Category: Introspective

Trinkets

Posted by Brandy – February 28, 2008

A friend of mine is going to Ethiopia this weekend, and since I have two Compassion kiddos there, he agreed to take gifts to them.

Have you ever tried to shop for a child in poverty. It’s an odd feeling. Knowing the money I was spending on trinkets was a month’s salary for their parents. But also reflecting on the fact that these kids don’t get gifts. Their parents don’t pick up a toy on the way home from work.

As I walked the aisles of the local Stuff-Mart, fingering stuffed animals and colorful packs of crayons, my heart felt very full. And I just started to pray over the stuff filling up my cart. And please, don’t think I’m this overly spiritual person. I’m not. At all. Which is what made this moment in the crowded aisles that much more special. That holy. My normally worldly mind was filled with heavenly thoughts.

I prayed that the teddy bear with the soft fur would bring comfort to little Nardos. That she would hug it close when there were shouts in the alleyway outside her house.

I prayed that Baheru would use his imagination as he peered through his new binoculars. That he would point the lenses to something beautiful–to a green tree, or an ant crawling in the dirt.

I prayed that Nardos’ new t-shirt and necklace would remind her that someone thousands of miles away loved her.

I prayed that each time Baheru turned on his flashlight, it would chase away the darkness and fears.

And on they went. As I packed the items carefully into small backpacks later that night, I had a hard time perceiving the fact that, in a few days, these gifts would be opened on the dusty floors of mud huts. I can only pray that these tokens will bring a bit of joy to children surrounded by despair.

Captain Random

Posted by Brandy – December 3, 2007

So, I have no idea what to blog about today. I keep getting these thoughts, and I think, oh, I should blog about that. But it’s just a sentence or so worth of thoughts. Not enough for a whole blog. But I tell ya, they’re real gems. So I’m just going to do a little bulleted list for ya. ‘Cause that’s how I roll.

  • I’m struggling with Christmas presents this year. I don’t know what my issue is. Sunday, I went to the mall. And guess what I came home with. Go ahead, guess. A cranberry limeade.
  • I just realized that the shorts I’m wearing right this second are more than 10 years old. They’re my gym shorts from high school. And they bring back terrible memories. Of hanging from the pull-up bar. Tripping over my own feet on the track. Being the catcher in softball and getting cracked in the shins with the ball. But they’re comfy. And I think it’s my act of defiance to sleep in them. Not sure how that works. Oh well.
  • Speaking of high school, my 10-year reunion is coming up. Combined with the fact that my mom called me old the other day has left me contemplating my age. I know I’m not old. But as I quickly come up on 30, I can’t help but think about what I thought my life would look like at 30, and what it really looks like. Bittersweet.
  • One of my old roommates is Biblegirl. That’s right. The Biblegirl. And I just discovered that her name is on Wikipedia. I’m friends with someone on Wikipedia. I’m like almost cool. Alright! (Plus, I totally wrote her bio. I am cool. Honest.)
  • This weekend, I made cookie dough. Lots of cookie dough. 15+ dozen hunks of sugary sweetness now languish in my freezer. Mmmmm, I love Christmas cookies.
  • If I could, I would sleep under my Christmas tree. But there’s not enough room. And if my apartment caught on fire, the firemen would probably wonder what I was doing sleeping under the tree. I don’t feel like answering to the firemen.

I think that’s it. I love randomness.

Not always as it seems…

Posted by Brandy – September 14, 2007

When I was in college, I was in charge of promoting concerts and coffeehouses. I was also the editor of the paper, so in addition to making sure riders were fulfilled and artists were fed, I also often had a chance to interview said artists. And in the three years that I served in those roles, I became pretty disillusioned. I attended a Christian school, so all of the artists were brought in were believers. I often was ministered to by their music, sang along with their worship songs. Until I met them.

