Category: Introspective

The body and the blood

Posted by bcgal80 – March 5, 2007

I’ve always grown up taking communion once a quarter. Four times a year we would pass the silver plates through the pews, four times a year I would chew on a dry square of bread, four times a year my hands would shake as I pulled a plastic cup filled with juice from its slot–not because I was emotional, but because I was afraid I would spill it. I heard the familar words–”Do this in remembrance of me”–but my mind was usually on what was for lunch, or how much longer the service would last.

I don’t blame my church for my poor attitude. I just never fully grasped the importance of what I was doing. It took me years to get to a place where I viewed the Lord’s Supper with any kind of reverence. And my heart’s still not where it should be.

But this Sunday, I had a moment of clarity. The church I attend now takes communion much more frequently, maybe even once a month, but it’s a little different each time. Sometimes we stay in our seats and pass the sacraments. Other times we walk to the front. Once we walked to the back. I’ve knelt below a cross, stood in praise, sat in silence. This Sunday, as I walked back to my seat, a bit of cracker in one hand, a thimble-full of juice in the other, I felt broken. I prayed fitfully, but my words felt jumbled. So finally I silenced my tongue by placing the breaad in my mouth. And I felt like the Lord was just telling me “Be quiet. Take of my body.” So I did. I chewed and quieted my mind. The bread was dry, scratching my throat, making me thirst. “Drink.” The cool, sweet liquid filled my mouth as tears pooled in my eyes.

This Do In Remembrance of Me.

Sometimes, I don’t understand…

Posted by bcgal80 – February 7, 2007

I work for a ministry that serves children in poverty all around the world. More than 800,000 children in 24 countries. It’s an incredible ministry, and I love what I do.

But sometimes, it’s hard. Despite all that we do, children in our program still die. Every week, all the employees are given a prayer guide. We pray for our staff overseas, and those who sponsor our children. And every week, on the back of this small brochure, is a list of children who died in the past week.

Vitoria.

Juan.

Carlos.

Jenifer.

Andrea.

Statistically, it’s a small number. But they’re not a number. They’re children. Children shouldn’t die. But they do. Every single day, 30,000 children under the age of 5 die. And each week, I see the names of a dozen or so of them. And a lump forms in my throat. And I know that for every ten I see on the list, there are hundreds of thousands who are making it–who are overcoming this poverty that tries to crush them.

But until the day when all of God’s children are safe, I will mourn.

27 and going strong

Posted by bcgal80 – January 9, 2007

So, last week was my birthday. Birthdays are kind of weird for me now. For my first twenty-two birthdays, I spent every single one with my family. There was a party every year, albeit a small one. There were Barbie cakes, surprise parties, sleepovers, and everything inbetween.

And now, it’s just different. A few birthdays were spent in crowded airports. Last year was spent stranded at a hotel when three days worth of flights were canceled. This year was definitely better than that.

But birthdays are hard now. And weird. Like, for example, this year, I got shots on my birthday. No, not the drunken, alcohol-filled shots. The big needle in the arm shots. It was for a good reason…in preparation for my upcoming trip to Africa…but they were still big nasty shots…on my birthday. So my birthday presents to myself were vaccinations against hepatitis, polio, yellow fever, typhoid, meningitis, and a big fat tetanus shot to round things out.

I think birthdays are weird now because nobody here really knows it’s my birthday…or really cares that much. Please know that’s not a “woe is me” statement…it’s just a fact. My friendship here are still new, people just don’t know me that well. So my birthday is not the earth-shattering holiday that it was at home.

But having said all that, my Bible study group did sing happy birthday to me…some friends took me out for dinner the day after, and another friend treated me to lunch that weekend. And I had lots of emails and well-wishes.

So, how was my birthday? It was painful, happy, sad, and lots of stuff inbetween.

Home is…where?

Posted by bcgal80 – January 3, 2007

I still don’t know what to call home. When I left Denver for Virginia, I said I was going home. When I tearfully left Virginia for Colorado, I said I was going home. I don’t even know what home is anymore exactly.

It’s always hard for me to leave Virginia and head back to whereever I happen to be living at the moment. Virginia is comfortable to me. I know what to expect. I know that I’ll eat tons of vegetables cooked in heavy pots with ham or bacon. I know that I’ll yell at our dog as he tries to place his muddy paws on my jeans. I know that my mom and I will sit on the couch, my feet in her lap, watching a movie, each of us covered in hand-made afghans. I know that women with white hair and wrinkled cheeks will grasp my hand as I help them down the stairs at church. I know that my arguments with my brother will somehow always end in laughter. I know.

