Our Church Has One Foundation: Part 2

August 12, 2015

That poem was spawned out of a (very sad) personal anecdote I wrote to the Poet, one day. A year before I drove out of my little Oregon hometown to move to Big Texas, the community church in which I was raised went through a nasty split. I say nasty because, in a town of population 2,000, is there any other way for a church split to go? I wish I could say yes.

The Split was confusing to me. Church had always been so stable–everyone I knew, the entire Village that raised me, met in the same building, at the same time, every Sunday, for 18 years of my life. And then all of a sudden there were TWO meeting places and TWO different pastors and half the People I Loved were in one place and the other half were in the other place and it was all just really sad and frustrating. I will say that both churches are now thriving and healing (from what I hear), and for that we are all very thankful. But there were many years of pain and confusion and bitterness before the Healing ever came to be.

At Baylor, I did the normal college-freshman “church hopping” for a good few weeks before I settled on one. It was a church unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Held in an old warehouse, in a less-than-wonderful part of town (with a policeman at the door). Concrete floors; black plastic chairs; dimly lit rooms; abstracty hipstery murals (obviously painted by church goers) on the walls. The sanctuary walls were black, and there was a massive mural of The Last Supper on the front of the high-up sound booth. The only light during worship was provided by (literally) dozens of candles of all shapes and sizes on the stage, which was obviously made of black-painted plywood. The worship band stood on an old raggedy persian rug, and the pastor sat on a stool off-center a bit. This place is so cool, I remember thinking.  And it was. It was also, to the credit of the community and leadership there, an incredible church with a heart for Jesus and His Truth. I was moved to tears during the first song the first day I attended, and because of that I stayed. This place feels like home, I told the friend who’d come with me.  During communion the pastor made it clear that everyone was welcome at the table because even Jesus allowed a traitor to partake in The Last Supper, so who are we to decide who can come and who can’t? The message of Jesus’ saving work and the Gospel was explicitly presented–they weren’t being wishy-washy, they were simply saying: COME. All of you. Come.

I spent a semester or so at that church. I often went alone and for some reason (aka: my lack of effort) didn’t really find community there. It is true that you get out what you put in, and I honestly wasn’t putting in much more than Sunday Morning Listening, so the whole no-community thing was totally on me.

Then I started dating a guy who went to “The” pentacostaly church in town. So I left my tears-during-worship church and headed over to the happy-clappy one down the street. It was just as Happy Clappy as I’d imagined it to be, and I sat through every service wanting to stand up on my chair and shout “IS ANYONE ELSE SAD LIKE ME OR IS EVERYONE JUST SO FILLED WITH THE GOSH DARN SPIRIT OF GOD THAT THEY HAVE NO PROBLEMS?!” I did not stand up and shout that, so you can give me a gold sticker.

After a couple months,we broke up, and I went back to the church-with-black-walls for a while.

Spring of my sophomore year I moved into a professor’s house while he and his family were abroad for the semester. It was a beautiful little house nestled deep in the lush green woods. It had an expansive back porch and a big wooden dining room table in front of a wall of windows. I was taking 21 hours during that time, and it was (supposed to be) my last semester at Baylor. I decided that, with school being so taxing and my leaving-Baylor-soon emotions running high (and also because of my incredible surroundings which I never wanted to leave ever) I needed to take a “season away from church proper.” I was desperate to make the Sabbath day an ACTUAL Sabbath, and putting on pretty clothes and driving all the way into town just wasn’t it. I needed Real Rest. I needed Sundays that looked like digging deep into God’s word; writing out my thoughts and prayers; being still and quiet.

And so, I quit church. 

I knew it was only a season, and I explained that to all my Very Concerned Friends, but they remained very concerned.

“Sometimes you just have to do things (like go to church) because they’re right, no matter how you’re feeling.”
“You know, I think if you just GO you’ll find that it is what your soul is craving; You NEED church.”
“Taking a season off usually looks like never coming back–I’m not sure you want to risk that.”
“I’m not sure anyone *always loves* church. Just because you’re not feeling it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go.”
“Church is what God wants. Being by yourself with your Bible and your thoughts is not a replacement for The Body, gathered.”

You get it.
I heard it all.

In my defense, I had an absolutely incredible group of Jesus-loving, Bible-reading, God-fearing friends who I considered “my church.” Thing is: there were (are) only 8 of us. And we didn’t meet on Sunday mornings. We usually met around dinner tables and atop parking garages and in trees. Places of that nature. So They didn’t think “my 8 friends” excused me from Real Church. I disagree(d).

I got to do an “extra half lap” at Baylor, which is to say I had the good fortune of being able to spend Fall semester (i.e. football season) of my junior year back in one of the best small cities on earth. My best friend did not return, as she was off to nursing school, but she implored me to “fill her space” in the church where she’d invested countless hours of love and leadership.
(Her being Good at Church will get her more jewels in her crown than me, no doubt, but JOKE’S ON HER because we all throw our crowns at Jesus’ feet anyway!) *wink*
I was actually sort of excited at the prospect, so I decided to give it a shot.
It was a wonderful church. College Pastor Guy preached the Gospel (and pretty much only the Gospel) every Sunday, and boy oh boy did I need to hear it. Plus, my best friend’s boyfriend led worship most weeks in his flannel, so there was that too.
Tough part is that it was my last semester–which meant I only got to be a part of that community for three months. Not much time to “build community,” really.

I moved to the New Big City for nursing school that spring, and I immediately started attending (what I thought was) AN AWESOME CHURCH near my house. I was enthralled. A friend from school who wanted to “try the church thing out” joined me, and we attended faithfully for a couple months. I was just starting to really Invest when a bunch of things started happening in the spiritual/church life of my family back on the West Coast.

I won’t go into long and boring details, but it looked like HOURS for DAYS on the phone with my (distraught/frustrated/confused/concerned) mama and a heck of a lot of research into some mega-churches on the west coast, where some of our friends had started attending. In light of all that was happening, I thought “hm. I think the church I’m attending here is kinda big and it seems like the sort of church about which people might have Things to Say” and so I googled it. Bad (good?) idea.

I was suddenly B O M B A R D E D with all sorts of opinions/ideas/writings by (well-known) people about my church! For days and weeks I read and prayed and sent emails to half a dozen mentors/second parents in my life asking for HELP and WHAT SHOULD I DO and WHO SHOULD I BELIEVE and AM I LISTENING TO HERETICAL TEACHING and WHY ARE THERE SO MANY DIFFERENT SORTS OF CHURCHES?

In the meantime, I read an article in our local newspaper that described the church as the “cool, hip, new, progressive Christian….” and I just couldn’t. New? Progressive? Why does Christianity have to progress? I am confused.

Now, let me be clear. I am not casting hard-and-fast aspersions on that church. But here’s what happened. Because of all the hooplah surrounding the place and because of all that was going on with my family/friends back home, I’d sit there every Sunday analyzing and critiquing EVERY SINGLE WORD that came from the pulpit.
“What is his motivation, here?”
“What version of the Bible is he using–was that intentional?”
“Where is this sermon coming from; what kind of a heart does he have?”
And on, and on, and on.

It was unhealthy. And it was certainly no way to learn about God’s Word. 

I realized that I needed to be in a place where I TRUSTED the people behind the pulpit. Where I (for the most part) didn’t question the heart from which sermons were preached. I don’t know whether or not this pastor’s heart was in the wrong place. In fact, I’d bet pretty high money it WASN’T (isn’t). BUT for me, all the hooplah was not conducive to learning and growing.

I also decided that this whole “cool, hipster, progressive” movement is not something I want to be a part of. We don’t need church to be cool. Or hipster. Or progressive. We need church to teach us what God’s Word has to say. That doesn’t need Americanese labels. We need church that’s not watered-down; not wishy-washy. Church that stands on principles and church that believes in the Power of the Holy Spirit to change hearts; not church that relies on the Power of Being Cool and Approachable and Culturally Relevant to change behaviors.