I’m not going to name names and tales too. But I will say that they were some of the rudest, most verbally abusive, and just plain mean people I’ve ever met. There were those who got up and moved to another table when I sat next to them. There was the band that made me stand outside of their tour bus in a thunder storm while they checked to make sure I got their take-out orders right…and then forgot about me. There was the  guy who made me carry all of his merchandise back to the tour bus while he sat and watched.

After being yelled at, berated and talked-down to, I would often walk back to my dorm, pull out those CDs that days before had ministered to me, and cracked them in two. Because I couldn’t handle the disconnect.

It’s now nearly ten years later. Finally, I can see that all of my experiences weren’t bad. I met some INCREDIBLE people through those experiences…people who I still am in touch with today.

But more than that, I’m trying to learn to give those people grace. To realize that, I saw a tiny moment in their lives. Maybe they weren’t feeling well. Maybe they missed their family. Maybe, I judged them too quickly, too harshly.

I’ll be honest, the memories of many of their actions still sting. And most of them–well, I still can’t listen to their music. But I’m praying for a forgiving heart, and a less judgmental mind. Not just for people I see in a fleeting backstage moment, but also for those I encounter daily.

And I’m trying to remember that I only see in part.

Mother Teresa’s Crisis of Faith

Posted by Brandy – September 4, 2007

Mother Teresa Recently, I read an article about Mother Teresa in Time magazine, about her so-called “crisis of faith.” Since this story has been all over the place lately, I won’t really rehash it here. (You can read it in the above link, if you like.)

Since I read this article, I can’t stop thinking about it. Phrases like these have just gotten under my skin, and stayed there:

  • extravagantly dissonant
  • self-contradiction
  • seemingly peaceful
  • Jesus took himself away
  • Teresa finally woke up

I’m not here to discuss whether Mother Teresa was a Christian (between her and God), or her methods of ministering to those living in Calcutta. I’m here to discuss people’s perceptions of a Christian who has a crisis of faith.

I think the thing that made me the most angry about the article in Time was their implication that Mother Teresa’s doubts meant that Jesus was no longer “present.” What the heck does that mean anyway? When I’m angry at someone, when I don’t understand someone’s actions, it doesn’t mean that I think they’re gone. Granted, I understand with God, it’s different. I’ve never physically seen God. So it can be easy to not “feel” his presence. Especially when I’m mired in this sinful fallen world–mired in my own sin.

And I think that’s what gets me the most about the recent criticism of Mother Teresa. Those people, the ones who refer to the “dissonance” and “contradiction”–have any of them seen poverty first-hand? Do any of them understand what it’s like to look in the face of a begging child, her belly swollen by malnutrition? Have they seen a mother die slowly, painfully of AIDS–while her children watch? Watched a teenager sell her body so her family can eat?

Because if they had seen those things, they wouldn’t ask, “how could Mother Teresa have had doubts?” They would ask “where did she find the strength to keep going?”

Another thing that drives me crazy, is the assumption that Mother Teresa’s doubts cancelled out her faith. The claim that she must have been less than honest when she spoke about her love of Christ, her faith in the Lord. That, is one of the most erroneous beliefs I’ve heard. I can only thank God that he forgives my unbelief–that He makes me whole, despite my brokeness.

Again, I’m not making any kind of judgement call on Mother Teresa herself. I’m just saying, I know what it’s like to have doubts, to be so angry, so confused, so filled with grief, that I can’t see straight–I can’t see God. And I find comfort in knowing that other people who proclaim Jesus as Lord have dealt with the same feelings.

So, when I read Mother Teresa’s words, read her fears and her doubts, I sympathize. And I will claim her words as my own:

Come, be my light.

How great is our God

Posted by Brandy – August 19, 2007

How great is our God…

Worship used to be simple. I remember being in college, singing songs with all of my friends in a crowded worship service. I believed the words I sang. I had no reason not to believe them. I sang with a simple faith–a naive faith–an untested faith.

