I'm Just Sayin'

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of seeing two of my favorite kids on the planet get baptized. As I sat there and watched them come out of the water dripping and radiant, with a lump in my throat, I couldn’t help but think of the day I was baptized.

I was 13. Thirteen and silly and serious and immature and earnest. I was only beginning to understand grace, to relieve myself from the heavy load of guilt, to run my fingers along slippery the surface of peace.

There was so much I didn’t understand. But I knew that my heart was full of Jesus, and that my flesh was full of sin. I needed to be cleansed. I wanted to be pure.

So that Sunday morning, I pulled a thin white robe over my shorts and t-shirt. I stood waiting, clutching a white handkerchief in my shaking hands. I remember stepping into the water, surprised at how warm it was. Like bath water. I was comforted by that. I couldn’t come clean in cold water, could I?

The pastor asked me questions, about Jesus and faith. Then he nodded to me, and I placed the handkerchief over my face.

I baptize you…

I squeezed my eyes shut.

In the name of the Father…

I wrapped my hand around his arm.

The Son…

I felt the water move up toward my neck.

And the Holy Spirit.

The last words he spoke were swallowed up by the water. I remember thinking, my whole head has to go under, or my scalp won’t be purified. A different take on the story of Achilles.

And then I rose out of the water, sputtering, wiping the water out of my face. The air felt cool after the warmth of the water, and I shivered as I stepped out of the baptismal. I stumbled toward the bathroom, waterlogged and dripping.

I remembered that girl as I watched those two children wrap towels around themselves, dripping holiness all over the floor. I thought about her, and her innocence. There was so much she didn’t understand yet. So much she didn’t even know to guard herself against.

But she loved Jesus. With all of her heart.

And the puddle of grace on the floor.

Warning.

This is a post about Oprah.

Or rather, something I saw on Oprah yesterday.

Please know that this is not a reflection on the topics I agree with Oprah on. Or the topics I disagree with Oprah on. It is not about her politics or her spirituality.

Just wanted to get all of that out of the way.

Yesterday I was watching Oprah. The episode was largely about how she had impacted others. One part in particular had dozens, if not hundreds, of people walking into the arena–each a person Oprah had helped to go to school through her scholarship program.

Each person held a flickering candle, and soon the arena was filled with those pinpoints of light.

I’ll admit it. I teared up a bit. And so did Oprah.

And I sat there, and stared at the screen, and was just amazed at the legacy Oprah is leaving behind.

Of course, my next thought was, “What legacy will I leave behind?”

How will my family remember me? How will I build a legacy with a niece who lives thousands of miles away?

How will my friends remember me? Will I have impacted their lives for good?

How will my co-workers remember me? Will my work live on?

How will strangers remember me? Did my smile ever brighten someone’s day?

I pray that the legacy I leave behind will be one rich with love and loyalty. I pray I will be remembered as one who chased after God. Who tripped and fell, but kept getting back up.

I do not strive for perfection.

I only strive to finish the journey well.

What legacy will you leave behind?

1. Does Bono wear special night vision sunglasses? Because if I wore sunglasses inside, I would probably trip and fall a hundred times a day. Oh wait. I already do.

2. How does one get a cool nickname like The Edge? Because my nicknames just don’t even stand up to that.

3. Does Bono wear baby powder under his leather pants?

4. Where can I get one of those jackets that lights up?

5. What would it take to get Bono to say my name from the stage?

6. If Bono DID say my name from the stage, would I pass out?

7. I wonder of Bono noticed that I was having a good hair day. We were *thatclose* you know.

8. I’m pretty sure he did notice. He looked at my hair appreciatively, I think.

9. When was the last time Bono went to the movies? It must be hard to be Bono and go to the movies.

10. Bono must use the RedBox a lot.

Well, apparently I took a hiatus from my blog. An unplanned one, but a hiatus, nonetheless.

I’ve had plenty to talk about. But never quite sure how to say it.

Sometimes pictures say more than words.

Especially when words evade me.

It’s been a lovely month.

Full of beauty.

But I think I’m ready.

For words again.

