"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." (Matthew 6:33 KJV).
I have a confession. I haven't been seeking first the kingdom of God lately. I've been seeking "all these things." That verse from Matthew 6:33 can roll off my tongue in no time, but I can't seem to get the message to penetrate my heart.
Lately, "all these things" have wrapped their burdensome weight around my mind and have bid stress to course through my veins like a toxic wash. It's not that "all these things" are bad in and of themselves. Instead, it's that I find myself needlessly focused on them, causing unwelcome foes to seep into my bones... worries, fears, questions, doubts. I feel frustrated by their intrusion. And then, I remember.
"Seek ye first." I hear those words whispered in my ear, cutting through the panic that sets in when "all these things" turn traitorous and cause my mind such unrest. "Seek ye first."
I hear myself say, "Yes, Lord. For then 'all these things' will fall into place...if I seek Your kingdom first." That remembrance floods my heart with peace. All I have to do is keep my eyes on Christ. All He asks is that I follow Him and listen for His voice. When I do, like a dissipating storm, "all these things" will shrivel from the gluttonous power I was granting them before and will no longer dominate my very being.
I find that the truths of Scripture seem to instruct me little nuggets at a time. Right now, "Seek Ye First" as well as "All These Things" are two three-word phrases that have continually rung in my heart, reminding me that there really is a godly way to prioritize living.
Lord, teach me to get this right. Teach me to seek You and Your kingdom first. Then, as "all these things" fall into their proper place, may I be quick to give You praise.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
The Teacher Learns
As I prepared for my time with children in Ukraine, the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 kept coming to mind. It was one of those times in life when I truly felt God leading me. The more I thought about it, the better it seemed. There were multiple truths to pull from the story, many of which would probably strike a chord with the children I would be seeing. The event takes place near a lake. Ukrainians live near the Black Sea. The event involves fish and bread. Ukrainians love fish and bread. The story involves a little boy. I would be working with children. Most importantly, the story beautifully portrays the compassion and power of Christ, making it the perfect segue into sharing the good news of Christ's sacrifice for mankind. It seemed to be the perfect fit.
As it turns out, it was the perfect fit for my own heart while I was in Ukraine. I pray that some of the precious kids who came to our programs were impacted by what they heard. I may never see that harvest, but I do know that Christ used that story to teach me new and deeper truths. Allow me to explain.
The story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 (which can be found in John 6 in addition to the other gospels) showcases a little boy. When a huge crowd of followers flocked to Jesus at the end of a long day, they were a hungry and exhausted group. Jesus' disciples, coming off as either annoyed or alarmed, pleaded with Jesus to send them away so they could find food and get some rest. However, Jesus had compassion on the crowd and saw that they were not only physically hungry, but spiritually and emotionally hungry as well. He told his disciples to feed them, knowing full-well that the disciples would find that suggestion outrageous and impossible.
Then entered some sweet little boy who happened to have five loaves of bread and two fish. Though that would hardly make a dent in the crowd's hunger, the boy offered the food anyway, showing a level of faith and trust that the disciples themselves lacked. It would have been easy for the little boy to think, "Why bother?" Yet, for whatever reason, he put forth the minuscule portion he had, not worrying about what real difference his puny offering would make.
As it turned out, Jesus used that small offering to feed the whole crowd, miraculously turning an insignificant offering into an abundant feast. Amazing. Jesus Christ, God incarnate, used what might have seemed useless to bless a desperate crowd.
As I taught this story five days in a row, the truth of this ministered to me. Going into the trip, I wondered if there were any way God would use me in Ukraine. After all, I didn't know the language, and thus it seemed silly for me to prepare and teach a Bible story when there were believers who knew the language who could do it more easily and perhaps more effectively. Yet, as the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 indicates, God doesn't always work in ways that are obvious. Sometimes, he chooses to use weak and strange means of shedding his grace.
Every time those doubts invaded, I would remember to forget my questions and to offer my measly bread-and-fish service to the people of Ukraine. After all, it doesn't matter who I am. It matters Whom I serve. My Lord is Jesus Christ and He holds more power than I can imagine. He can use whatever I offer him in pure and simple faith. So, though I often felt underqualified and a bit out of my comfort zone while in Ukraine, I know that I learned a valuable lesson there from the lesson I taught the children: I serve an all-powerful Savior and He works in wondrous ways.
As it turns out, it was the perfect fit for my own heart while I was in Ukraine. I pray that some of the precious kids who came to our programs were impacted by what they heard. I may never see that harvest, but I do know that Christ used that story to teach me new and deeper truths. Allow me to explain.
The story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 (which can be found in John 6 in addition to the other gospels) showcases a little boy. When a huge crowd of followers flocked to Jesus at the end of a long day, they were a hungry and exhausted group. Jesus' disciples, coming off as either annoyed or alarmed, pleaded with Jesus to send them away so they could find food and get some rest. However, Jesus had compassion on the crowd and saw that they were not only physically hungry, but spiritually and emotionally hungry as well. He told his disciples to feed them, knowing full-well that the disciples would find that suggestion outrageous and impossible.
Then entered some sweet little boy who happened to have five loaves of bread and two fish. Though that would hardly make a dent in the crowd's hunger, the boy offered the food anyway, showing a level of faith and trust that the disciples themselves lacked. It would have been easy for the little boy to think, "Why bother?" Yet, for whatever reason, he put forth the minuscule portion he had, not worrying about what real difference his puny offering would make.
As it turned out, Jesus used that small offering to feed the whole crowd, miraculously turning an insignificant offering into an abundant feast. Amazing. Jesus Christ, God incarnate, used what might have seemed useless to bless a desperate crowd.
As I taught this story five days in a row, the truth of this ministered to me. Going into the trip, I wondered if there were any way God would use me in Ukraine. After all, I didn't know the language, and thus it seemed silly for me to prepare and teach a Bible story when there were believers who knew the language who could do it more easily and perhaps more effectively. Yet, as the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 indicates, God doesn't always work in ways that are obvious. Sometimes, he chooses to use weak and strange means of shedding his grace.
Every time those doubts invaded, I would remember to forget my questions and to offer my measly bread-and-fish service to the people of Ukraine. After all, it doesn't matter who I am. It matters Whom I serve. My Lord is Jesus Christ and He holds more power than I can imagine. He can use whatever I offer him in pure and simple faith. So, though I often felt underqualified and a bit out of my comfort zone while in Ukraine, I know that I learned a valuable lesson there from the lesson I taught the children: I serve an all-powerful Savior and He works in wondrous ways.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
How do you say "Yum" in Russian?
Ukraine is often considered the bread basket of Europe. Rich soil readily grows all kinds of produce. I wasn't in the country long before I knew this first-hand. Farmer's markets were everywhere. Fresh produce was abundant. I tasted some of the best tomatoes, watermelons, cucumbers, potatoes, apricots, corn, plums, and melons while there.
Luba, one of the translators, immediately went about collecting in-tact fruit from the ground. Such an activity seemed automatic for these people. It was not the first time I had seen one of our translators reach for fruit from a random village tree. A few days earlier, my translator, Anna, plucked a petite pair from a tree and handed it to me to enjoy. It should be the most natural thing in the world to eat fruit right from any ol' tree, but for some reason, I felt hesitant. It was just a bit foreign to me.
A couple of the Ukrainian woman with us gathered a huge pail of fruit from the tree and paid the man who owned it. I was so intrigued! How fun to be on a little day trip, and, on a whim, harvest enough apricots to make a gallon of apricot jam! These Ukrainians know how to live!
Not suprisingly, we had no shortage of amazing food to eat while in Ukraine. In addition to a wide variety of fresh produce, Ukraine is known for its love affair with borscht, a soup that has many varieties but usually contains beets and other vegetables. On the three village days that we were fed by local Ukrainian women, we were fed borscht. I loved it!