And so I left and went to a church down the street, which I now attend every Sunday (unless I’m here with this family of 11, and then I go with them to my parents’ old church).

If you’ve gotten this far, you’re probably saying JORDAN, GET TO THE POINT ALREADY. But I wanted you to have the background–all the background–before I did that.

Here’s the point: church disillusions me. I don’t understand it. I’m constantly disappointed/frustrated with it and its people and leaders. I very often am prideful enough to say certain churches/ways of doing things are WRONG and misinterpreted.
I am chief of sinners. And I’m chief of being disillusioned with the church. 

The story at the beginning of this piece was my first experience with church splits, and I can assure you it won’t be my last. I struggle enormously with The Church, as a whole. I don’t think there’s a way to NOT struggle with The Church. It’s made up of a bunch of HUMANS all trying to take our various life experiences/things that have shaped us and use those things (along with our literacy, or lack thereof) to understand a book that is very long and deep and a God who we cannot see. There will inevitably be disagreements and problems. I just don’t see a way around it.

My struggle is not that.

My struggle is trying (desperately) to love the church enough to STICK IT OUT. Jesus very clearly gave us The Church and expects us to use it and incorporate ourselves into The Body as a whole. Jesus loves His church because His Church is made of His people, and He loves His people–arguments and preferences and decibel level of worship music and all.

So, I haven’t yet found a way “out of church,” in good conscience. Time and again I go back to Scripture and see the same overarching message:

 “THEY ARE HUMAN JUST LIKE YOU. THEY GET AS MUCH GRACE AS YOU DO. STICK IT OUT. 
YOU ARE NOT BETTER THAN THEM.”

 And so, I stick it out. I try to do what Jennie said in her post: become friends with people and really listen to what they say. I don’t listen in order to have my convictions changed (they usually don’t). I listen so that when I speak, MY WORDS WILL BE  LOVING. Because if I actually KNOW and LOVE people on the “other side,” I will be better at speaking my convictions KINDLY and not seethingly. I will be less venomous. The reason we speak with vitriol and venom is because we havedehumanized the “Others“. Once we re-humanize them, we RE-MEMBER ourselves (Ourselves, collectively) and we can disagree kindly and with a gracious spirit.

I don’t think my job is to be right, though I wish it were. I like being right. More and more I’m realizing that Jesus will do the “being right,” in the end, and I’m guessing when it comes down to it we’ll all be just a little wrong. I don’t really have to worry about that. What I do have to worry about is BEING LOVE. Because there ain’t no way people are going to love “my Jesus” if I don’t first love them. *I* am the hands and feet and mouthpiece of Christ. Literally.

WE ARE the hands and feet and mouthpieces of Christ. This means that in speaking to and discussing with one another, we must learn to say our piece (the way we “see it”) and at the same time listen closely and try desperately to understand the way our brother or sister (and they are that, you  know) “sees it.” In this model of interacting, of friendship, there is neither room nor need for vitriol, for slander. There isn’t room for outrage or violence or mean and nasty words. There may be room for an amicable “going separate ways,” but the key word there is amicable. I think there are times when we can be most effective (in life and for The Kingdom) when monkeys are gathered with monkeys. There are other times when those monkeys need a few elephants in the mix, to keep things real and grounded and…interesting. In any case, if the “going separate ways” seems to be the best thing to do, it can be done in friendship! In love! It can be done by saying, “I truly wish you and yours the very best. I am confident you will be effective for Christ. I support your ministry and all you are doing. It is simply not practical for us to be under the same roof anymore.”

What if the Body of Christ could look a little more like that? What if first, we listen more closely to one another, try to understand, and really make a concerted effort to stay under the same roof, even when the going gets tough? And then, if different roofs seem necessary, what if we do that with love and gentleness? What if we still recognize that, really, we’re all under the Same Roof when it comes to eternity so uniting for the sake of Christ (even if our roofs are different colors) on issues of eternity is The Best Way?

Right now, the world looks at us and thinks “man, those Christians just can’t seem to get it together. They’re always disagreeing and fighting and splitting and dividing. We’ve got enough of that in the world, so why would I want to join them and add more of that Stuff to my life?”

Here’s the thing. Yeah, we split. Yeah, we disagree. WE ARE HUMAN, AND THAT IS INEVITABLE. Where we have a choice is this: in being human without being vitriolic; without the slander; without the hate; without the secret meetings and horrible words and character defamation.

It is crucial to NOT disregard/throw out our deeply held convictions. Those convictions govern how we live. But there has GOT to be a way to have strong opinions and still be kind. And I’ll spend my whole life figuring out how to do JUST THAT.

I’m asking you to join me.

Our Church Has One Foundation: Part 1

August 12, 2015

So I finished final eight of eleven this afternoon and then went straight home to pack a bag and head to the Starnes’. It’s funny–I come here as often as I possibly can, to this home with nine children under the age of fifteen. I come here to be a part of a family–I’m the 10th kid, by now. But I think I come for other reasons, too. I think I come because my soul feels connected here, like there’s a part of me that deeply desires a family of this size, a house-life of this sort. There are many places I could go to “get away” from the hustle and bustle and exhaustion and chaos of nursing school. I choose to come stay with a tribe of eleven, where a two-year old asks me to read her “Miss Frizzle” for the thousandth time and an eight year old nestles close on the couch trying to sound out the big words in one chapter for an entire hour. I get studying done during the day when they’re upstairs doing school, and the oldest brings me lunch and snacks. We gather around a table set for 12 for breakfast and dinner, and everyone helps clean the kitchen no less than 8397 times a day.
The wash machine and dryer are always turning.I just woke up from a 23-minute nap. Upon awakening, I had no idea where I was or how I got here or what day it is or why it was so dark outside. I’m the kind of girl who falls asleep in 4 minutes and has a night’s worth of dreams in the next 20.

The couches here are so comfortable. And so old. Which is most definitely why they are so comfortable. I don’t even bother trying to read upon them, anymore. It’s futile.

Before falling asleep, though, an email came in from my Email Poet Friend. I read it a few times and got all teary eyed and the Voice Inside said: “time to write that post.” It’s a piece I’ve been churning and contemplating for quite some time, now. For years, really.

Email Poet Friend said, “hope your exams are done and you are in the woods somewhere.”

Let me say three things.

First, my exams are not done. I have three left. I am being tortured.

Second, I will soon be in the woods somewhere, as I can think of ZERO place I’d rather go than Straight to the Woods once finals are finished. In the woods, around campfire, is where I rest. The air is fresh and the roads aren’t paved. Yes, I will head straight there.

Third, one of the greatest gifts in all of life is having People “in my court” who know and get me so very well. To be Known is the deepest desire of all of our hearts, yeah? The Father knows us. And that should be enough. But it sure is nice to have people-with-skin-on Knowing Us, too. This Email Poet Friend is someone I’ve never even hugged in real life.
Yet with a single line he has proven that he Gets Me.
In the woods somewhere. 
After a grueling round of finals. 
That is me.
Thank you, Poet Friend, for proving that you Care by showing that you Understand. I learn so much from you.

The Poet went on to explain that on July 27, I sent him a “novel” (aka a very, very long email) mentioning inter alia that my church in Oregon split in half before I moved to Texas. “Those words and thoughts stayed with me,” he said. “A very bad poem came out of my brain, I wrote it, chucked it. The other day I woke up at 4am and this, with a few changes here & there, came tumbling/spewing out. I warn you: this might be a total piece of crap. You won’t hurt my feelings if you delete it without comment. The working title is: Our Church Has One Foundation.”

Well, good Poet. Let me tell you. Your poem is not only not a piece of crap; it is a masterpiece. And I’ll be damned if I don’t listen to that Voice saying “now’s the time to write that post.” So, thanks. I wouldn’t have Listened if you (a self-proclaimed atheist) wouldn’t have sent this along.