Sing with me…

This morning in church, I realized my faith is different now–my worship is different. Because now, when I sing those words, thoughts float through my mind, challenging the words I sing. Images of a child begging on the street. A friend in the hospital. Loved ones at a funeral. Those words aren’t as easy to sing. They require thought, effort.

How great is our God…

Sometimes I can’t sing them. It hurts too much. My chest aches. The reality of this fallen world becomes too much. I question instead of praise. Cry instead of worship.

And all will see how great…

But then, other times, I worship, not in spite of the darkness, but in the midst of it. I worship because, in spite of the poverty, disease and death, God is still in control. I don’t understand it. It makes no sense to me. But I believe it. I cling to it.

How great…

Because God has proven Himself faithful. I have felt His presence in the darkness. I felt it when I looked in the eyes of that begging child, as I touched her face. I felt it in the hospital room, as I prayed for healing–even if that healing didn’t come. He was present at the funeral, the only thing holding my family together in the midst of grief. So I believe. And worship. And wait for the day when I will see Him face-to-face.

Is our God.

Letters

Posted by Brandy – July 15, 2007

Beside my bed, there sits a brown basket filled with letters. Any time I get a piece of mail with a handwritten note, it goes in my basket. An all-to-rare occurence in this day of emails and text messages, but I digress (and wow, do I sound old).

Today, I was cleaning, and I gathered up a pile of letters that have accumulated over the past year, and put them in my basket. As my fingers brushed against those worn envelopes, I decided to look through them. Two hours later, I sat on my bed, surrounded by cards and envelopes, my face wet with tears.

Those letters tell the story of my life. There are the letters from my first summer working at camp. Postcards from my friend’s travels. Notes of encouragement when I lost my job. Sympathy cards when my stepdad died. Scrawled notes on napkins. Elaborate Christmas cards.

They are my history. They span ten years. Eight addresses.  Some are from family members I talk to every week. Others from friends who I haven’t spoken with in years.

I miss getting letters. I miss writing letters. Heck, I even miss licking stamps. (I’m weird, I know).

So tonight, although my body was screaming at me to go to bed, I pulled out my stationary and wrote a few letters. And tomorrow, I plan to write some more. Maybe I’ll even get a few to put in my basket.

Stop the presses…

Posted by Brandy – July 11, 2007

So, I think I had an epiphany last night. At Bible study, we were discussing the mystery of God–primarily the mystery of our relationship with God. How things like the Holy Spirit, and God’s love for His children are mysteries. Very hard, if not impossible to understand.

And I realized how hard “mysteries” are for me. How I just want to know the answer. How knowing the answer makes me feel like I have some modicum of control (ha!). And it all kind of clicked in my mind. I’ve gone through a very long period of asking God questions. Good little journalist that I am, I’ve been shoving my tape recorder in His face, ready to record his answers. God, why did you take me on this path? Why did you allow (fill in the blank) to happen to me? To my family? Why is there sin? Why is there pain? Why, why, why?

I don’t know if you’ve ever interviewed someone. I’ve done it quite a bit. And there’s a definite line between the interviewer and the interviewee. I’ve had pleasant interviews. I’ve had tedious interviews. But they’ve always been interviews. Chatting is at a minimum. You keep things as short, and concise as possible. You’re not buddies. You’re working.

And that’s how I’ve been treating my relationship with God. It hasn’t been an intimate, friendly, child talking to her father. It’s been me, scrawling notes in my notebook, trying to get the answers. While, all along, God just wants to love me. Will he give me answers? Sometimes.

But I’d rather he call me daughter instead of reporter.

Can you see me?

Posted by bcgal80 – June 25, 2007


I realized something this weekend.

I spent much of my childhood and adolescence trying to be invisible. I didn’t want people to notice me. In elementary school, I was painfully shy. When it was my turn to read out loud, I would fly through the words– onefishtwofishredfishbluefish–desperate to just get them out, get it over with. Desperate for all eyes to be trained on someone other than me.