Recently, I read the book “The Land Between” by Jeff Manion. The book details what it’s like to live between God’s promise, and the fruition of those promises. To live in a season of hope deferred that can last days, months, or years.

I was reminded of that season of life today, Holy Saturday. It’s curious that this isn’t a day that is really celebrated by Christians. Maybe because it is a day that represents quiet, stillness, laden with sadness, dark with uncertainty. Tomorrow, Easter Sunday, explodes with victory. Today, Holy Saturday, is heavy with waiting.

What did the disciples do on the first Holy Saturday? I can only compare it to the times when I’ve lost someone I love. That day after is foggy with grief. Filled with moments when you try to convince yourself that you’re slogging through a nightmare. But everywhere you look, reminders of Death. The casseroles piled on the counters. The constant lump in your throat. The reflection of your face, glimpsed in the mirror, tear-stained cheeks and hollow eyes.

Did Jesus’ closest friends wander through that same cloud of despair? Did his mother see things that reminded her of him? Did her eyes blur with tears when she saw a piece of clothing draped over a chair that belonged to him?

Today, on Holy Saturday, I am keenly aware of my own land between, and of the times of waiting for my friends. My prayers for them are said with a particular passion today-with a particular kinship with my Savior.

Today we wait.

Tomorrow we celebrate.

I’ve always had a hard time wrapping my mind around Good Friday. It’s hard for me to apply the word “good” to a day filled with jeering and ridicule and humiliation and blood and darkness and death.

Please know that I understand why the word Good must precede the word Friday. But I understand it in a bittersweet way. I understand that Jesus’ sacrifice is the only Good that can bear up under the weight of my sin. That the cross was the only horror that could compete with the blackness of my humanity.

But my heart hurts when I think of that Friday. Because in that moment, Good seemed to have fled. Hidden in a corner. Slipped away to the fringes of the crowd. There was a Master plan, but that Friday, few understood it. And one of those who did understand it was struggling to breathe His last breath.

I am thankful for the Good of Good Friday. I am thankful that God’s love overtook the darkness. That Jesus’ sacrifice was complete. That the veil tore. That Friday passed, Saturday fled, and Sunday triumphed.

A cross of all things–a guillotine, a gallows–but the cross at the same time as the crossroads of eternity and time, as the place where such a mighty heart was broken that the healing power of God himself could flow through it into a sick and broken world. – Frederick Buechner

I am, to put it delicately, random. I think my mind is just all over the place, so I just tend to blurt out things that I’ve been turning over and over in my head, but that may come across to outsiders as a little off.

Here are just a few things I’ve found myself blurting out over the past few months, with absolutely no preface whats. You should feel sorry for my friends.

• “Do you think it’s weird that every time I blow my nose it starts bleeding?”
• “So, I sat on a peanut butter cup last night. How do you get THAT stain out of your couch?”
• “Can you draw me a bird?”
• “I SHOULD BUY A BOAT!” (Which, is actually a movie quote, but if nobody gets it, is still kinda odd.)
• “I like your face.”
• “Look at these two new freckles on my nose. Aren’t they cute?”
• “If I get killed, will you pick out the picture for The Today Show?”
• “How do you feel about rhubarb?”

I don’t feel ready for Easter this year.

My heart doesn’t feel ready for the resurrection.

I feel unprepared to walk to the tomb. To find it empty.

I feel like Mary, arms laden with spices and oils. Heart laden with sadness.

Tripping down the path. Sandals sliding in the dirt. Cheeks dried by salty tears.

Mary didn’t have the Lenten season to prepare for Christ’s resurrection.

She had the moment between seeing the empty tomb and seeing the blinding glory of angels.

“He is not here.”

And then she remembered His words.

And the spices scattered in the wind as she ran to tell what she had seen.

I feel like that this Easter season.

Tear-stained face.

Heavy heart.

Confused.

Surprised.

Remembering.

Doubts scattered in the wind.

Fly fast away from the grave.

People ask me all the time what it’s like to be a writer.

Okay, not really. I actually don’t think anybody’s ever asked me that. In my life.

But in case you were interested, and were just too shy to ask me (ha), here is a day in the life of a writer, for your viewing pleasure

9:00 Finish reading emails and start collecting notes for writing assignment, that is due at 5:00 today.