Friends, I give you this poem very tenderly–like a mother might hand a kitten to her toddler child and say in a sweet voice“gentle now; hold the baby kitty softly; tuck its paws in tight; make it feel safe…” I will publish Part 2 of this post tomorrow–the part where I say words on this poem and all I’ve been contemplating for so long. For now, mull this over for the night. There is much Truth in these lines, and I wonder if we’ll all recognize a bit of ourselves in its depths.

---

We are the hands and feet of Christ.
We meet each Sunday at ten and
Tuesdays at seven without fail.
I sit towards the back and you

Sit near the front. My soul mixes
With yours, and you are the motion
Of mine. We have been at this church
Forever and always will. Today

And all tomorrows we stand proof
Against Satan and his ways: in
This small town, we are a very
Beacon, light deep in the forest.

Our fathers laid the cornerstone
In 1900 and we’ve been
Coming ever since: Depression,
War, trials of despair: we kept

Coming. What were our small disputes,
If our God reigned? Little mistakes
Meant nothing, because to do God’s
Will means working thru where good faith

Might err: The Lord was ours before
We were the Lord’s. Until we broke
Up, that is, half of us turning
Away, since many of us had

Captured a taste for pure truth, the
Really correct doctrine, God’s true
Plan; and the taste developed greatly.
Soon I could see you weren’t fit to

Teach our classes, and in a dream,
You saw I couldn’t be in the
Choir. You ceased to be my keeper,
And I knew you could look out for

Yourself. If all this made a few
Cry, well, time they knew that some folks
Can’t change for the better. Maybe
I mean to say won’t. Anytime

You want to apologise, look
Me up and I will listen, but
Chaff cut from the wheat has a way
Of staying chaff. Oh….I guess I

Miss you on Sundays, but on that
Day we chose whom to serve; God must
Have smiled on us, or you would not
Have rebelled, and there’d be no need

To cast you out.

…to be continued

 & the good poet

thoughts on The Big Question, and how to answer it.

August 9, 2015

So I was talking about marriage today with a dear friend and her husband, and at one point long into the conversation her husband said something like this:

“I think it’s possible that we’re all too caught up in the question of ‘who am I supposed to marry?‘ It consumes the thoughts, discussions, and prayers of so many of us Christians between the ages of 18 and 20-whatever, and I sometimes wonder if there are more important Kingdom Things with which to concern ourselves. I realize marriage is a BIG DEAL and a BIG COMMITMENT, but sometimes I think we make too big a deal of the ‘Choosing the One‘ part of it.

One time, I looked around the church I was attending and realized the incredible number of Godly, Jesus-pursuing, people-loving, Bible-reading single women in the congregation. So I said to the pastor: “how in the world am I ever supposed to know which one(s) to ask on dates, which one(s) to pursue? They all seem equally God-loving, and they’re ALL beautiful and fun!” The pastor said to me: “It’s simple. Pick one.”

He continued…

Then one time I was discussing this issue with my best friend’s pastor, who leads and disciples a lot of young(ish) Christian men, and he said something similar. He said that to decide on whether or not to marry a certain woman, a Christian man must ask himself these three questions about her:

1) Does she love Jesus?
2) Do I like her?
3) Would she follow me wherever God calls me in the world?

“If your answers to those three questions are yes, yes, and yes, then MARRY HER.”

I’m reducing this conversation to a couple short paragraphs when in reality it spanned a few hours, so I’m leaving out a lot of nuance. But I wanted to introduce those two viewpoints as a segue into some thoughts of my own. They help put into context all I’m going to type next.

I spent the day at their house mostly studying but also thinking about the conversation from this morning. His wife (my dear friend) and I were talking some hours later, and she asked me what I thought about those three questions. As we discussed, I realized I take issue with them (for many vast and varied reasons). She suggested we come up with a list of our own, together, because the question of “how do I know if I should marry this guy?” is important, and we both think it’s good to have some sort of tried & true thought process behind our vacillations. The reality is that there’s got to be a way for a woman to “filter through” the men asking her out to dinner. I don’t mean for that to sound harsh or in any way to undermine the Biblical (and right) concept of submission and husband-as-family-leader. But I do mean it seriously. When a woman is being asked out for coffee on more occasions than she has spaces in her planner and getting “the look” from a handful of guys who haven’t even asked yet, she cannot feasibly say YES, YES, and YES to every one of them. That game is exhausting and heart-wrenching and more times than not, fruitless. (News Flash that isn’t news at all: the Dating Game is exhausting and heart-wrenching…) She has to have some foundation that helps her decide upon the sort of man to whom she’ll say “YES, coffee sounds great; YES let’s talk tonight; YES please take me to dinner; YES I want to get to know you.”

And, when she meets a guy with whom she can envision marriage, it’s important she has an objective SOMETHING by which to evaluate the situation and potential relationship. “Love is blind,” they say. And they’re right. We get all caught up and infatuated and gooogly-eyed, and we sometimes forget to add in a little logic. I think the butterflies and the heart-eyes are all good and important–I really do. I think the “falling” element of “falling in love” is precious and something to be enjoyed. But all of THAT is only healthy (and fruitful) if the Big Questions have already been discerned, asked, and answered correctly.

As we processed and discussed, we boiled it down to ten questions. Then we thought “man, that’s a lot. Can we reduce the list?” So, we did. In the end, I think all the Things we were attempting to get at can be answered by four main questions. But since you’re probably curious, I’ll tack the “extra 6” onto the end of the list.

1) Does he love Jesus?
2) Is he a student of God’s Word? Which is to say: Is he both under authority and teachable?
3) Is he being discipled (mentored) and does he disciple others? Is he in community? Does he value The Village? Does he seek wisdom and guidance from both his peers and elders, and does he contribute wisdom and guidance to those in his circles?
4) Does he adore and exalt me (hold me in high regard) for who I am and for who I am becoming? Does he like me? Does he make me feel protected, treasured, valued?

---

5) Do we see eye-to-eye on Fundamental Things. ***
6) Does he believe that marriage (as opposed to celibacy) is God’s best for himself?
7) Does he fiercely pursue purity?
8) Does he desire to communicate clearly and effectively?
9) Where is his treasure?
10) How does he treat his family (or lack thereof); specifically: how does he treat his mom?

***I think we’re all entitled to draw lines in the sand about certain issues, and I realize my Fundamental Things may be different than his, or vice/versa. I always want to be willing to listen to others, seek wisdom from God (prayer), and grow (if God’s asking me to) in these areas.

I truly believe the last six are both embedded in and follow naturally from the first four, but I wanted to include them because they are *very* important. Sometimes it’s nice to have the “what, then, should follow…?” clearly spelled out.

It can all seem so confusing, so Big, so daunting, can’t it? Especially at this age. Most of us are joyful in singleness yet yearn for marriage. We want to be mamas and daddies. We want to settle down and experience stability. We want to know the man/woman with whom we will Do Life and Kingdom Work. And so, I think these questions are at least helpful. They’re helping me stay on track and not get ahead of myself…or ahead of God. They’re helping me really Listen to the Holy Spirit, who guides my life…our lives.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and convictions. Really, I would. The topics of dating/relationships/marriage are some that I’ve pondered/prayed about/wrestled with more than any others. I don’t mean to make it all complicated. I really don’t. In fact, I wish it was simpler than I’ve experienced it to be. I wish I could say: “the answer to each of those four questions is YES, so let’s be done with all the Dating Games we’ve played our whole lives and just get married already!” But the reality is that it takes two to tango, yeah? So, naturally, it’s going to be slightly more complex than me saying YES. First, he’s got to ask. And until that day, Lord Jesus give me patience. :)

---

Addendum: Thoughts from Friends

From Chris:

First, I think it’s important to distinguish two issues. The first is: How do I tell whether I should say yes to someone who wants to go on a date with me? 
The second is: How do I tell whether the person I’m dating is someone I can responsibly marry?

The first list is more permissive than the second, because you just can’t tell as much about a person when they first ask you out as you can once you’re considering whether they’re worth marrying.