But I also know that small town in rural Virginia is not the place for me right now. There’s no room for me to stretch, to grow. The things I need from life right now, I can’t get there. I know that.

So, Monday evening I watched the sun set on a bright red horizon somewhere over Missouri. And I flew home.

Welcome to our World

Posted by bcgal80 – December 11, 2006

So, this morning was kind of an emotional one at church. Lots of ups and downs. We’re doing a series on advent, and each Sunday a family/couple/individual lights the candle. This week’s candle represented peace, and the family who lit it is going through an extremely difficult time. The mother, who has four children, the youngest in just 1st grade, is dealing with cancer for the second time. She has a long, difficult time ahead of her, and the Prince of Peace is the only one who can provide the peace that family needs.

As the family walked back down the aisle, the worship leader began to sing “Welcome to our World,” one of my favorite Christmas songs. And as this beautiful woman walked by me, I heard her singing…”wrap our injured flesh around you, breathe our air and walk our sod.” And I just couldn’t take it. The miracle of the advent, the mess of the world we live in, that deep longing for a home I’ve never seen…it all came crashing down on me. My tears formed jagged circles on the paper-thin pages of my Bible. And I prayed for peace.

Then, after the service, I was off to teach Sunday school. I love my kids. They’re cute, they’re fun, and they had way too much sugar this morning. By the time I herded them to Bible story, I was feeling a little frazzled. But then, mere minutes later, I stood in the back of the room and heard their sweet voices singing “Silent Night,” and the tears began again. I wondered how much they understood of the Christmas carols they sang. I wondered how much I understood.

It’s no wonder I was ready for a nap by 1 this afternoon.

Let Us Not Make His Birth Common

Posted by bcgal80 – December 4, 2006

*Note, I realize a lot of you have already read this. But when I looked back through old blogs, I realized I had never posted it. So, here goes!*

Let Us Not Make His Birth Common
Brandy Campbell
December 10, 2003
I love Christmastime. But as I sit here in my darkened living room, watching the lights on the tree twinkle, inhaling the scent of cranberries and cinnamon, I wonder if I understand the season I love.

I fear that I am not amazed by the advent. I’m afraid that I’ve allowed Christmas carols to influence my thinking, when in fact the story of Jesus’ birth cannot adequately be summed up in a few verses sung by a choir.

It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around the miracle of Jesus’ birth. Not only the miracle of a virgin bearing a child; more the miracle that God allowed himself to be born. That he allowed himself to be bound up by skin and bone and blood.

Jesus left behind the streets of gold and crystal sea for the dirty roads and muddy rivers of earth. The hands that formed all of creation now clutch the finger of the one who just gave birth to him. The voice that spoke forth the beginning of time is now reduced to cries and coos. The eyes that saw the past, present and future now struggle to focus. He left the crown for a cradle and a cross. He used to listen to the songs of the angels. Now he listens to the shaky, frightened lullaby of Mary. He left a place we can’t even imagine to go to a place we sometimes wish we could forget.

And what’s amazing is He knew what would happen. He knew the physical pain—Jesus knew that he was leaving a place of no sickness to live in a world festering with it. Jesus came here knowing that he would have skinned knees and blisters, stomachaches and stubbed toes. He knew that ultimately he would face a humiliating death, beaten, stripped naked, and suffocated. Thorns gouging his brow. The searing pain of a spear in his side. Rusted nails splintering bones.
I mustn’t forget that Jesus left a place where there were no tears to come here. What was it like the first time he felt hot tears on his cheeks? He was tempted, abandoned by his friends and family, mocked, ridiculed, and forsaken. He wept. Why did he do it? We all know the pat answer: to save us. But couldn’t there have been an easier way? Did he really have to be all human? Couldn’t he have taken away His pain? Couldn’t he have struck dumb those who would mock him? Paralyze those who would beat him?

But Jesus chose the path He did, knowing the consequences, knowing the costs, knowing the reward. And it all began at Christmas. In a city crowded with strangers, a young girl knelt on the hard ground, giving birth to the Savior. Did Joseph pace nearby, looking up at the sky, crying out for help, for answers. When Mary held her child in her arms, could she understand the reality of it? When she laid him at her breast, did she realize her milk was nourishing her creator?