In middle school it became a survival instinct. Like an animal in the wild blends in with its surroundings, I too tried to blend in. Fly under the radar. Not call attention to my clumsiness. My awkwardness. My nerdiness.

And on it went. I was pretty good at it. Too good maybe. Because it was in my teen years I realized I couldn’t just turn it off. It wasn’t like a light switch–now you see me now you don’t. I had spent my life blending in, flying under the radar. And now nobody would notice me. I camped at the same summer camp five summers in a row. Yet nobody knew me. Beyond my close ciricle of friends, people knew nothing about me. Sure, they may know my name, may recognize my face. But that’s all.

I feel like I’m still fighting it. It’s my natural instinct to sink back, observe, blend in. I was reminded of that at church this Sunday. I went to the late service, which I rarely do, and sat by myself, which I usually do. During the greeting time, a couple introduced themselves, asking if this was my first time. I had to tell them that I had been attending this church for a year. In the foyer after the service, I was chatting with one of the kids from my first grade Sunday school class, which I teach during the school year. Her mother stared at me blankly–How do you know my child? she asked. And I had to tell her that I had taught her daughter for nine months.

So, I don’t really know what to do. Or if there’s anything I even should do. I don’t want to be the center of the party.

I just want you to know my name.

So much stuff…

Posted by bcgal80 – April 10, 2007

Last week, I almost had a panic attack in Target.

My cupboards were COMPLETELY bare, and eating stale potato chips for breakfast was getting old, so I decided to run to Target to pick up some groceries. As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized it was the first time I had gone shopping since I returned from Ethiopia. As I stood in the crowded aisles, I felt compeltely overwhelmed by all of the stuff. Sodas stacked ten rows deep. Wracks of sparkling jewelry. Enough food to feed entire villages in Africa. As I held a pack of Easter candy in my hand, contemplating that the cost equalled an Ethiopian farmer’s pay for a week, I just wanted to run away. How do I find that balance between poverty and gluttony? How can people starve there while we gorge ourselves here? How do I reconcile those differences? How?

I pushed my squeaky cart down the shiny-tiled aisles, my head aching. I signed my credit card slip without looking at it. I willed the hot, angry tears not to fall from my eyes. Because I don’t understand it. I don’t know the answer. Children are starving, but that doesn’t mean I should starve. Because they have no money for medical care doesn’t mean I should not go to the doctor. Where is the inbetween?

God has blessed me so I can bless others. When I break that cycle, the truth about my heart is revealed. When I break that cycle, the scales tip crazily. When I break that cycle, I find myself crying at Target.

I mustn’t break the cycle.

Nobody knows

Posted by bcgal80 – March 6, 2007

Nobody here knows about March 5. Nobody knows that’s the day that changed my life forever. The day that I lost the man who raised me as his own daughter. The day a part of me died.

I keep thinking that it will get easier. And perhaps it has. The pain is less sharp. The grief less crippling. But it’s still there. And every year, I try to fight it. But at the end of the day, it’s like I’ve worn a rain jacket into the ocean. There’s just too much of it. It washes over me, cold waves that leave me gasping for breath. I surface only for a moment, bobbing on the next crest before being sucked under again.

But nobody here knows. They didn’t know that it took every single ounce of energy I had to get off my couch tonight and be around other people. They don’t know that the worship songs I sang felt like gravel in my mouth–hard and gritty. They don’t know that as I drove home I sobbed, waiting for the clock to turn to midnight, so I could say the day was officially over.

They don’t know because I don’t tell them. How does that just come up in conversation? “Hey, did you know that my stepdad died five years ago today?” I hate the uncomfortable looks that come with that conversation. The mixture of pity and surprise that I’m not “over it” yet. What does that even mean? Will I ever be over it? Should I be?

Thirty-nine minutes ago, March 6 came. March 5 faded away, until next year. But this grief I feel has little respect for the calendar. It cannot be confined to this one day a year. On that day, though, it gains strength. For a day, I can’t forget.