You mentioned the first issue (not having enough time for coffee shop dates, etc.), but your list was for the second issue.

And you might think the answer to the first issue is: If he seems like the person who will meet the qualifications on the second list, then I should say yes to a date. But sometimes we have misinformed first (or second or third) impressions. Maybe there should be something in response to the first question that helps you choose in a way that prevents you from choosing based on a first impression.

Maybe the answers to the first issue should involve the way in which he asks you out, whether he is respectful of your time when scheduling the date, whether the date he proposes is sufficiently non-lame…and maybe you can ask him some screening questions (e.g. “Maybe. Sounds fun. But first: do you love Jesus? And are you committed to purity before marriage? Those are important to me.”). Anyway, if that’s what you do, that list will be quite a bit different than the second one, I think.

I also wanted to add some questions to your list (for the second question, as I’ve presented it) .

1. Is this a person I would want to represent me and my family to new friends and my larger community?
(I think you could answer 1-10 on your list affirmatively and answer this one negatively, e.g. if he did not take initiative in finding a career or hated being outdoors.)

2. Does he argue and resolve arguments well? 
(Same as before, I think you could answer 1-10 affirmatively and this one negatively if, e.g., he’s not intelligent enough to understand the connections you make when you give reasons for your position or when you make the distinctions you make, or if he has anger issues, or avoids arguments altogether even when they’re important to have.)

And, last, 3. Is he fun to be around, to spend time with?
(I can imagine a godly guy —do people even say “godly” anymore? I haven’t heard it in a long time— who likes you a lot, makes you feel liked and protected, and who wants to do everything the right way, but who just isn’t more fun to be around than is any other friend. Or maybe he’s only fun to be around *because* of how much he likes you and not because of his other interests or who he is as a person.)

I really appreciated all Chris had to say. I think I’d even add a 4th question onto his addendum. Something like:
4. Is there CHEMISTRY?
(A guy/girl can “check all the boxes,” but if there’s not that level of spark, it ain’t gonna work (in most cases). I must admit that when deciding whether to say yes to a first date, chemistry is one of the two things I use to make my decision. The first is whether or not he claims to be a Christian. The second is whether or not I’m actually attracted to him. The third would be whether I can feasibly fit a date into my stupid school schedule ;) )

From Suzanne:

I think that we totally spend too much time thinking about marriage and the future when we are exhorted to not worry about tomorrow. It is a natural and beautiful thing though so it is not wrong or evil. But I think “a woman’s heart should be so lost in God that a man must seek him to find her.”
You’re right, there are lots of good men- which is great and inspiring- but we can’t marry them all. I like the quote about usrunning toward God and looking to see who is running with us, because this gives the idea that we are not only orienting ourselves properly, but are pursuing God in the same way. God can be glorified in so many ways and I think it’s important to be with someone who calls to glorify him in a way compatible with what you feel your calling to be.

Yep, I love that quote too. The one about running toward God and looking to see who is running with us. There’s something spectacular (I presume) about seeing your calling align with another’s calling and then TEAMING TOGETHER for the sake of the Kingdom. And LIKING EACH OTHER while doing so. Woah, how awesome.

Dear God.

July 29, 2015

A real letter I just wrote in my head, to God.

Dear God. It’s great if you want to make me an anomaly. But then could you give me a heart of stone? Or, if you want to give me a soft and bleeding heart (which is perfectly fine by me, for the record), then can you make me more like everyone else? This whole anomaly + soft heart combo really is a tough road to hoe, and I’m kinda over it.

Sincerely, Jordan.

{Posting this without saying much else about it because sometimes, less is more, and I’m willing to bet there are many who will resonate with this dichotomy.}

money + mouth: a lesson in addition

July 28, 2015

I don’t hate very many things. Hate’s a hard thing to live with, so I really try to burden myself with as little of it as possible.But sometimes, I just can’t help it. You guys. I REALLY HATE America’s flippant use of disposable plastic water bottles. 

I’ve jumped on this soap box before. I know. The thing is that we have clear, cold, clean water DELIVERED INTO MULTIPLE ROOMS IN OUR *HOUSES* via these cool little gadgets called TAPS, at a moment’s notice. It’s incredible, really. I can walk into my bathroom right now, take my little spindly pinky finger, flick a silver handle, and 100% drinkable water will flow from that spout all the livelong day. Stop and think about that for a moment.

Once upon a time, some brilliant people had this idea to take that water out of your bathroom sink and put it into plastic bottles and SELL IT TO YOU. They basically got around a table and someone said, “Fellas. I think I’ve struck up an idea that will make us billions. Americans are lazy, and if we bottle their water FOR them, they’ll buy it.” There was a day (really, I promise) when all of America would have thrown their heads back and laughed at those men–because there was a day when we literally couldn’t *afford* to be lazy…a day when the clear, cold, drinkable water that comes from our freaking garden hoses was actually sometimes used to nourish our bodies. That day has long since passed, for many people.

Thing is: there are places in the world (and I’ve been to many) where the “tap” water WOULD KILL US. In those places, I thank God for the geniuses who sat around that office table and decided to bottle our tap water and sell it back to us. But if you live in America, the water won’t kill you.

Anyway, instead of re-writing a post I’ve already published, I’ll let you read it for yourself, here. :) It’s a good post. I’ll hug you if you read it.

What I really came here to do today is tell you a little story:

I sat through a four hour lecture yesterday (someone come pat me on the back, please), and during that time the (very intelligent and very kind) woman speaking went through three bottles of bottled water. Three. In four hours. It was a lecture I actually really liked (OB/babies), but I couldn’t help but feel the frustration rising in my chest with each passing hour.

“Does she not KNOW the mess she’s contributing to? If she drinks 3 in 4 hours, that means she might be drinking NINE PER DAY. That’s FIFTY-SIX bottles a week. I bet she could fill an entire landfill all on her own! Has she not read the statistics? Does she not CARE about the world? Is she just extraordinarily LAZY?!?”

My *silent seethe* of Mean Words was getting louder and louder and louder in my head until I had decided that she was most definitely one of the worst women on the planet and also one of the laziest. I spewed off a text to friends sitting behind me: “Guys. Did anyone else notice that she’s gone through three disposable bottles in the past 4 hours? I can’t even handle it.”

And then I got a hold of myself.

Wait.

Could it be that *maybe* she doesn’t know the impact disposable bottles have on our planet?
Could it be that she’s just thirsty and that she’s always used them and that she is sacrificing four hours of her time to impart Very Important wisdom to us and has better things to do than worry about what she throws away?
Could it be that she’s STILL the incredible person I know her to be, regardless of how she feels about an issue that I just happen to feel very strongly about?

If not using disposable bottles is as important to me as I say/write it is, maybe it’s incumbent upon me to actually DO SOMETHING TANGIBLE about the problem. 

I had just seen this line on Facebook:

More and more, I simply live to be the antidote to the things I find hurtful or damaging in the world, rather than arguing with those I believe are being hurtful or damaging.
-John Pavolvitz

Antidote. Be the antidote, Self. Because in being the antidote, you will also be the hands and feet of Christ–the hands and feet of Love.

So I headed over to Hydroflask. And placed an order. Maybe she’d like a blue one, I decided.

Do I *want* to spend $27 on a stranger I’ve never even met? Do I even have that kind of money? Truthfully, not really. But is being the Antidote a better decision than being Angry? You betcha. So I’ll have to save my tips for a couple weeks. So what. In the name of giving a Gift that will keep on giving–a lasting gift that won’t wear out, that will save a few birds and a lot of plastic–heck YES I’ll save my tips. I’ll write a Kind Note and leave it in her mailbox at school. How much better is a Gift than a Lecture to Correct? 

I think we’re presented with this decision much more often than we realize. We can jump on our soapboxes and Lecture to Correct all we want–run our throats dry arguing with those we believe are being hurtful or damaging.

Or.

Or we can turn our Anger into Antidote; our Frustration into Friendship; our Hatefulness into Hope; our Grudges into Gifts.