I don’t think she understood. I don’t think her human mind could wrap itself around the deity in her arms. I know mine can’t. I can only pray that the Christmas season will bring with it more amazement than familiarity. May I never make the birth of my Lord common.

Divided

Posted by bcgal80 – January 27, 2005

My soul is torn, divided between my past, present, and future. I don’t understand how it works, this dividing of my emotions, conflict of my mind. Part of me longs for what was. I miss being with my family, my greatest stress coming from who would speak to me at school. I miss my innocence, before I knew the people who hid behind their masks, before I knew what I had behind my mask. I long for my excitement for life, my fresh-faced exuberance that has been replaced by ulcers and worries.Even as I look longingly over my shoulder at the past, I cling desperately to the present, trying to hold on to that which cannot be grasped. Even as I whine about the real world, I find an odd comfort in the monotony. On the first I pay my rent. Even Thursday is Bible study. Pay day is the 26th. My life is dictated by my planner, and I like it that way.

Until I think about the future, which I peek at through trembling fingers. To look at it fully would paralyze me, rooted in place like Lot’s wife (who ironically enough was turning to the past.” How can I long for the unknown when I long so for the known? How can those checklists that I love one moment pin me to the floor of this earth the next? I cry out for God to show me His will, to lead me, all the while hoping He will let me stay in this place I loudly hate.
How can I do it? Look over my shoulder. Cling to the present. Strain for the future. I wasn’t made for this place. I swear it’s my home but feel my soul bursting, longing for my real home. I don’t understand how I can long for a place I’ve never been while fearing to part this place I hate.

I cry “Lord take me home…but not today.” Because as much as my soul rebels against this place, my flesh and bone knows no other.

And therein lies the rub. My soul knows the truth, but it’s buried in this rotting sin. It will triumph. It will overcome. When my flesh fades away and my soul finally breaks free, I will be one. I will be reconciled.

Lord, please hurry

A Time for Everything

Posted by bcgal80 – January 17, 2005

A Time for Everything

There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die…

For little Landis, the time to be born was followed too closely by a time to die. I never saw him, but I went to his funeral and stared through watery eyes at a white casket not much bigger than a shoebox. I can’t quite wrap my mind around how small six ounces is, but I do know that it’s too small to survive on this earth. So I stood there in the biting cold, a lump in my throat and tears that never quite made it past my eyes, watching my friend sob over the baby that she never got to cuddle or feed or bathe. But she did get to love him. Those eighteen weeks she carried her child inside her she loved him with the fierce love of a mother. A love that I marvel at.

And I grappled with the questions. Why was her time to rejoice cut short by a time to grieve? Why was a piece of her heart bound up with that grave in the frozen ground? Why did it happen this way?

But my questions were cut short by the words of our pastor, who said that Landis’s life, as brief as it was, touched the lives of that small group huddled together in the cold. And it would touch other’s through the lives of his parents, his grandparents, his aunts and uncles. I still don’t understand it, but once again I must find comfort in God’s perfection. And I have to believe that Landis’s parents will get to hold him one day. Until then, these frozen tears will serve as a reminder of the one we lost.

I don’t understand

Posted by bcgal80 – January 12, 2005

Every day I realize a little more how little I understand about life. This latest realization began about a month ago when I went to visit a friend in the hospital who had just had her first child. I remember sitting in a rocking chair in her room and holding this tiny little baby, just a few hours old, and thinking what a miracle it was. He wrapped his tiny hand around my finger, he tried to focus his eyes on my face, and he let out lusty cries. And it was all amazing.

Then four weeks later I was standing in another hospital, looking down at another baby. A baby whose tiny body should have still been sheltered inside his mother. A tube down his throat breathed for him, and wires snaked out from his body in such a manner that his own mother couldn’t even hold him, but could only stroke his cheek. His body, no bigger than my hand, shuddered with silent cries that he couldn’t force around the respirator. I couldn’t see it, but I knew that his tiny brain was bleeding and his heart was damaged. As I look at his mother, I know that she hasn’t slept in days, and the fear is evident in her eyes. Just 18 months ago her body brought forth another child, a little girl who only lived a few hours. I can see the pleading in her face: Please don’t let this happen again.

And finally, just today, I found out that a woman from my church, only 18-weeks pregnant, is in the hospital, fighting desperately to keep her child from a world where he can’t survive.

And I just can’t understand why.