One day, our hostess served us huge bowls of the steaming soup. After putting a dollop of homemade sour cream on top and grabbing a slice of homemade bread, I devoured the goodness. It tasted even better as we sat outside under the shade of a huge tree and listened to the testimony of the village pastor. Thinking that was all we would be served, I chowed down on the soup and helped myself to more homemade bread.
When I had finished my bowl, the sweet hostess pulled it from in front of me and returned with a steaming bowl of potatoes and chicken. The bowl was filled to the top and it was a papa-bear-sized dish. I felt a bit overwhelmed. I was nearly full, but I didn't want to disappoint my hostess or give her the wrong impression, so I ate as much as I could. The food was so fresh and so delicious that I wished for a second stomach. After eating half the portion, I knew I had to stop the feasting. Turning to my translator, I asked her to apologize profusely for my inability to finish the portion, but to tell the hostess how much I loved the food.
I'm pretty sure I gained a few pounds over the week in Ukraine. The food was so plentiful and mouth-watering and both our Ukrainian and American hosts and hostesses lavished it on us at each meal. I can give personal testimony to the fact that this land really is the bread basket of Europe. Yum!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
A Day in Ukraine
Let me tell you what a typical day was like for me while I was in Ukraine.
Waking to a small alarm provided by my wonderful hostess, Holly Friesen, I would pull myself out of bed to the smell of delicious coffee. Holly, a full-time missionary who is a trained nurse practitioner, made me feel so at home. Our mutual love of coffee was an instant bond, I think. Knowing a fresh cup of joe was available for me upon awaking fueled my morning routine.
As I readied for the day, I would stop at a window to behold the breathtaking views of Odessa afforded by a tenth-floor apartment spot. Relishing the foreign cityscape and unique sounds of the hubbub far below, I would eventually move to the kitchen where Holly would have a yummy breakfast prepared. Fresh fruit purchased from nearby farmers' markets was a highlight as were scrumptious squares of homemade baked oatmeal.
We would linger at the table, sipping coffee and enjoying rich conversation. Then, as the time for departing to a nearby village drew near, I would pull on my backpack full of craft supplies and grab the poster I had depicting Jesus feeding the five thousand. Slinging my green purse over my shoulder on the way out, Holly and I would ride the elevator down the shaft, stroll past one of the old guard ladies at the apartment entrance, and sit down on a bench outside to wait for my ride.
Shortly thereafter, a vehicle would pull up, usually driven by one of two Ukrainian men who were believers and who helped out with the ministry. My dad, who was staying with another missionary couple (Bruce and Carol Bagley) would already be in the car as would Carol Bagley. Carol, a seasoned missionary to Ukraine, came along to help me run Bible programs for the village children each afternoon.
I would load my things into the car and say goodbye to Holly, whose nearly full-time task right now is to study the Russian language. Then, we would take off, meandering through the streets of Odessa. Driving within inches of other cars and bold pedestrians who dared to cross the buzzing streets, the van would pull off here and there to pick up our remaining team: two translators and two pharmacy/lab assistants. These women, all Ukrainians and all believers, were wonderful and helped to make the week incredibly fun.
After stopping at a church to pick up the materials for the traveling pharmacy, we would be off to the village destination of the day. Some villages were about 40 minutes away from Odessa. Some took over two hours to reach. Some roads were nice and provided for a smooth ride. Some were incredibly bumpy or were simple dirt tire tracks cut through a field.
Always eager for new experiences, I would feel excitement bubble within me as we pulled into a village at the beginning of the day. Enchanting, colorful houses, livestock tethered by the side of the road, and man-made piles of hay dotted the sides of the street. When we reached the church or meeting center where the clinics would be held, we would unload from the van and be greeted by the sereneness of a country day.
Sometimes, when we arrived, the patients would already be lined up, ready to see Dad, the doctor for the day. At a few of the locations, a little service would be held with these gathered patients where a pastor would give a testimony about the Lord and then pray. At a couple of the clinics, my dad got to share some of his testimony (with his fun translator, Luba, by his side).
After the ceremony, the pharmacy would be assembled and my dad and his translator would set up shop in whatever room was provided as the examining room. Some rooms were better equipped for this task than others, but they all accomplished the said task: to minister to and share the love of Christ with the people of the village via medical care.
During the morning hours, I would sit and chat with Carol and my translator Anna. These times were precious. I learned so much about the Ukrainian culture and the Russian language in these sessions while soaking up the scenes of the village. A few times, I took walks in the village to explore the area and capture a few photos.
After lunch, which in of itself is a blog topic, Carol, Anna, and I would prepare to hold our Bible program for the children in the village who chose to come. We would have anywhere from 10 to 30-some children come for these programs. Singing, a Bible story, the Gospel message, a snack, a craft, and games were all included. Interacting with these children was like a dream. They were precious and sweet and funny and ornery and intuitive and creative and basically everything kids are. In spite of the language difference, I was blessed by them each day.
Once the Bible program was over and my dad finished with all of the patients and home visits on his schedule, we would load back up, drive home, drop the pharmacy and folks off at their respective locations, and head for dinner at one of the missionary's homes. We usually didn't eat until between 7 and 8. By the time we finished dinner and found our way home, it was nearly time for bed.
Now you are aquainted with a typical day for us while we were in Ukraine. They were long days, but fun and rewarding days too. They are days I won't soon forget.
Waking to a small alarm provided by my wonderful hostess, Holly Friesen, I would pull myself out of bed to the smell of delicious coffee. Holly, a full-time missionary who is a trained nurse practitioner, made me feel so at home. Our mutual love of coffee was an instant bond, I think. Knowing a fresh cup of joe was available for me upon awaking fueled my morning routine.
As I readied for the day, I would stop at a window to behold the breathtaking views of Odessa afforded by a tenth-floor apartment spot. Relishing the foreign cityscape and unique sounds of the hubbub far below, I would eventually move to the kitchen where Holly would have a yummy breakfast prepared. Fresh fruit purchased from nearby farmers' markets was a highlight as were scrumptious squares of homemade baked oatmeal.
We would linger at the table, sipping coffee and enjoying rich conversation. Then, as the time for departing to a nearby village drew near, I would pull on my backpack full of craft supplies and grab the poster I had depicting Jesus feeding the five thousand. Slinging my green purse over my shoulder on the way out, Holly and I would ride the elevator down the shaft, stroll past one of the old guard ladies at the apartment entrance, and sit down on a bench outside to wait for my ride.
Shortly thereafter, a vehicle would pull up, usually driven by one of two Ukrainian men who were believers and who helped out with the ministry. My dad, who was staying with another missionary couple (Bruce and Carol Bagley) would already be in the car as would Carol Bagley. Carol, a seasoned missionary to Ukraine, came along to help me run Bible programs for the village children each afternoon.
I would load my things into the car and say goodbye to Holly, whose nearly full-time task right now is to study the Russian language. Then, we would take off, meandering through the streets of Odessa. Driving within inches of other cars and bold pedestrians who dared to cross the buzzing streets, the van would pull off here and there to pick up our remaining team: two translators and two pharmacy/lab assistants. These women, all Ukrainians and all believers, were wonderful and helped to make the week incredibly fun.
After stopping at a church to pick up the materials for the traveling pharmacy, we would be off to the village destination of the day. Some villages were about 40 minutes away from Odessa. Some took over two hours to reach. Some roads were nice and provided for a smooth ride. Some were incredibly bumpy or were simple dirt tire tracks cut through a field. Always eager for new experiences, I would feel excitement bubble within me as we pulled into a village at the beginning of the day. Enchanting, colorful houses, livestock tethered by the side of the road, and man-made piles of hay dotted the sides of the street. When we reached the church or meeting center where the clinics would be held, we would unload from the van and be greeted by the sereneness of a country day.