Being the change we wish to see in the world looks a lot less like talking and a lot more like BEING. DOING. ACTING.Climbing down off our soapboxes and getting our boots a little muddy and our pocketbooks a little empty. Because the only way we’re ever really going to effect change is if we actually effect it.

effect (v): cause (something) to happen; bring about

We’ve got to, each of us has got to, step out of the cacophony and into being cause-y. 

Arguments are usually like poison–they slowly, ever so slowly, turn us against each other and into enemies. Into Others.And when someone is suddenly an Other, we have a much easier time Ostracizing and Obliterating them. Antidotes–actions–are what save lives, save the planet, save animals, save our souls.

There’s enough poison in the world to kill us all. What would it look like if we each made a quiet resolution to Be an Antidote?

To Whatever It Is That Bugs You, be the Antidote. This world needs a lot more healers, and healing can look a lot of different ways, you know. Today, Healing = Hydroflask.

Let’s run our mouths and our money at the same time. I bet we’ll start to see a lot more Good Change take effect if we choose to spend our moments that way.

An Essay.

July 26, 2015

So. I wrote this essay quite a while back and entered it into an essay contest for First Things, one of the leading magazines on faith and academia in America. It didn’t win a prize, but the exercise of writing it taught me so gosh darn much. I gained a deeper respect for writers whose pieces are published: these things take SO MUCH EFFORT, you guys. After two months of brainstorming and having conversations about my topic (some of which I drove all the way to Waco to have with people there!), I was finally able to set aside nursing school studies for a weekend and hammer it out. THEN a dear professor edited the whole thing (and made it coherent). Then I sent it to a friend in Washington D.C., and he looked at it and sent back comments–and after all that time, it was finally ready to be submitted. So: mad respect for people who write publishable pieces on the daily. I’ll stick with blog posts for now…and maybe crank one of these babies out once every five years or something. Point is: a whole host of friends and twelve pages of scattered incoherent Notes on my iPhone helped this thing come together.

On that note, I’m not sure where any of use would be without Our People. Amiright?

{Quick fun aside: I cc’d my Baylor professor on the comments I received back from my D.C. friend. She was so impressed by his comments that she asked to know more about him. So, naturally, I raved about him to her. THEN he called me after realizing that he wrote his thesis on a topic my professor has spent most of her career writing on/exploring. He asked me “how well I knew her,” and I was like “ummm really well–I’m basically her fourth child *wink*.” He asked me if I’d put him in touch with her, so I did. AND ALL THESE REALLY COOL THINGS HAPPENED LIKE A POSSIBLE TRIP TO ANOTHER COUNTRY TO PRESENT HIS THESIS IN FRONT OF A BUNCH OF OTHER SMART PEOPLE WHO HAVE SPENT THEIR LIVES RESEARCHING HIS TOPIC. Like WHAT?!? Life is just so insane, sometimes.}

Without further ado. The Essay.

---

Cultivating Thoughtfulness
An essay for the First Things essay contest
by Jordan Richerson

It was just moments after the networks first aired the news of Michael Brown’s death at the hand of police officer Darren Wilson. Outraged Facebook status updates and Twitter blurbs appeared in rapid fire on my social media feeds. The conclusion nearly everyone had reached was simple: this was an act fueled by racism.

“Wow. You guys are pretty quick to arrive at such a clear understanding of what happened,” I said via group text. “Well, of course,” one of them shot back. “This is racism of the worst kind—a white police officer shooting an unarmed black teenager.” They had come to this conclusion before anyone knew much at all about the actual circumstances of Brown’s death, except that he was unarmed. Yet somehow, in a matter of minutes, thousands of people had come to hold precisely the same view with complete certainty.

This isn’t a new phenomenon. Nietzsche famously termed it “herd thinking,” and the Nazi regime was well versed in its merits. Along the same lines, in A Tale of Two Cities, Dickens portrays shopkeeper Jeremiah Cruncher observing a loud procession. When Cruncher stops two men in the crowd and asks what’s going on, neither man can provide an answer. Yet both raise their hands and shout loudly in support of the cause.

What does seem new to me is the speed and vehemence with which many of my contemporaries come to hold their views, due in large part to the herd-thinking promoted by social media. To put the problem metaphorically, they stand and watch as a train rolls by. They don’t know where it came from, to where it is headed, or who else may be riding. Most importantly, they don’t know the consequences of getting on and haven’t bothered to consider the different places it might go. Yet they jump on anyway.

Why? Because the train is loud, and because the ride looks fun, important, even exhilarating. In jumping aboard a train filled with a multitude of people who seem to know what they think, we avoid the burden of having to examine things for ourselves. We allow the voice of a mob to become the power that fuels our lives and decisions. Our individual voices become one united shout. We enjoy a sense of camaraderie, of belonging, and we’re consoled by the idea of being part of something we consider grander and more significant than our own individual lives. We know many of our friends will be on board or, at least, the ones contributing their voices to the cacophony will be. Burdens will be shouldered collectively. On a train, or in a movement, we don’t have to stand alone.

This phenomenon, as pervasive as it is destructive, is the “bandwagon effect.” It defines my own—millennial—generation. But it has also come more and more to define Americans of all ages, who increasingly appear unwilling or unable to take positions that run counter to elite, or popular, opinion.

Few of us, after all, want to be “left out” or “left behind.” Most of all, we don’t want to be guilty of “intolerance.” When I asked a friend recently why he favored the legalization of gay marriage, he said it was because he didn’t want to be “on the wrong side of history.” His grandmother, he said, had been opposed to the Civil Rights Movement. “Today, we look back on that movement and are appalled at those who opposed it. We despise them.” He went on: “When I’m an old man, gay marriage will have been legal for more than half a century. Seeing gays get married will be as commonplace as seeing blacks and whites drink from the same water fountain. I don’t want my grandchildren to see me the way I see my grandmother.”

But what about those of us who don’t jump on these bandwagons? In the Michael Brown case, I wanted to hear all the facts before coming to any sort of conclusion, most of all one that would attribute Wilson’s actions to racism. This is in part because I remembered what C.S. Lewis had said about progress. Of course we all want progress of a sort, Lewis explains. But real progress assumes an end; it is “getting nearer to the place where you want to be. And if you have taken a wrong turning, then to go forward does not get you any nearer. If you are on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; and in that case the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive man.”

What will happen to those of us who, instead of boarding the train of popular opinions and conclusions, do an about-turn? Are there consequences for our refusal to “jump on”? The Bandwagoners believe they are progressive; what will become of those of us who decide the group is progressing in the wrong direction, and who choose to oppose them?

First, there will be what I call “hate-fire.” This phrase describes the common response to anyone who opposes the dominant, elite, and popular opinion—no matter the reasons for the opposition. Such responses are often seen in reaction to outspoken conservative Christian families like the Duggars and the Robertsons. Hate-fire words appear on public websites and on the comment threads of popular articles whenever someone dares to oppose the new orthodoxies of progressivism. And, of course, one sees these sorts of words in response to unpopular Facebook status posts.

As Kirsten Powers has recently pointed out in her book, The Silencing, the purpose of this hate-fire is simply to shut people down. If one side can be loud enough and mean enough to force the other side into being quiet, then the loud side will win, whether it possesses the truth or not. People can only withstand the pain of personal character attacks for so long before they lose the will to continue speaking out. Continuing to be vocal means inviting emotional duress. Standing apart from the Bandwagon, then, means keeping quiet.

But there is also practical discrimination. A not-yet-tenured professor must, in this day and age, be incredibly careful about the sorts of statements he or she makes publicly. Yet if this person remains silent, the bandwagon has won again. Mozilla CEO Brendan Eich and the furor over Indiana’s RFRA are only the most public instances of such discrimination. But millions more of us self-censor, afraid of disagreeing with those who can easily make us look foolish, backward and parochial.