9:10 Need to flesh out your notes, so go to UNICEF to figure out how many children live in Ethiopia.

9:15 Man, I love Ethiopia. I should find a good Ethiopian restaurant. Google local Ethiopian restaurants.

9:30 Email friend to see if she wants to go for Ethiopian food this week.

9:40 Remember your friend who adopted kids from Ethiopia. Email them to see how they’re doing.

9:50 Try to remember what you were doing before you got distracted by Ethiopia.

9:55 Snack time! Eat some fruit leather.

10:00 Drat, now you’re thirsty.

10:02 Go to the breakroom to get some water.

10:03 Oh look, someone you know in the breakroom! Find out how their weekend went.

10:15 Go back to desk.

10:16 Go back to breakroom to get your water bottle that you left on the counter.

10:17 Oh look, your friend emailed you back about eating Ethiopian food. Consult your calendar to see what night works.

10:20 Daydream about lentils and ghee and coffee and yummy Ethiopian food.

10:22 Why are you so hungry?

10:23 See UNICEF site pulled up and remember what you were doing.Take notes.

11:00 Consider yourself an expert on children in Ethiopia. Decide that deserves a break.

11:05 Start looking for someone to go to lunch with.

11:15 Gather together a group to go to Chick-Fil-A.

12:30 Return to the office all hopped on chicken grease and sweet tea.

12:45 Get the chicken sweats.

1:00 Outline article.

1:30 Outline article again because the first outline was dumb.

1:45 Hate outline. Wonder what will happen when you get permanent writer’s block.

1:55 FREAK OUT. YOU’RE NOT A GOOD WRITER. WHO EVER TOLD YOU THAT YOU COULD WRITE?

2:10 Outline numero three.

2:25 Hey, this one isn’t so bad.

2:30 Go looking for chocolate.

2:40 Clean Snickers off your keyboard.

2:45 Write your first paragraph.

2:55 Ugh, that paragraph sucked.

3:00 Pray for inspiration. And then check your email. Maybe God emailed you?

3:05 OH MY GOSH THIS ARTICLE IS DUE IN AN HOUR.

3:10 Decide that your first paragraph isn’t so bad.

3:15 Word count-20. Surely that isn’t right.

3:25 Word count 60. You’re 10 percent there!

3:45 Self-edit. Hate yourself.

4:00 Email first draft. Also known as crappy first draft (that’s the PG version). Pray you won’t get fired.

The other night I was at a friend’s house, hanging out with my friend and her daughter. My friend’s daughter was basically plucked from a Raphael painting of cherubic angels. She has these adorable cheeks, and big eyes, and blonde hair and this adorable little rosebud mouth. She is precious.

But, it was getting late, and this little cherub was beginning to get a little cranky. And then, my friend’s husband, this little angel’s daddy, had the nerve to walk into the room and sit in a chair. A chair that the little one had apparently deemed her very own personal property.

She did NOT want her daddy sitting in that chair. To the tune of lots of tears and sobs and shrieks and sounds that were reminiscent of a monster drowning in hot lava.

Her dad tried to calm her. Offered to share his chair with her. Pulled her writhing body up beside him only to have her cries escalate as she pushed away.

I watched the scene play out, watched my friends parent their tired little one. And then a thought started to work its way into my brains.

I don’t often spiritualize a lot of things in my life. But I couldn’t help but see myself in that red-faced angel. See myself in her exhaustion and frustration. See myself in her unexplained tantrum.

Because I do that. I get tired and I get overwhelmed, and I want you people out of my chair, my house, my life. Right now.

When I need people the most, I push them away.

When I need God the most, I push Him away too.

When my loving father wants nothing more than to hold and comfort me, I writhe and wriggle and cry and run away.

But He stays. In my life. Oh His throne. My tantrums do not dissuade him.

And when I collapse, exhausted, spent at His feet, He doesn’t say “I told you do.” He doesn’t step over me and walk away.

He comforts me.

I want to be better about sharing my chair, my home and my life with others. I want to let my friends into the sad areas of my life. I want to cry with them, not while running from them.

And I want to sit in the chair with my Abba.