During the morning hours, I would sit and chat with Carol and my translator Anna. These times were precious. I learned so much about the Ukrainian culture and the Russian language in these sessions while soaking up the scenes of the village. A few times, I took walks in the village to explore the area and capture a few photos.
Once the Bible program was over and my dad finished with all of the patients and home visits on his schedule, we would load back up, drive home, drop the pharmacy and folks off at their respective locations, and head for dinner at one of the missionary's homes. We usually didn't eat until between 7 and 8. By the time we finished dinner and found our way home, it was nearly time for bed.
Now you are aquainted with a typical day for us while we were in Ukraine. They were long days, but fun and rewarding days too. They are days I won't soon forget.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
"Ootka, Ootka, Goose!"
Early this morning, the bright green numbers of my alarm clock mockingly declared me a jet-lag victim: 4:44. With an annoyed groan, I flipped over, pulled the covers tighter, and tried to shake the awakeness I felt. I had gone to bed only five hours ago. My body surely wasn't done resting.
As I snuggled deeper under my sheets, I recalled the deep nap I had taken the afternoon before. I had been reading when I suddenly felt an extreme exhaustion unusual for the late-afternoon hour. As soon as I had given in and stretched out on my couch, I was ushered into a sound sleep. Hmmm. No wonder sleep was eluding me now. After fifteen more minutes of feigned snoozing, I threw the covers off and marched into the living room, flipping lights on as I went. Five hours of sleep it is. I didn't want to waste any more time lying in my room.
Whatever jet lag I may be experiencing right now is a small price to pay for the rich opportunity I had to accompany my dad to Ukraine last week. I feel blessed beyond measure by the people I met there, the beautiful countryside I saw, and the paradigm-shaking culture I encountered. Enchanting, overwhelming, mystical, foreign, dark, profound, beautiful, convicting, eye-opening. These are a few of the words that describe my view of that far-away land.
Stories are plentiful. Musings are varied. Processing is needed. Encounters are imprinted in my mind like selective loops, short and repetitive. One such memory is an adorable village boy who attended one of our little day camps on the first day of the trip. Unaware that I really couldn't understand the Russian he was prattling, he kept peering at me, wringing his hands, and crying, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Over and over. Enchanted by his foreign tongue and amused by his enthusiasm, I smiled at him and eventually glanced at my translator. "What's he saying?"
My translator chatted with him. Within his explanation, he would occasionally repeat his chant, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Accompanying the chant was that wringing hand motion. Turns out, he was begging me to play a form of "Duck, duck, goose" that he had recently learned at a Christian camp. The wringing hand motion represented a wet rag that the player who was "it" would wring over the chosen "goose", dousing them in water under the warm Ukrainian sun.
I laughed from deep within, so enthralled by the boy's excitement and further intrigued that "ootka" meant "duck" while "goose" was basically the same as our English "goose". I wished so much I could burst from the few Russian phrases I knew to interact with the boy myself, but I could only hope that my laugh and smile communicated something of my heart to him.
That's just one snapshot of my time in Ukraine. Perhaps the most profound thing is how faith in Christ unites people of every culture. Meeting those who knew the Lord there created an almost instant bond, even if our communication was limited. That's amazing to me and speaks to the power of the Holy Spirit.
Jet lag will pass. The impressions and experiences Ukraine afforded me will remain. I pray that I will be faithful to learn the things God would have me to from my experience there.
As I snuggled deeper under my sheets, I recalled the deep nap I had taken the afternoon before. I had been reading when I suddenly felt an extreme exhaustion unusual for the late-afternoon hour. As soon as I had given in and stretched out on my couch, I was ushered into a sound sleep. Hmmm. No wonder sleep was eluding me now. After fifteen more minutes of feigned snoozing, I threw the covers off and marched into the living room, flipping lights on as I went. Five hours of sleep it is. I didn't want to waste any more time lying in my room.
Whatever jet lag I may be experiencing right now is a small price to pay for the rich opportunity I had to accompany my dad to Ukraine last week. I feel blessed beyond measure by the people I met there, the beautiful countryside I saw, and the paradigm-shaking culture I encountered. Enchanting, overwhelming, mystical, foreign, dark, profound, beautiful, convicting, eye-opening. These are a few of the words that describe my view of that far-away land.
Stories are plentiful. Musings are varied. Processing is needed. Encounters are imprinted in my mind like selective loops, short and repetitive. One such memory is an adorable village boy who attended one of our little day camps on the first day of the trip. Unaware that I really couldn't understand the Russian he was prattling, he kept peering at me, wringing his hands, and crying, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Over and over. Enchanted by his foreign tongue and amused by his enthusiasm, I smiled at him and eventually glanced at my translator. "What's he saying?"My translator chatted with him. Within his explanation, he would occasionally repeat his chant, "Ootka, ootka, goose!" Accompanying the chant was that wringing hand motion. Turns out, he was begging me to play a form of "Duck, duck, goose" that he had recently learned at a Christian camp. The wringing hand motion represented a wet rag that the player who was "it" would wring over the chosen "goose", dousing them in water under the warm Ukrainian sun.
I laughed from deep within, so enthralled by the boy's excitement and further intrigued that "ootka" meant "duck" while "goose" was basically the same as our English "goose". I wished so much I could burst from the few Russian phrases I knew to interact with the boy myself, but I could only hope that my laugh and smile communicated something of my heart to him.
That's just one snapshot of my time in Ukraine. Perhaps the most profound thing is how faith in Christ unites people of every culture. Meeting those who knew the Lord there created an almost instant bond, even if our communication was limited. That's amazing to me and speaks to the power of the Holy Spirit.
Jet lag will pass. The impressions and experiences Ukraine afforded me will remain. I pray that I will be faithful to learn the things God would have me to from my experience there.
Monday, July 18, 2011
The Wonder of Paris
I can still feel his hand grip my elbow in a grateful squeeze. The sweet French man who waited on me for dinner. I think we bonded after I stumbled over the few French words I could muster, pointed awkwardly at the menu to indicate what I'd like, and giggled relentlessly at how foolish I felt in my ill attempts to translate English thoughts into beautiful French sounds. While perched on a petite sidewalk chair, I feasted on croque monsieur and reveled in storybook French atmosphere. When it was time to leave, my friend and I laid our tips on the table and slipped between tightly-packed tables to the sidewalk. The gentle waiter gripped my arm as we left and sang his French thanks, "Merci!"
I can still see the curly dark hair swirling round to crown his young and attentive French eyes. The alluring boy-man who pointed out his favorite chocolates and named rich delicacies with his heavily-accented English. Tucked away in a quaint, small Paris street, the sweets shop where he worked was impeccable and decorated in deep purple and black. When I stepped inside, I clasped my hands and lavished words of praise and exclamation over the dainty chocolates and cookies that rested under the glass counter. Each moment seemed enchanted as his life and mine intersected over the purchasing of Paris-landed chocolate.
I can still see the lines crisscrossing up the marble mass, etching out the muscle details that artist Auguste Rodin meticulously crafted a century ago. Sculpture after sculpture rested in frozen action, displaying a wide array of emotion. Lifeless forms posed amidst beautiful greenery on the grounds outside as well as in spacious old rooms within the museum building. How a slab of marble can move one's soul is a mystery. I can almost feel the artist's breath, aired warm and heavy onto the masterpiece before me. The breath that exhaled while the soul crafted intangible qualities into the tangible mass. It reminds me of Creator God, the ultimate Artist, sculpting uniqueness out of dust. It speaks to me.
I can still taste it. Wonder. The wonder I feel ooze through my being as I stroll the streets of a place so intoxicating, I can barely describe it to those who haven't been. Am I too dramatic? No. Not really. My mind reels to put into words what captures my heart when I am in the city of Paris, France. When there, I feel entranced. History seems to groan and stretch in that place. I can almost touch it, taste it, see it, hear it. I see stone that those hundreds of years before saw too. I strain to experience their lives. Human pain, fear, excitement, toil, joy, heartache, love, laughter, and every possible thought and feeling that we know today wrapped in the facade of a different era. I want to know what it was like then. I find times long ago tantalizingly close. The past mingled with now.