So, what can be done? How can we move toward a more civilized public discourse, where the marketplace of ideas is real and people engage in thoughtful and reasonable discussion about society at large—not simply their own faction or agenda? We must cultivate thoughtfulness. But the real question for my generation is how the virtue of thoughtfulness can be encouraged.

As an initial answer, I’d suggest that liberal education must play some part. Reading Plato and Aristotle, C.S. Lewis, Dante, and Thomas Aquinas, and discussing important ideas with peers and professors keeps our minds engaged. It also reminds us that we’re capable of discussing controversial issues without defensiveness and hate. Gaining knowledge across a broad area of subjects and disciplines is important. In doing so, one is better equipped to think critically about issues, in light of a wide scope of knowledge and a deeply rooted history of thoughtful scholarship. But the average American is hardly, if at all, versed in the knowledge of the great thinkers who came before us. These books and their authors have largely disappeared from public life and public discussion. This is disastrous. We have forgotten our history, our roots, and therefore are no longer grounded in anything. Thus, we sway like the wind. Today’s Bandwagon is a gay rights parade; tomorrow’s might be a race riot.

Yet liberal education cannot be the whole answer, for often it doesn’t produce a charitable or thoughtful person. It is all too easy to accumulate knowledge but lack wisdom. T.S. Eliot wrote that “endless invention . . . brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness. . .  knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.” “Where is the life we have lost in living?” he asked. “Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?” In lacking wisdom, we lack thoughtfulness.

It is also true that extraordinarily thoughtful people often live in countries where liberal education is simply unavailable. I have spent considerable time in some of the world’s poorest, most illiterate countries. Yet it is in those places that I have encountered some of the most thoughtful people I know. They are willing to listen to one another and to engage in peaceful discussion. These are people who, instead of raising banners and shouting, sit across from each other with eyes full of wonder, thirsting to hear the thoughts of someone else—thoughts and opinions often very different from their own.

Given experiences like this, I think a better answer to how we might encourage thoughtfulness lies in cultivating the virtue of charity. The word comes from the Latin caritas, from carus, meaning “dear.” For Christians, it means something like “love of one’s fellows.” Practically speaking, it is the art of listening long enough to understand an opponent’s arguments and views and, by the same token, having logical and well thought-out arguments of your own.

Early in college, I took a graduate-level political science class, the syllabus of which was filled with books written by long-dead political philosophers. I have forgotten much of what I read and learned, but one thing I have never forgotten is what our professor told us at the end of every class as we were packing up our belongings: “Remember, read charitably.” He asked us to fill our margins not with opposing arguments or critical comments but instead with “sentences of clarity and understanding” to prove that we thoroughly understood the text before us. His point was that we would not be able to provide opposing arguments unless we first understood the argument that was right in front of us. He was, in fact, teaching us the virtue of charity.

Thoughtfulness, then, requires charity. In order to be profoundly thoughtful we must be charitable toward others, because only by listening to people’s ideas and arguments do we come to know them as they want to be known. We exhibit “care” for them. We try to see the world through their eyes. To the extent that we succeed at this, we might actually overcome some of our natural self-centeredness. It is only once we have listened well to the views of others—asked meaningful questions and waited patiently for thorough answers—that we can think holistically about our own arguments and opinions.

At the same time, charity doesn’t mean that we must abandon our own views. What I’m advocating doesn’t require moral relativism or the kind of “tolerance as complete acceptance” in which all views are held to be equally valid. But one thing is certain: we must stop jumping on bandwagons and screaming with fists raised. My generation must start doing the hard work of soul searching, deep thinking, good listening, and real learning. We must become engaged, in the right way: not against each other but with each other.

It takes real character—the quiet kind that doesn’t have to yell—to sit back and first do the research, do the reading. We want to be wise instantly, and in this culture of instant gratification, it’s no wonder. What we have forgotten is that wisdom and thoughtfulness are not intrinsic. As Aristotle recognized, we must “habituate” ourselves into this way of being. And the virtue of charity is a prerequisite for all of it.

on books.

July 23, 2015

I was writing a birthday letter to a friend this morning, and after I signed off with a heart and JJ and xoxo I noticed the Blank Space on the back of the insert. Blank Space calls for the help of the little Book of Quotes that lives on the nightstand, next to my bed. I remember the day I found it or, rather, the day it found me. It was a dreary day in Carnforth, England, and the skies were drizzly. My friends and I had left The Castle and taken the little shuttle into town, and we passed by a small bookstore whose windows were all glowy and inviting. Naturally, we popped inside. It was a quaint and cozy place that smelled of old books and the English countryside, so we stayed a while. The only of its kind, I saw this brown suede-bound journal on a table and thumbed through its pages. “What is your purpose, little book?” I wanted to ask it. A Lifetime of Words. Yes. Just, yes. I paid the grey-haired man at the counter and tucked it into my purse. Back at the castle, I flipped to the inside of the back cover and scrawled “Est. Fall 2011 @ Capernwray.”

So here we are, four years later, and the little thing is still alive and well. If you’ve ever found a letter from me to you in your mailbox and there happened to be a quote somewhere in the Blank Space at the end of the words, you can be assured the little Book of Quotes made the contribution.

This morning, I was flipping through its pages searching for the right words to fill the Spaces, and I landed on something Oscar Wilde once said:

It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.

Nature Valley recently published an ad wherein they asked some parents and grandparents a simple question: “what did you do for fun, when you were a kid?” The answers were things like “built forts! rode bikes! played outside with friends!” Then, they asked a handful of kids the same question. The music turned forlorn, as the kids said things like “I play video games at least 6 hours a day.” “I text.” “I would DIE without my tablet.” The parents and grandparents were then shown video clips of their kids’ answers to the question. Tears welled up in eyes. “Nature is a part of childhood,” the ad-man says. He’s talking to…us.

You know what else is a part of childhood? BOOKS. Words. Reading. They’re a part of childhood, and they’re a part of life-hood. Books shape our lives. They give us a window into the mind and creativity of another person; transport us into the worlds of characters we’d never know, friends we’d never meet.

Dear ones: we get to choose what our minds learn. Words pass our eyes, get computed by our brains and then embed themselves into our souls. Our psyches are compilations of All The Things we’ve seen and heard and read and written.

Our actions, then, do not exist inside a vacuum. The things we DO and the way we see the world directly correlate to the worldviews we’ve allowed ourselves to ingest. If we’re reading garbage, we’ll treat people like garbage. If we’re reading about people who do their best to be kind; who learn lessons; who take time to hear the stories of their friends, we will do the same. We learn How to Do Life and How the World Works from the characters in our books and from the authors who create them. Our knee-jerk reactions, “what we are when we can’t help it,” are syntheses of the habits we’ve cultivated–of the words we’ve read and written and spoken over and over and over again. WE HAVE A CHOICE IN THIS MATTER.

Let’s make an effort to keep Good Books on our shelves. More than that, let’s keep them in our heads and hearts. Most of us don’t have to read. We’re out of school, and teachers aren’t assigning chapters, and life is freaking busy. Too busy for books, probably.

But is it? I don’t think so. Here’s what I think: I think there is exactly enough time for the Important Things in our lives. And I submit that Books Are Important. There will always and forever be moments where we can’t help what we will be, and we should prepare our reactions for those moments like it’s our JOB. If we practice being kind and nuanced and compassionate…and if we read about characters who are practicing to be that way, too, then most of the time we’ll react accordingly.

Since we don’t have to read, let’s choose to do so anyway.  Let’s be the ones clinging to words that have shaped society and culture and hearts and reactions for hundreds of, thousands of, years. The World is getting too busy for books. And if you watch the news at all, you’ve probably concluded its getting too busy for Kindness, too. I bet the two go hand-in-hand.

Let’s read the Good Stuff when we don’t have to so that we can be the Good Stuff when we can’t help it.

good enough.

