I heard them because I needed to hear them.

When you’re weary
And haunted
And your life is not what you wanted
When you’re trying so hard to find it

The last few months have been exhausting. I’ve come into a painful place of self-awareness. I know that healing will come–I desperately long for that time–but right now I’m just in the midst of plowing through things.

When the lies speak the loudest
When your friends are starting to leave
When you’re broken by people like me

That line there was the thing that caused my fingers to freeze on my keyboard. Because my lies are loud. They are constantly banging around in my head, shouting, screaming, drowning out everything else. And quieting them is hard. It takes enormous energy to pick them apart, to dig down to their foundation, to rip them up by the roots.

And I know that it’s frustrating for my friends. And I have great friends. But I so often push them away. And sometimes even with the best intentions, friends can say or do things that break me. Just like I do to them. We’re all imperfect, brushing against each other’s wounds, trying to make the best of this fallen world where we dwell.

I hurt too, I hurt too

Then this simple chorus brought tears to my eyes. I hurt too. I’m not alone. My hurt is real. It does not need to be minimalized. But it’s not just me. It’s not all about me. And when I can tear my eyes away from my own wounds, I gain valuable perspective.

When an ocean sits right between us
There is no sign that we’ll ever cross
You should know now that I feel the loss

I often feel so separated from my friends. Whether it’s a separation caused by physical distance or emotional, it’s a wide ocean to cross. And sometimes, I get in the middle of that ocean, and I can’t see the other side, and I feel battered and lost, like the storm will never end. But what peace there is in knowing I have friends who are doing all they can to guide me to the shore.

Even though you are drowning in valleys of echoes
I believe there is peace in those hills up ahead
You will climb ‘til you find places you’ll never let go
And I will also be here praying just like I said*

I do feel like I’m drowning sometimes. But there is peace ahead. I believe that. I have to believe it. And the climb is hard. And the peaks are often shrouded by fog. But I will make it.

Because my friends are praying.

Just like they said.

*I Hurt Too, by Katie Herzig

Misplaced

Posted by Brandy – December 30, 2008

About a week ago, I boarded a plane for home. Of course, it was the holidays, and traveling during the holidays is a terrible, awful, no good, very bad idea. After a delayed flight out of Colorado, I found myself standing in Cincinnati, watching my plane taxi down the runway–without me on it.

My physical response said it all. I stood hunched over at the ticket counter, staring at the ground while the Delta employee printed out my hotel voucher. I trudged away, dragging my bag behind me, feeling utterly dejected. I knew it wasn’t the end of the world. I knew I would see my family in another 12 hours or so. I knew there were people stranded in airports. I knew there were people much worse off than me. I knew. I knew. I knew.

But none of that mattered. I just felt tired and sad. Because those 12 hours I was going to miss with my family were precious to me. And being alone, in this town where I knew no one, staying alone at the hotel, none of that was in my plan. And as I boarded the shuttle with a dozen other weary travelers, I just felt misplaced.

Now, please understand me. I was not feeling spiritual. Not in the least bit. Many of the things I was thinking were as far from spiritual as you could get. But in that moment, a thought came to mind.

You’re not the only person who has felt misplaced at Christmas.

And at first, I was like, seriously? Seriously? You’re going to try to teach me a lesson about Christmas right now? When I am cranky and angry and sad? And a pretty cliche one at that. You’re going to go all “no room in the inn” on me?

See, I told you I wasn’t feeling spiritual. At all.

But the thought had already taken root. And suddenly, I couldn’t get the thought of Mary and Joseph out of my head. Of them as exhausted, dusty travelers. Wandering through a foreign city. Dazed and frightened. Did anybody help them? Offer Mary a cup of water. Give Joseph directions?

And when they finally got to the stable–did Mary have frustrated tears in her eyes? Was Joseph angry at the deviation from the plan?

I always wondered if Mary and Joseph told Jesus the story of his birth. If they described the exhausting journey and told him about his humble beginnings. Did they reflect on the smells and sights of their son’s birth each year? As the years passed, did they laugh about the irony of using a feeding trough for a cradle?

How misplaced they must have felt. But they weren’t misplaced. They were exactly where they were intended to be.

In the center of God’s plan.

In the city of David, a savior was born.

And they will find him, wrapped in cloths, laid in a manger.

And he will be called Immanuel.

I don’t know if there was a bigger reason for me missing my flight that night. Perhaps it was just to remind me that there is a plan for me. And that, while this is not my home, I am not misplaced. God knows exactly where I am. He is in control. Even when all else is chaos.

Sweat the small stuff

Posted by Brandy – June 24, 2008

When I was home a month or so ago, I came across some old pictures (hence the Glamour Shots). As I looked at one of them, I realized that I could actually remember going to get that picture taken.

I remember loving the yellow dress, even if the elastic did make red indents on my stomach.

I remember riding the escalator to the photo studio at the mall.

I remember the feel of rough green “grass” underneath my knees.

I remember the photographer’s commands (tilt your head, put your hands on your knees, right on left, your other right, look at me, don’t look over there, look at me, say cheese, snap).

It was weird to me that I remembered all of that. But I’ve found that most of my childhood memories are random moments. Few involve life-changing experiences.