Is that why it is unspeakably rich to Wyoming-girl me? To a kid who grew up in an area with hardly any old history tangibly intact? I am really not sure. What I do know is that I want to go back. I can't seem to get enough. I pray that Paris and I can once again greet each other and that I can walk her magical streets once again.
I can still see the curly dark hair swirling round to crown his young and attentive French eyes. The alluring boy-man who pointed out his favorite chocolates and named rich delicacies with his heavily-accented English. Tucked away in a quaint, small Paris street, the sweets shop where he worked was impeccable and decorated in deep purple and black. When I stepped inside, I clasped my hands and lavished words of praise and exclamation over the dainty chocolates and cookies that rested under the glass counter. Each moment seemed enchanted as his life and mine intersected over the purchasing of Paris-landed chocolate.
I can still see the lines crisscrossing up the marble mass, etching out the muscle details that artist Auguste Rodin meticulously crafted a century ago. Sculpture after sculpture rested in frozen action, displaying a wide array of emotion. Lifeless forms posed amidst beautiful greenery on the grounds outside as well as in spacious old rooms within the museum building. How a slab of marble can move one's soul is a mystery. I can almost feel the artist's breath, aired warm and heavy onto the masterpiece before me. The breath that exhaled while the soul crafted intangible qualities into the tangible mass. It reminds me of Creator God, the ultimate Artist, sculpting uniqueness out of dust. It speaks to me.
I can still taste it. Wonder. The wonder I feel ooze through my being as I stroll the streets of a place so intoxicating, I can barely describe it to those who haven't been. Am I too dramatic? No. Not really. My mind reels to put into words what captures my heart when I am in the city of Paris, France. When there, I feel entranced. History seems to groan and stretch in that place. I can almost touch it, taste it, see it, hear it. I see stone that those hundreds of years before saw too. I strain to experience their lives. Human pain, fear, excitement, toil, joy, heartache, love, laughter, and every possible thought and feeling that we know today wrapped in the facade of a different era. I want to know what it was like then. I find times long ago tantalizingly close. The past mingled with now.
Is that why it is unspeakably rich to Wyoming-girl me? To a kid who grew up in an area with hardly any old history tangibly intact? I am really not sure. What I do know is that I want to go back. I can't seem to get enough. I pray that Paris and I can once again greet each other and that I can walk her magical streets once again.
Monday, June 27, 2011
For Love of Touch
Sometimes, I wish our United States culture were a bit more touchy...in a good way.
While in El Salvador, I looked forward to the 4:00 hour each afternoon. At that time, the Salvadorian students would be done with homework time and would appear on the grounds of the children's home, ripe and ready for fun. Playing and interacting with them was as enchanting as it is with any energetic kid. Yet, there was something uniquely rich about being with these Spanish-speaking sweethearts: they were unashamedly loving.
I was perhaps most touched (no pun intended...seriously) by their constant hugs. Without hesitation, arms would extend and wrap around me and in an instant, my heart would be warmed. I hugged them back, but somehow I feel they gave more than I could repay. Not as though love is quantifiable. It's not. But if it were, and if I were a betting woman, I would bet a Starbucks or ten that I lost in the effort of love-giving while in El Salvador. The sweet smiles and love and the pure interest they had in interacting with me enriched my life.
Love can be shown in so many ways, but I sometimes wish folks in the States were more affectionate with each other. There is something about touch that communicates love in a way words cannot. A hug, a pat on the back, a reassuring grip on the arm...these are all gestures that speak richer meaning than a well-spoken word.
I wonder if those children in El Salvador know how much it means for we Americans to receive love from them. To me, it meant more than I can say.
While in El Salvador, I looked forward to the 4:00 hour each afternoon. At that time, the Salvadorian students would be done with homework time and would appear on the grounds of the children's home, ripe and ready for fun. Playing and interacting with them was as enchanting as it is with any energetic kid. Yet, there was something uniquely rich about being with these Spanish-speaking sweethearts: they were unashamedly loving.
I was perhaps most touched (no pun intended...seriously) by their constant hugs. Without hesitation, arms would extend and wrap around me and in an instant, my heart would be warmed. I hugged them back, but somehow I feel they gave more than I could repay. Not as though love is quantifiable. It's not. But if it were, and if I were a betting woman, I would bet a Starbucks or ten that I lost in the effort of love-giving while in El Salvador. The sweet smiles and love and the pure interest they had in interacting with me enriched my life.
Love can be shown in so many ways, but I sometimes wish folks in the States were more affectionate with each other. There is something about touch that communicates love in a way words cannot. A hug, a pat on the back, a reassuring grip on the arm...these are all gestures that speak richer meaning than a well-spoken word.
I wonder if those children in El Salvador know how much it means for we Americans to receive love from them. To me, it meant more than I can say.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
We're All Broken
It's a blissfully sunny day here in Colorado. As this week has progressed, I have found it a hard discipline to sit and reflect on the happenings of last week in El Salvador. This particular struggle reminds me of a trip I took as a sophomore in college with my good friend Rebekah. Over a long weekend, we traveled with a group of college students to the inner city of Chicago to be exposed to the grim realities of inner-city life.
One night on the trip, Rebekah and I stayed up for some time, propped up in our sleeping bags, discussing the things we had experienced and hoping that the things that were gripping our consciences at that moment would not escape into oblivion when we returned to "normal" life. Yet, when I was back on campus, flooded by all the demands of college life, it was hard to keep those images and needs and heart-wrenching feelings vivid. I recall my frustration that my sense of urgency was fading. I think this is normal, but I wish with my whole being it weren't.
I guess this is why journaling is so valuable. Reviewing the thoughts that struck me about my recent trip will aid me in holding onto the things that impacted me most while I was there. I pulled my journal out today and found a big topic that impressed me while in El Salvador: "We're All Broken." These were my mother's words that she expressed during one of our team devotionals last week.
She spoke them during our debrief about the destitute community we had visited the day before. We were all batting around the ideas of poverty and riches and happiness and sadness and how all of those factors are correlated. It's an age-old tension of thought. How much does material and financial security contribute to happiness? Though most people would say that material needs aren't necessary for true joy, there is still heartache and deprivation that is caused by poverty that those who are wealthy don't experience in the same way. Yet, as is also common knowledge, some people who have extravagant material possessions are strikingly sad and full of despair.
There is some sort of balance to be struck, but I think my mom's words were perfectly poignant: "We're all broken." When gauging a measure of fulfillment, material possessions are truly a smaller factor than we often realize. Of course there is sadness in poverty. Of course there is emptiness in extreme wealth. Yet, the bottom line is that we all live in a broken world that is constantly screaming in pain because of the unfair pendulum swing of life. Rarely is that pendulum perfectly in the middle. Every human in every situation feels a stinging consequence of some aspect of the tilted pendulum. One man's sorrows are not another's, but we all face the brokenness of our human heart and the shrapnel of the world around us.
I am not at all downplaying the hardships that those in true poverty experience. I understand that they need love, support, prayer, and help. I am cognizant that there are people who live horrific lives that I cannot comprehend. My point is simply that comparing sufferings perhaps ignores a more fundamental truth. On some level, we all feel the shards of a broken world tearing at our flesh. The only relief from this pain is to turn to Christ. He alone "heals the brokenhearted" (Psalm 147:3). He alone can truly remedy the deep soul ache that every human in every circumstance faces.