July 21, 2015

I am a recovering perfectionist. I am the five year-old who wears matching legging/turtleneck combos with bright white keds and a bow in my perfectly blow-dried, bobbed hair to school every day. I’m the six year-old who sets my own alarm and gets Jake up for school, makes sure he showers, and feeds us both breakfast so that Mama can stay in bed a little longer–the seven year-old who keeps a journal

{notice the matching yellow socks}

of EXACTLY what I do every single day of summer camp…entries that sound like an alibi report: “Woke up at 6:43am. Got out of bed. Walked to the showers. Put my hair in a towel. Walked back to my cabin and waited for the other girls to get up. Went to breakfast. Ate cereal.” The eight-year old who comes home from school every day and sits down at the kitchen counter to do my homework without being asked. Mom says, “honey, you can have a snack or play for a while first, you know.” No, I tell her. I need to be responsible and get my homework done, first. Work first, then play.

We have spelling tests every Friday in elementary school, and I only make less than 100% on maybe two. I MUST make a hundred so I can walk down the hall to Principle Comfort and get three skittles out of the “Excellent Spellers!” dispenser in his office.

In 3rd grade (I’m 9), I write this goal/plan for myself. Apparently these aren’t my best spelling-moments, but I know the word “verify” and use it correctly, so…

---

My buddy Seth and I teach ourselves math (we turn a janitorial closet into our “classroom”) from 4-7 grade, and even so we make high A’s in calculus five years later, securing our spots as Valedictorians.

I’m the little girl who takes piano lessons for SEVEN YEARS and never progresses past Level 3 because I can’t perfectly master a song on any first-try, which is so frustrating it paralyzes me and keeps me from practicing. I sit at the piano bench SOBBING night after night and Mama comes and sits down with me and I say things like: “I just want to do it right the FIRST TIME. I don’t want to have to PRACTICE.” And every Sunday, sweet Miss Donna (bless that woman’s soul) asks if I have practiced this week, and I tell her “no, can we just practice together during lessons?” People. I practice *during* my piano lessons until I am sixteen years old and finally decide it is okay to quit something. For all those years I can’t quit (or practice on my own) because I’m not…perfect.

There are a thousand things I haven’t tried for fear of…failing. A dozen sports I might have loved; a handful of wakeboard tricks I could have mastered; instruments I could have played; songs I could have sung; dances I could have danced…if I hadn’t always been so concerned about people actually SEEING me in a less-than-perfect moment.

I make it through 17 years of school with straight As and only ever score less than a mid-B on one single test. I have an emotional/mental crisis when deciding to *not do* the Honors program at Baylor because I feel like doing anything less than my “full potential” is succumbing to failure and “FAILURE IS NOT WHO I AM,” my brain screams to my already overloaded schedule When I go back to Baylor for my “fun” semester and wind up with 19 hours on my overloaded schedule, I call FOUR DIFFERENT ADULTS in wracking sobs because I am desperate for someone to tell me it is okay FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE to actually UNDER-ACHIEVE. I spend three hours composing emails to the professors of two of those classes, explaining my justification for wanting to take a normal (13-hour) credit load instead of overloading my schedule. Deep inside, I feel the need to explain myself. You know what one of them replies?

Dear Jordan,
Giving yourself a little space this semester sounds like a wise decision to me.  Don’t feel like you owe me an explanation at all.  I admire what you’re doing this term, and trust that you will find a way to educate yourself about the moderns in years to come.

JTB

“Wait a minute.” I think to myself. “So, he…thinks I’m making a *wise* decision in DROPPING CLASSES? What I thought was a failure is actually…maybe…a success?“ Funny, how an entire paradigm can be flipped on its head in the span of a couple sentences.

It was always a running joke that my “first B” would cause some sort of catastrophic seismic shift, and I’m here to tell you that my first B happened in my first semester of nursing school you guys…AND I DIDN’T EVEN SHED A SINGLE TEAR. 

Maybe, I’m learning.

I’m learning that resumes don’t actually have to run the world. And that, in a lot of ways, they ruin souls. I’m learning that many factors go into the making of a GPA and A SIGNIFICANT PERCENT OF THEM are 100% out of my (our) control. I’m learning that maybe, instead of trying to Always Do My Best (i.e. “Be Perfect.”) maybe it’s okay to most of the time just be Good Enough.

I used to be the girl making color coded outlines for every textbook and every exam in every class. I remember one Baylor semester, during a U.S. History final, I walked in to see *my outline* sitting on almost every single desk in the room. “Thank God for you–you saved my grade,” some said. My anatomy outlines have been handed down for two years now, and recently Dr. Taylor decided to make them public and accessible to all future classes. Perfect outlines were my jam, and sending them out so others could benefit from them was a great thrill and made my heart full.

But this semester has been different. We’re nearing finals, and I’ve only made one single outline from scratch. Mostly, I head over to my class’s facebook page and download one someone else has already made and graciously posted for all of us to use. I use to be too prideful for that. “Psh–only lazy people use other people’s study guides,” I’d think. “I’m going to make my own, and make it better, and see who gets the better grade NOW. SURELY the Bible somewhere says that she who makes her *own* study guides instead of being helped by others is the one who succeeds.” But this semester, I’ve been tired. Worn out. Unable to summon the strength and motivation and wit to make my own stuff.

And you know what? The ones other people make are perfectly beautiful. In fact, I’ve decided, why reinvent the wheel? And while we’re at it, who really cares if I make an 86 or a 92? Did I learn the material? Was I kind to people? Did I fulfill my other life responsibilities that (shockingly) exist outside of school? Could it be that maybe all those things matter more than the six extra points?

So this morning I stood in the mirror at 5am and contemplated whether to unbraid my hair or leave it until after the exam. I had only just started studying last night and so was feeling quite underprepared and overwrought. “Just do your best.” I told myself. And then I made a correction: “No, Jordan. Just do Good Enough.” Sometimes, GOOD ENOUGH IS GOOD ENOUGH and I cannot possibly Always Do My Best every single moment of every single day. That is exhausting. And a breeding ground for Failure. But I can usually do Good Enough.

After the exam, a sweet friend came over to give me a hug. “I’m just really not doing well in school this semester,” she said. I almost asked her what her grades are. Because, of course, there’s still a huge part of me that says Grades Are The End-All. Instead, I said, “G, are you passing?” “Yes,” she said. “Well then, that’s Good Enough. It’s been a hard semester, my friend. And it’s really hot outside. Can we just commit to passing?”

“But then I won’t be able to do Honors,” she said.

The Right-By-Academia answer would have been: “well then, you need to work harder to make A’s.”

Instead, I asked her a simple question. “Friend. Do you really WANT to do Honors?”

“Well, it looks good on a resume,” she admitted. “I really want to have the Best Shot at getting into the programs I want to get into. And if a bunch of people have Honors Society on their resumes and I don’t…well, then…”

What if resumes aren’t Real Life? What if we are actually better, more successful, kinder, friendlier people when we are DOING WHAT WE LOVE DOING instead of DOING WHAT WE’RE TOLD WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING? I mean, is it possible that the world telling us How To Get Somewhere In Life is…wrong?

I’m thinking that maybe LIFE is what happens while we’re busy building resumes. Is it possible that there are Good Enough opportunities right in front of our faces– right here in our ordinary everyday lives? That the things we dream of doing, like to do, *already do* every day are sufficient? Maybe we don’t have to go out SEEKING All The Things that Look Good on paper. Maybe the things we like to do will be Good Enough, unintentionally.

I want to let you in on a little secret that you know: there is no one exactly like *you*. You have passions– things that excite you–that fuel your little engine. DO THOSE THINGS. Do them really, really well. Because each of those Things You Like Doing is a thread, and all those threads weave into a tapestry that is important–and that tapestry is YOU. Frederick Buchner says it’s “where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” That is the place you are called to Be, Do, Pour Into. And you know what? You’ll get so wrapped up in doing the things you actually like doing that you’ll forget resumes are even a Thing. Then, one day, you’ll find yourself having to write one. For your first job interview, or something. And here’s the biggest secret no one bothers to tell us: if you’ve spent your years doing the Things You Love you are 100% guaranteed to have Things to Put On Your Resume. 