But I think it’s those random moments that form life change.

And I think that should make me cautious. Cautious because it’s the little things I say and do that people will remember.

If I make a snide, hurtful comment to someone, they will remember that. They will remember my ridicule, my thoughtless words, far beyond any memory I have of those moments.

So I will strive for random moments that bring a smile. A silly note, a whispered encouragement. A hug, a helping hand. A quick phone call, a surprise visit. A smile, a laugh.

I will learn to sweat the small stuff.

Back in the summer of…

Posted by Brandy – June 1, 2008

I’m writing a book. Okay, it’s the proverbial book that every writer is writing. But the other day my friend Krissy posted a blog about summer, and it prompted me to pull up one of the chapters of this autobiographical “book” and share it on here.

What’s your favorite summer memory?

————–

I’m bored.

My summer break usually lasted approximately 37 minutes before I spoke those words. Immediately, I clapped my hands over my mouth, wishing I could take them back. Praying my mother hadn’t heard them.

But she always did. On a bad day, she relieved my boredom by putting a toilet brush and a bottle of Ajax in my hand. On the good days, she sent me outside to play.

Using my imagination on those long hot summer days was a survival tool. When faced with the thought of spending hours in our dry yard, surrounded by soy bean fields, I had to pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Most mornings, I found myself on the moon. I carefully prepared for the trip. My supplies were stuffed in my pockets—sandwich bags, tweezers swiped from the medicine cabinet, a spoon. My bicycle helmet went on my head and my snow boots on my bare feet. I tromped through the yard, lifting my knees high in an awkward, anti-gravity march.

I crouched in the dusty yard, collecting samples. Warm dirt filled plastic bags, which I carefully clothes-pinned to my belt. I dug at moon rocks, moon dust collecting beneath my fingernails. At the inflatable pool I scooped up murky water in paper cups. I pulled the pool aside, then carefully pinched bugs with the tweezers, dropping them, squirming, into the bags. Soon my pockets sagged with specimens, and I spread them out in the shade, holding each one close to my face, jotting notes in a stained notebook.

At lunchtime, mom helped me peel off my boots and remove my helmet. My sweaty hair was plastered to my head as we ate lunch on the shaded porch. Bologna on soft white bread that stuck to my teeth. Drippy popsicles in clear plastic sleeves that I would slurp on until my cheeks ached.

After lunch, I needed to escape the heat. I walked around to the side of our trailer and swung open the door to the crawl space under the house. The bright sunlight only traveled a few feet in, leaving the rest of the area black. I crawled in, my face close to the cool, damp ground. Every few feet I glanced back, finding comfort in the square of sunlight over my shoulder.

I had never been in a cave, but this was how I imagined it. The heavy darkness. The thick cobwebs. The prickle of fear. I pulled out my pink Barbie flashlight and shone it around me. Its thin beam barely moved the darkness. I licked my dry lips, tasting grape.

In the middle of the space, I stopped, sitting cross-legged, my breath ragged. Somewhere, I could hear my mom walking through the house. The realization that she was just a few steps above me gave me confidence. Until I dropped my flashlight.

It sank slowly into a deep puddle filled with rain water. I plunged my arm in after it, but it was too deep. The darkness rushed in and I crouched next to the hole until the light flickered and went out. I jumped as water roared through the pipes by my head. The square of sunlight seemed miles away. So I screamed.

I heard my mother’s feet pound above me. Then I heard her voice in the yard. Coming closer. Until finally, her face appeared in the doorway. She quickly crawled towards me until the smell of her perfume filled the moldy air. “Blow,” she commanded as she pinched my runny nose with the hem of her shirt. She wiped my muddy face, then crawled next to me back into the sunlight.

Mom sighed as she surveyed my mud-caked clothes and scraped knees. “Arms up,” she said as she stripped off my t-shirt. She uncoiled the fat green garden hose and turned the spray on me. I squealed at the shocking cold against my sun-burned skin. The grass turned soft in the puddle at my feet and I opened my mouth, sputtering as my cheeks filled with the icy water. I stood shivering as mom got an old beach towel from the house and wrapped me in it.

I sat on the porch, the sun drying my skin. My hair hung thick and ropy around my shoulders, and I shuddered at the thought of Mom combing out the tangles later that evening. I suddenly felt very tired—as though I really had traveled from the moon to a dank cave beneath the earth.

Brandy Campbell
Copyright 2008

If we don’t show up, who will…

Posted by Brandy – April 13, 2008

I saw this over on Shaun Groves’ blog. It’s a little long, but please watch the whole thing. It is beautiful, heart-breaking and inspiring.

Six years

Posted by Brandy – March 4, 2008

6 years.

2,190 days.

52,560 hours.

6 years since I saw his face.

2,190 days since I heard his laugh.

52,560 hours since he told me I love you.

6 years I have known grief.

2,190 days I have known loss .

52,560 hours I have known pain.

6 years feel like yesterday.

2,190 days feel like forever.

52,560 hours feel like today.

6 years I’ve missed him.

2,190 days I’ve missed him.

52,560 hours I’ve missed him.

6 years.

2,190 days.

52,560 hours.