It was hard to see deep poverty in El Salvador. If I could, I would fix it someway, somehow. I felt so fortunate in comparison to the people I saw in that poor community. Yet, those people and I aren't so different. We're all broken people in need of a compassionate Savior. Perhaps solving worldwide poverty is impossible. Maybe solving spiritual poverty is not. It just takes one heart at a time turning toward Christ. What a marvelous, comforting truth! There is a balm for every broken heart. Jesus Christ is His name.
One night on the trip, Rebekah and I stayed up for some time, propped up in our sleeping bags, discussing the things we had experienced and hoping that the things that were gripping our consciences at that moment would not escape into oblivion when we returned to "normal" life. Yet, when I was back on campus, flooded by all the demands of college life, it was hard to keep those images and needs and heart-wrenching feelings vivid. I recall my frustration that my sense of urgency was fading. I think this is normal, but I wish with my whole being it weren't.
I guess this is why journaling is so valuable. Reviewing the thoughts that struck me about my recent trip will aid me in holding onto the things that impacted me most while I was there. I pulled my journal out today and found a big topic that impressed me while in El Salvador: "We're All Broken." These were my mother's words that she expressed during one of our team devotionals last week.
She spoke them during our debrief about the destitute community we had visited the day before. We were all batting around the ideas of poverty and riches and happiness and sadness and how all of those factors are correlated. It's an age-old tension of thought. How much does material and financial security contribute to happiness? Though most people would say that material needs aren't necessary for true joy, there is still heartache and deprivation that is caused by poverty that those who are wealthy don't experience in the same way. Yet, as is also common knowledge, some people who have extravagant material possessions are strikingly sad and full of despair.
There is some sort of balance to be struck, but I think my mom's words were perfectly poignant: "We're all broken." When gauging a measure of fulfillment, material possessions are truly a smaller factor than we often realize. Of course there is sadness in poverty. Of course there is emptiness in extreme wealth. Yet, the bottom line is that we all live in a broken world that is constantly screaming in pain because of the unfair pendulum swing of life. Rarely is that pendulum perfectly in the middle. Every human in every situation feels a stinging consequence of some aspect of the tilted pendulum. One man's sorrows are not another's, but we all face the brokenness of our human heart and the shrapnel of the world around us.
I am not at all downplaying the hardships that those in true poverty experience. I understand that they need love, support, prayer, and help. I am cognizant that there are people who live horrific lives that I cannot comprehend. My point is simply that comparing sufferings perhaps ignores a more fundamental truth. On some level, we all feel the shards of a broken world tearing at our flesh. The only relief from this pain is to turn to Christ. He alone "heals the brokenhearted" (Psalm 147:3). He alone can truly remedy the deep soul ache that every human in every circumstance faces.
It was hard to see deep poverty in El Salvador. If I could, I would fix it someway, somehow. I felt so fortunate in comparison to the people I saw in that poor community. Yet, those people and I aren't so different. We're all broken people in need of a compassionate Savior. Perhaps solving worldwide poverty is impossible. Maybe solving spiritual poverty is not. It just takes one heart at a time turning toward Christ. What a marvelous, comforting truth! There is a balm for every broken heart. Jesus Christ is His name.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Nothing Beats Experience
Two days ago, I strolled onto a big jet, tucked myself into my cozy little airline seat, and contemplated the days I had just experienced in El Salvador. I pulled out my simple black journal in the hopes of capturing the abstract and scattered thoughts that were surfacing. During the seven days I was in Central America, I struggled to really debrief with myself. I felt caught up in the moments and found my day-to-day routine a bit surreal. I think that's normal, but as I was given time to just sit during the flight back to the U.S., I was determined to pull some deeper thoughts into clearer view. As I jotted down the aspects of the trip I wanted to focus on in the coming days, one of the phrases I penned was: "Nothing beats Experience."
How true this is. As great as technology and story-telling can be and as compassionate and sympathetic as humans generally are, absolutely nothing can beat first-hand experience in its ability to instruct the heart. My experience in El Salvador highlighted this truth to me yet again. In my lifetime, I've seen a lot of pictures of children around the world who are not so fortunate. I've heard many a story of them as well.
Yet, for the first time, I was touched and loved by such children this last week. I was up close to their stories and their personalities. I watched tears stream down the face of a teenage boy during a prayer service. I heard kids joke and laughed at their sharp wit. I saw their passion for life. I worked on my Spanish via their patient tutoring. I received more hugs from them than I can count. I found out what they like and what they don't. I watched them play soccer and basketball. I sang with them and heard their hauntingly pure voices. I sat next to them and held them close. These children are fortunate because they live in a safe and loving place where they are taught about the love of Christ. Yet, most of them still suffer the heartache of a broken family and some of them have been through things I cannot imagine. Suddenly, stories and pictures of hurting children were a crisp, 3D image that would not have been possible had I not interacted with such children myself.
So, in the coming days, I hope to process a few aspects of my time in El Salvador. God has a lot to teach me. No doubt, my experience in El Salvador will afford me the opportunity to learn more about His kingdom and His redemptive plan. I don't want to miss such a rare gift.
How true this is. As great as technology and story-telling can be and as compassionate and sympathetic as humans generally are, absolutely nothing can beat first-hand experience in its ability to instruct the heart. My experience in El Salvador highlighted this truth to me yet again. In my lifetime, I've seen a lot of pictures of children around the world who are not so fortunate. I've heard many a story of them as well.
Yet, for the first time, I was touched and loved by such children this last week. I was up close to their stories and their personalities. I watched tears stream down the face of a teenage boy during a prayer service. I heard kids joke and laughed at their sharp wit. I saw their passion for life. I worked on my Spanish via their patient tutoring. I received more hugs from them than I can count. I found out what they like and what they don't. I watched them play soccer and basketball. I sang with them and heard their hauntingly pure voices. I sat next to them and held them close. These children are fortunate because they live in a safe and loving place where they are taught about the love of Christ. Yet, most of them still suffer the heartache of a broken family and some of them have been through things I cannot imagine. Suddenly, stories and pictures of hurting children were a crisp, 3D image that would not have been possible had I not interacted with such children myself.
So, in the coming days, I hope to process a few aspects of my time in El Salvador. God has a lot to teach me. No doubt, my experience in El Salvador will afford me the opportunity to learn more about His kingdom and His redemptive plan. I don't want to miss such a rare gift.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
All in a Year
My coffee pot is chirping and gurgling, preparing some delicious decaf coffee for me to sip on as I enjoy this summer evening. Tonight and tomorrow, I will be busy readying myself for a trip I'm taking with most of my family to El Salvador. We'll be working with a children's home there. To state the obvious, I am excited, though I am sure I will be more so once I am completely packed and ready to board a big jet out of the country.
Today, I had time to reflect on what has happened in my life in one short year. Remembering that I was home in Wyoming for one week at this time last year, I looked up a blog post I wrote last June and was immediately flooded with the emotions I felt surrounding that post. Trust me when I say that they weren't the happiest of feelings. Last summer was hard. Very hard. It was a summer of learning to trust Jesus when many things in my life seemed confusing. Though I am thankful for what that time taught me, I am even more thankful that the Lord has healed my heart and has dramatically changed my circumstances for the better. He did it in one quick and action-packed year. Amazing.
So, as I stare into the horizon, I feel myself straining for a glimpse of the adventures coming my way. No doubt there will be exhilarating, life-giving adventures as well as adventures that may throw me for an unwanted loop or two. That's okay. It's bound to happen, but there is no use dwelling on all the "what-could-happen"s. What I do know for sure is better than any other knowledge I could gain---that I serve a Savior who will never let me fall. I serve a Savior who is in the business of redeeming a fallen world and He has my ultimate good in mind. Amazing.
Time to make some banana bread with the over-ripe bananas piled on my kitchen counter. Over and out for now.
Today, I had time to reflect on what has happened in my life in one short year. Remembering that I was home in Wyoming for one week at this time last year, I looked up a blog post I wrote last June and was immediately flooded with the emotions I felt surrounding that post. Trust me when I say that they weren't the happiest of feelings. Last summer was hard. Very hard. It was a summer of learning to trust Jesus when many things in my life seemed confusing. Though I am thankful for what that time taught me, I am even more thankful that the Lord has healed my heart and has dramatically changed my circumstances for the better. He did it in one quick and action-packed year. Amazing.
So, as I stare into the horizon, I feel myself straining for a glimpse of the adventures coming my way. No doubt there will be exhilarating, life-giving adventures as well as adventures that may throw me for an unwanted loop or two. That's okay. It's bound to happen, but there is no use dwelling on all the "what-could-happen"s. What I do know for sure is better than any other knowledge I could gain---that I serve a Savior who will never let me fall. I serve a Savior who is in the business of redeeming a fallen world and He has my ultimate good in mind. Amazing.
Time to make some banana bread with the over-ripe bananas piled on my kitchen counter. Over and out for now.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Freedom from Numbers
After sweating up a storm at the gym tonight, I walked out into the crisp air with numbers swirling in my head. After all, I had just been fed a healthy stream of them on the treadmill from which I had finally escaped. In addition to treadmill numbers, I somehow began contemplating my age and wondered if I could ever trick myself into thinking I wasn't getting older. Of course, I immediately told myself I know better. We humans are all too good at tracking numbers.
As I was mulling this over, I suddenly realized how much I'm driven by, worried about, and just plain dominated by numbers in my life. Numbers like my age and my weight. Numbers like how much money I make, how much I want to make, and how much everything costs these days. Numbers like how many days are left in the school year, how many minutes I have until bedtime or how many calories I should consume in a day. Numbers like how many miles I should run, how many hours I should sleep or how many times a year I should see the dentist. Numbers like how many friends I have, how many phone calls I get, or how many posts I get on Facebook. Numbers like how many miles are on my car, how many new blemishes I can see on my face or how many trips I can take this year.
To be honest, I'm a bit sick of numbers. I know God created them. I know they're pretty cool and can be used for many great purposes (I don't want to offend math people or cause Albert Einstein to roll over in his grave). I understand that God created numbers and that they are not evil. In fact, I loved math in school and have nothing against numbers or the whole system of mathematics.
Yet, I long for the day when numbers of all kinds will worry me no longer. Will that ever happen while in this earthly, fallen body of mine? I doubt it, but I know that whatever heaven is, it will be glorious and wonderful and a place where numbers won't cause me stress. That sounds great right about now.
The Psalmist says, "Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom" (Psalm 90:12). God wants us to steward our time and be aware of the passing moments. I know He doesn't want me to live in ignorant oblivion regarding the various aspects of my life. Yet, God also teaches us to cast our worries on Him because He cares about us (1Peter 5:7). There is a balance there that I need, but right now I feel more of a need to let go of all the counting and numbering that I'm doing these days.
Lord, give me a healthy freedom from numbers. Show me what that means, and help me keep my eyes on You.
As I was mulling this over, I suddenly realized how much I'm driven by, worried about, and just plain dominated by numbers in my life. Numbers like my age and my weight. Numbers like how much money I make, how much I want to make, and how much everything costs these days. Numbers like how many days are left in the school year, how many minutes I have until bedtime or how many calories I should consume in a day. Numbers like how many miles I should run, how many hours I should sleep or how many times a year I should see the dentist. Numbers like how many friends I have, how many phone calls I get, or how many posts I get on Facebook. Numbers like how many miles are on my car, how many new blemishes I can see on my face or how many trips I can take this year.
To be honest, I'm a bit sick of numbers. I know God created them. I know they're pretty cool and can be used for many great purposes (I don't want to offend math people or cause Albert Einstein to roll over in his grave). I understand that God created numbers and that they are not evil. In fact, I loved math in school and have nothing against numbers or the whole system of mathematics.
Yet, I long for the day when numbers of all kinds will worry me no longer. Will that ever happen while in this earthly, fallen body of mine? I doubt it, but I know that whatever heaven is, it will be glorious and wonderful and a place where numbers won't cause me stress. That sounds great right about now.
The Psalmist says, "Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom" (Psalm 90:12). God wants us to steward our time and be aware of the passing moments. I know He doesn't want me to live in ignorant oblivion regarding the various aspects of my life. Yet, God also teaches us to cast our worries on Him because He cares about us (1Peter 5:7). There is a balance there that I need, but right now I feel more of a need to let go of all the counting and numbering that I'm doing these days.
Lord, give me a healthy freedom from numbers. Show me what that means, and help me keep my eyes on You.
Friday, February 4, 2011
I Know Who Holds My Hand
It's scary to write what's on my heart sometimes. Somehow, we humans are trained to put up strong exteriors. Somehow, even when people say it's okay to be real and to cry, it still doesn't seem like it is. Somehow, the walls that we so swiftly construct are easier to build than they are to tear down.
That's why, sometimes, I don't like what I write in my blog nearly as much as what I write in my personal journal. When I take up a pen to let my thoughts flow onto my journal, I have no filter. I let my thoughts and the deepest crevices of my heart bubble to the surface. Sometimes, I barely know what I'm writing as I do, but when I look back, I am moved.
Tonight might be different because tonight, my heart is overwhelmed by the strongest bittersweet emotion. Time passes and each day closes as quickly as it began and I feel caught in an endless cycle of sameness. But when I see the world around me, nothing looks familiar. Everything is morphing and I recognize that my own sameness has fooled me. Suddenly, nothing seems certain. I feel so alone.
In the midst of it, I wonder if my years have taught me anything because I feel vulnerable and like I'm a little kid all over again. I hate feeling vulnerable. I like feeling strong. I despise feeling out of control. I want the reins. I want to set the course. I want to be in charge.
And then, I realize that I must be clay in God's hands. This fighting and struggling and bickering and fearing won't do. It won't make the unfamiliar known or slow the cycle of the days. Nothing I try in my own strength will calm the flood of days that are passing swiftly before me. Nothing but surrender.
I know Who holds my hand. Christ Jesus is His name. He is enough. He is all I need. He can surround me with His love. He will never leave me. He will never abandon me. He will see me through.
I know Who holds my hand and that is all that matters.
That's why, sometimes, I don't like what I write in my blog nearly as much as what I write in my personal journal. When I take up a pen to let my thoughts flow onto my journal, I have no filter. I let my thoughts and the deepest crevices of my heart bubble to the surface. Sometimes, I barely know what I'm writing as I do, but when I look back, I am moved.
Tonight might be different because tonight, my heart is overwhelmed by the strongest bittersweet emotion. Time passes and each day closes as quickly as it began and I feel caught in an endless cycle of sameness. But when I see the world around me, nothing looks familiar. Everything is morphing and I recognize that my own sameness has fooled me. Suddenly, nothing seems certain. I feel so alone.
In the midst of it, I wonder if my years have taught me anything because I feel vulnerable and like I'm a little kid all over again. I hate feeling vulnerable. I like feeling strong. I despise feeling out of control. I want the reins. I want to set the course. I want to be in charge.
And then, I realize that I must be clay in God's hands. This fighting and struggling and bickering and fearing won't do. It won't make the unfamiliar known or slow the cycle of the days. Nothing I try in my own strength will calm the flood of days that are passing swiftly before me. Nothing but surrender.
I know Who holds my hand. Christ Jesus is His name. He is enough. He is all I need. He can surround me with His love. He will never leave me. He will never abandon me. He will see me through.
I know Who holds my hand and that is all that matters.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Joy of the Lord
The temperature is frigid. That might be an understatement. Just possibly. School was canceled today and a two-hour delay is already planned for the morning. My fingers are laced in cold even now as I type.
I have been contemplating joy. Consider Nehemiah 8:10b: "Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength." Nehemiah asks the Israelites with him to not grieve. Though they had seen tremendously hard times and did not know the future, Nehemiah exhorts them to lay aside what pains their hearts. Yet, knowing that humans cannot simply ignore their grief, he goes on to state that "the joy of the Lord is your strength."
The joy of the Lord. Joy is something that is lacking in the raw human heart. There is no natural joy but rather a natural pessimism, fear, and longing that resides in our souls. The happiness we feel upon the arrival of good times lasts but briefly and we are once again left with the grim reality of broken earthly life. It is a sad fact that what ails us gets more attention than those other aspects in life that might actually be in line. We feel the prick of every shard of glass that has broken away from what we know should be.
Yet, there is joy that is supernatural. There is joy offered to us through the grace of God. That joy is not only illuminating and refreshing, it is strengthening as well. "The joy of the Lord is your strength." Anyone who has experienced grief knows how exhausting it is. Pain and heartache saps us of energy, motivation, and the will to live well. We shrivel under such sorrow. Praise God, then, for the joy that He offers and for the strength that it bestows!
Are you in a state of exhaustion or grief? Turn to the Lord. Surrender to Him. Lay your griefs at His feet and watch His joy strengthen your life. You need not wait until times are good. He is asking you to give Him your heart now and to allow His joy to encompass you. His joy will imbue you with life and vitality once again. May this truth permeate you and me today!
I have been contemplating joy. Consider Nehemiah 8:10b: "Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength." Nehemiah asks the Israelites with him to not grieve. Though they had seen tremendously hard times and did not know the future, Nehemiah exhorts them to lay aside what pains their hearts. Yet, knowing that humans cannot simply ignore their grief, he goes on to state that "the joy of the Lord is your strength."
The joy of the Lord. Joy is something that is lacking in the raw human heart. There is no natural joy but rather a natural pessimism, fear, and longing that resides in our souls. The happiness we feel upon the arrival of good times lasts but briefly and we are once again left with the grim reality of broken earthly life. It is a sad fact that what ails us gets more attention than those other aspects in life that might actually be in line. We feel the prick of every shard of glass that has broken away from what we know should be.
Yet, there is joy that is supernatural. There is joy offered to us through the grace of God. That joy is not only illuminating and refreshing, it is strengthening as well. "The joy of the Lord is your strength." Anyone who has experienced grief knows how exhausting it is. Pain and heartache saps us of energy, motivation, and the will to live well. We shrivel under such sorrow. Praise God, then, for the joy that He offers and for the strength that it bestows!
Are you in a state of exhaustion or grief? Turn to the Lord. Surrender to Him. Lay your griefs at His feet and watch His joy strengthen your life. You need not wait until times are good. He is asking you to give Him your heart now and to allow His joy to encompass you. His joy will imbue you with life and vitality once again. May this truth permeate you and me today!
Monday, January 24, 2011
Dynamic Life
When I was a first-year teacher, I cried. A lot. Not necessarily in front of my students. In fact, I usually was able to bar the tears from falling until my planning period when the tears would explode like a sudden avalanche. Sometimes I would cry in the privacy of my classroom. Sometimes I would seek out the comfort of the drama teacher who has been a close friend and mentor of mine ever since.
I would cry about nearly anything that didn't go right. For anyone who has taught for very long, you know how often things don't go quite right in this profession. After all, we work with tons of humans, and for middle school teachers, adolescent humans nonetheless. It's a volatile business, this job, and it takes a tough mind. I was far too sensitive and far too unaware that most of the students' misbehavior had nothing to do with their thoughts or reactions to me at all. It was just their unfiltered, immature reactions to whatever was chapping them that day.
It's interesting to me how certain memories are emblazoned in my mind with very specific details. For example, I can remember the outfit I was wearing when I had one of these breakdowns that first year. Perhaps I recall the gold, white and black skirt and black blouse I was sporting because one of the assistant principals had found me in my vulnerable state and had to sit with me and chat about what was going on. I have distinct visions of looking down at my necklace and noticing my clothing because I was ashamed to be so weak. I'm not sure why, but I remember those articles of clothing and the painful gold shoes I was wearing like it were yesterday.
By the grace of God, I made it through that first year and am now in my fifth year of teaching. These days, I feel like I am turning into a boot-camp instructor. I am tough on my students and tough-minded about my approach in the classroom. Yet, at the same time, I feel that I am more compassionate and more able to see the true needs of students than I used to be. I am not bragging. That would be ridiculous. I have so much yet to learn about this crazy ride called teaching.
Instead, I am simply gratified by seeing the growth I've undergone in these last few years. It's similar to the growth I see in students that I teach. I love watching them come in as kids in 6th grade and mature into teenagers approaching adulthood in 8th grade. They grow in every way possible---physically, mentally, emotionally, etc. There is rarely any aspect of their lives that is not affected within those three years. It is incredible to observe.
As I was walking up the stairs to my apartment tonight, I was contemplating how dynamic life is. It is ever-changing and is always affording new opportunities. God has been gracious to me and has loved me through so many stages in my life. He has bolstered me in rough times and has kept by me in good times. He has helped me to change from an overwhelmed, naive teacher to the slightly-more-confident teacher I am today. I feel full of gratitude and of praise to Him for His hand in this and in all areas of my life. I am thankful for His gift of dynamic life.
I would cry about nearly anything that didn't go right. For anyone who has taught for very long, you know how often things don't go quite right in this profession. After all, we work with tons of humans, and for middle school teachers, adolescent humans nonetheless. It's a volatile business, this job, and it takes a tough mind. I was far too sensitive and far too unaware that most of the students' misbehavior had nothing to do with their thoughts or reactions to me at all. It was just their unfiltered, immature reactions to whatever was chapping them that day.
It's interesting to me how certain memories are emblazoned in my mind with very specific details. For example, I can remember the outfit I was wearing when I had one of these breakdowns that first year. Perhaps I recall the gold, white and black skirt and black blouse I was sporting because one of the assistant principals had found me in my vulnerable state and had to sit with me and chat about what was going on. I have distinct visions of looking down at my necklace and noticing my clothing because I was ashamed to be so weak. I'm not sure why, but I remember those articles of clothing and the painful gold shoes I was wearing like it were yesterday.
By the grace of God, I made it through that first year and am now in my fifth year of teaching. These days, I feel like I am turning into a boot-camp instructor. I am tough on my students and tough-minded about my approach in the classroom. Yet, at the same time, I feel that I am more compassionate and more able to see the true needs of students than I used to be. I am not bragging. That would be ridiculous. I have so much yet to learn about this crazy ride called teaching.
Instead, I am simply gratified by seeing the growth I've undergone in these last few years. It's similar to the growth I see in students that I teach. I love watching them come in as kids in 6th grade and mature into teenagers approaching adulthood in 8th grade. They grow in every way possible---physically, mentally, emotionally, etc. There is rarely any aspect of their lives that is not affected within those three years. It is incredible to observe.
As I was walking up the stairs to my apartment tonight, I was contemplating how dynamic life is. It is ever-changing and is always affording new opportunities. God has been gracious to me and has loved me through so many stages in my life. He has bolstered me in rough times and has kept by me in good times. He has helped me to change from an overwhelmed, naive teacher to the slightly-more-confident teacher I am today. I feel full of gratitude and of praise to Him for His hand in this and in all areas of my life. I am thankful for His gift of dynamic life.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Woodhead: Small Town Boy. Big Time Success.
My Grandpa has always been a fantastic story teller. He can retell even the most mundane happenings in the most charming and hilarious way. So, a few years ago, when he began telling stories about a phenomenal athlete at the local North Platte, NE high school, I didn't over-think it. Sure, Grandpa made this kid sound like Superman himself. But then, Grandpa had that way of making everything in life fun, exhilarating, and interesting. So, there was no need to get too hyper about this reported high school Hercules.
Yet, the stories about this kid kept coming. I quickly realized that my Grandpa truly believed this guy was unusual. He wasn't wrong. Thanks to Grandpa's foresight, the name Danny Woodhead became a household name for me years before it did for football-crazed fans around the country.
I am speaking of the New England Patriot's budding star, Danny Woodhead. That Mr. Woodhead is the same Mr. Woodhead that my Grandpa would proclaim as a sensation when he was playing his heart out in high school. That Mr. Woodhead is the small-town-raised, small-sized machine of a man that my Grandpa often spoke of with admiration and an awestruck shake of his head.
My brother recently brought my attention to the fact that Danny had not only made it into the NFL but that he was becoming downright popular as well. Wow. My Grandpa saw him play many times. He is now one of the wonder stories of the NFL. How fun is that?
Here is an article on Danny Woodhead done by ESPN that my brother shared with me a few days ago. If you want to see a colorful (and a bit exaggerated in spots) view of his North Platte, NE upbringing, it's an entertaining read. I just sort of think my Grandpa should get some credit. He knew this guy rocked from the start.
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/playoffs/2010/columns/story?page=hotread18/DannyWoodhead
Yet, the stories about this kid kept coming. I quickly realized that my Grandpa truly believed this guy was unusual. He wasn't wrong. Thanks to Grandpa's foresight, the name Danny Woodhead became a household name for me years before it did for football-crazed fans around the country.
I am speaking of the New England Patriot's budding star, Danny Woodhead. That Mr. Woodhead is the same Mr. Woodhead that my Grandpa would proclaim as a sensation when he was playing his heart out in high school. That Mr. Woodhead is the small-town-raised, small-sized machine of a man that my Grandpa often spoke of with admiration and an awestruck shake of his head.
My brother recently brought my attention to the fact that Danny had not only made it into the NFL but that he was becoming downright popular as well. Wow. My Grandpa saw him play many times. He is now one of the wonder stories of the NFL. How fun is that?
Here is an article on Danny Woodhead done by ESPN that my brother shared with me a few days ago. If you want to see a colorful (and a bit exaggerated in spots) view of his North Platte, NE upbringing, it's an entertaining read. I just sort of think my Grandpa should get some credit. He knew this guy rocked from the start.
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/playoffs/2010/columns/story?page=hotread18/DannyWoodhead
Saturday, January 8, 2011
It Can all Change so Quickly
I am sitting in Barnes and Noble, sipping green tea and gazing out at the parking lot. The weather this morning was glorious. I went for a jog in the warm sun and then sat on my porch to read Great Expectations by Charles Dickens while soaking in as many rays as the January sun would allow. It was almost too hot for me, and I had to break to find some sunscreen. I slathered it on my face and the classic summery smell gave me visions of being in a different place at a different time.
I'm glad that I took advantage of the unusual warmth while I could. Winter storms and severely cold temperatures are supposed to invade tomorrow, and the gathering gray and low-hanging clouds that I spy in the sky give warning that such predictions are true. Perhaps a snow day is right around the corner.
It can all change so quickly. Weather. Life. Scary and comforting too. Scary because present bliss may be snatched away in a moment. Comforting because oppressive misery might quickly be relieved.
No matter what, Jesus never changes. One of the most comforting verses for me this last year was Hebrews 13:8: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." I love that truth so much that I've been working on crafting a song based on it. Knowing that Jesus is never inconstant is an understanding that wraps my heart in peace.
The clouds have dimmed the sunlight even more since I first began typing. That's okay. I've had my sun for the day. Let the snow fall.
I'm glad that I took advantage of the unusual warmth while I could. Winter storms and severely cold temperatures are supposed to invade tomorrow, and the gathering gray and low-hanging clouds that I spy in the sky give warning that such predictions are true. Perhaps a snow day is right around the corner.
It can all change so quickly. Weather. Life. Scary and comforting too. Scary because present bliss may be snatched away in a moment. Comforting because oppressive misery might quickly be relieved.
No matter what, Jesus never changes. One of the most comforting verses for me this last year was Hebrews 13:8: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." I love that truth so much that I've been working on crafting a song based on it. Knowing that Jesus is never inconstant is an understanding that wraps my heart in peace.
The clouds have dimmed the sunlight even more since I first began typing. That's okay. I've had my sun for the day. Let the snow fall.
Monday, January 3, 2011
No Unimportant Person
It's been awhile since I've blogged. In attempting to add another entry, I may find myself overly ambitious. Lately, I've been reading C.S. Lewis, a true mastermind who had the incredible ability to make deep and perplexing matters seem logical and straight forward. I was impacted by a thought of his recently. Writing about it will not be a mindless task.
My good friend, whom I have now known for over 20 years, gave me The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis for Christmas. It is a compilation of short addresses that C.S. Lewis had given at various points in his life. In perhaps his most famous address, "The Weight of Glory", Lewis speaks to the deep and unmet longings that all men experience in the fallen world and suggests how those longings point to the hope and reality of Heaven.
Toward the end of the piece, Lewis talks about how believers ought to seriously consider the plight of the souls they interact with every day. He says that though there may be danger of a believer dwelling too much on his own glorified life to come after death, "...it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour" (Lewis, pg. 45, Harper Collins Publishers).
In other words, every person whom we encounter is an eternal soul that is on a trajectory headed toward a glorious overflowing of life or a dreadful and unspeakable anguish of death upon the end of his/her temporal life. Indeed, there are no unimportant or insignificant people. Lewis begs his audience to remember that "the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you say it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare" (Lewis 45).
It is such strong language, but it conveys his point well. As humans, we are drawn to apathy. We struggle to keep the strong scent of urgency fresh on the nostrils of our spiritual senses. It reminds me of Ephesians 5:16 which urges us to "make the most of every opportunity". Apathy must be barred from my life and yours if we are to be effective ambassadors for the kingdom of God.
This theme is timely with the entrance of the New Year as well. I've heard a few sermons of late that have reinforced this idea of seizing the day and recognizing the opportunities directly in our path. As Toby Mac croons in his song "City on our Knees": "If you gotta start somewhere, why not here? If you gotta start sometime, why not now?"
My prayer for you and for me is that we will take note of even the most uninteresting person we meet. Let us not lose sight of the most important mission God has given us on earth. Let us be diligent fishers of men.
My good friend, whom I have now known for over 20 years, gave me The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis for Christmas. It is a compilation of short addresses that C.S. Lewis had given at various points in his life. In perhaps his most famous address, "The Weight of Glory", Lewis speaks to the deep and unmet longings that all men experience in the fallen world and suggests how those longings point to the hope and reality of Heaven.
Toward the end of the piece, Lewis talks about how believers ought to seriously consider the plight of the souls they interact with every day. He says that though there may be danger of a believer dwelling too much on his own glorified life to come after death, "...it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour" (Lewis, pg. 45, Harper Collins Publishers).
In other words, every person whom we encounter is an eternal soul that is on a trajectory headed toward a glorious overflowing of life or a dreadful and unspeakable anguish of death upon the end of his/her temporal life. Indeed, there are no unimportant or insignificant people. Lewis begs his audience to remember that "the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you say it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare" (Lewis 45).
It is such strong language, but it conveys his point well. As humans, we are drawn to apathy. We struggle to keep the strong scent of urgency fresh on the nostrils of our spiritual senses. It reminds me of Ephesians 5:16 which urges us to "make the most of every opportunity". Apathy must be barred from my life and yours if we are to be effective ambassadors for the kingdom of God.
This theme is timely with the entrance of the New Year as well. I've heard a few sermons of late that have reinforced this idea of seizing the day and recognizing the opportunities directly in our path. As Toby Mac croons in his song "City on our Knees": "If you gotta start somewhere, why not here? If you gotta start sometime, why not now?"
My prayer for you and for me is that we will take note of even the most uninteresting person we meet. Let us not lose sight of the most important mission God has given us on earth. Let us be diligent fishers of men.
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