Friends. We’ve got to stop this madness.

We must quit SEEKING the Resume Things and instead do the Life Things AS ENDS IN THEMSELVES. I think what we’ll find is that our resumes will *build themselves.* Because when we spend our time doing the things we really like doing, the resumes just happen…and we don’t even have to MAKE THEM. It’s a genius paradigm shift, really.

Fred Storgenbough said “you only go ’round once.” I think we need to make our Go Rounding count for more than type-set bullet points on a form&fitted word document.

Because, as Ann says, “at the end of the day, even if you win the rat race, you’re still a rat.”

So maybe…maybe we don’t really want to be in the race at all? Let the Rats do the racing. Let the Perfectionists do the downright bone-picking. They can have their glossy resumes. But us who are the Recovering Ones–recovering from all this Always Do Your Best madness–let’s choose to do the Real Living. 

Because in the end, the Perfectionism destroys us. At the end of the day, I don’t want to say: I did my best and got an A(while in my head believing that getting a B would mean I hadn’t done my best). Or I did my best and checked another Volunteer Opportunity off the list.

I want to say:

I am lit by a Flame whose love is eternal. And because I’m lit by Him, I don’t have to be a part of the Rat Race Rendezvous. Instead, I am free to do the things that I am Made to Do.

And that? That’s Good Enough for me.

---

As a quick aside:
I just got off the phone with Jared, and he asked me how my exam this morning went. I said, “I got a B, buddy. But it’s okay. I’m used to getting B’s now. I get a lot of B’s in nursing school. So basically, I’ve decided life isn’t worth living.” I added that last sentence in an attempt to be humorous, and IT FAILED MISERABLY. Jared FLIPPED and gasped and was like “Jordan, NO! It’s okay! It’s really okay!” I burst out laughing. Then I told the truth. I said: “Jared. I’ve decided that Life isn’t all about straight A’s these days.”

The little smart-aleck replied: “well, what took YOU 22 years to figure out has only taken me 15. Go me!”

Then I clarified: “No, Jared. See, here’s the thing. There is a Time for Everything. If i had *not* gotten straight A’s in high school, I wouldn’t BE HERE at nursing school because my entire academic trajectory happened the way it did ON THE BASIS OF my high school transcript. Back then, the grades *really were* important. I knew God had called me to be a nurse, and the road to get to nursing school necessitated that I worked really really hard and made the grades I needed to make. But, you see, now is a *very different time.* I’m not trying to GET ANYWHERE, anymore. This is the End of the Line. What I need to do is learn a ton, pass my classes, and then start working. The important part is Recognizing the Timing.You must be able to recognize when it’s time to really buckle down and Do The Hard Thing You Don’t Want to Do OR Like To Do and when it’s time to STOP doing those things and be content. If you fail to be able to Recognize the Timing you will either:
1) never get to doing the Thing You Were Made to Do because you didn’t do the hard things to get there or
2) never get to doing the Thing You Were Made to Do because you never stopped racing the other rats.
Both options are equally disastrous.”

And that, friends, is my spiel. There was a time when I needed to take calculus. And there was a time when I needed to drop 6 credit hours and buy a harness and shoes and spend every afternoon in the rock gym.
Recognize the Timing. 
You, and the World, will be forever grateful you can.

P.P.S. my darling friend, Jessie, has some good words to say on all this too. Read here.

& so he’ll fly…

 July 14, 2015

Most days, I sit in class in the city and daydream of life in the mountains. I think we all have some place we are always trying to get back to, and you can tell a lot about a person by what place *that* is. I don’t know what my Mountain Longing says about me, but I know it’s not something I can just shake off. I think the mountains and my soul are inextricably linked, and I think I’ll forever be thinking of them.

That tall muscular boy is my little brother. Yesterday, he decided to go to flight school and become a pilot. He starts classes in September.
I remember being kids together. There was a box of VHS tapes in the upstairs closet, and I’d always want to watch Wee Sing or Kidsongs (because, musicals) and he’d pick There Goes An Airplane or that one about dump trucks. The shelves in his room were filled with metal model planes, and sometimes we’d fight and he’d hit me with one and then get spanked.

He was a spindly little guy who watched TV perched atop the staircase knoll, and he’d climb into trees to play his Gameboy. I think, for Jake, the world has always looked brighter from Up High.

When we moved to The Ranch, Mom and Dad gave him his very own room in the barn. “Keep it as clean or messy as you want; it’s your space; we’ll never touch the stuff in here.” He’d spend hours out there painting model airplanes with these tiny bottles of model paint. The room was always an absolute disaster, but the planes were perfectly painted.

Dad used to take us to the elementary school field to launch rockets, and when we moved to Texas Jake bought a foam plane from Walmart and spent months turning it into an RC plane, with a real motor and propeller and everything. It hit speeds of 80MPH when it flew.

Someday, he’ll be flying helicopters through the mountains. And really, the journey to That Moment began when he was two.

Most times, the threads of our lives weave together to create a tapestry that Makes Perfect Sense.

---

Dear Glennon: An Open Letter

I am exhausted. It’s 10:33, which means I was supposed to be sleeping three long minutes ago because promising myself eight hours of sleep is the only way I have strength to wake up before the sun and function for a WHOLE ENTIRE DAY. Except here I am, now four minutes past my bedtime, writing to you. From my bed. I was so close to just clicking off the lamp and refusing to open The Screen. But Alas.

Glennon, I’ve been up since 5 this morning. By 7 I was on the Adolescents Floor of our local Psychiatric Hospital, in my “business casual” costume, wearing my “Student Nurse” name badge. The kids don’t wake up ‘til 9 (they’re obviously way smarter than us nurses), so I spent two hours sitting on the Day Room couches, flipping through four million pages of powerpoint notes for tomorrow’s impending OB exam.

Sometime after the kids woke up, my friend and I went and sat at a table where they were all eating breakfast, hoping to strike up conversation. My cute little butt had just hit the stool, when a boy came and sat down across from us: “you two are insanely beautiful,” he said. We thanked him and carried on conversation as normal, which looked a lot like us asking him (nosy) questions like: “so, what brought you here?” Our job is to ask questions like that, listen a bit, sit in on rounds, and do some paperwork.

Instead, I spent the rest of the day listening to him, Glennon. Why? Because I knew—I just really knew—he was telling The Truth about his story. And I like truth-tellers, whether I find them in a mental hospital or out in the (equally crazy, just with the craziness more spread out) Real World. I actually think the folks in the mental hospital have a lot to teach us about Truth Telling. They pretty much have no bones about being Real with their not-okay-ness and loving each other anyway.

He used a lot of words to tell me his story. Mostly, things like:
I’ve just decided that happiness is an illusion; and not everyone gets to take part in it. Some people simply don’t get to ever be happy.
I’ve never been loved;
I don’t deserve love; my mom didn’t even love me enough to quit doing drugs while she was pregnant with me…and now she’s in jail and only talks to me because she knows I am old enough to get her some money;
Pretty much I just stare at the ceiling all day and wish I were dead;
If God exists, why in the bloody world does he let this world get so bloody…let all these things happen to me and people like me?
I’m so sick of Christians telling me to ‘just pray and ask God to make it better’…it doesn’t work. They don’t understand and don’t really care to.
I used to be addicted to drugs. But then I realized they didn’t really help. In fact, they made my lows more low. So now I just want to die because I’ve come to the realization that nothing takes away the pain. Even meth didn’t do it.
My brother beats me so hard sometimes that I can’t breathe for a few minutes.
No one really listens to me in my house, so I pretty much quit talking a long time ago.
My mom thinks I’m satanic or something because I dress this way. I’m really not.
It’s just that when I offer simple solutions to everyday things, no one gives me the time of day. And then, when they realize I was right all along, they don’t give me any credit. So what’s the use in even offering help?
I’ve been begging my mom to bring me to this place for years. Finally a couple days ago, I told her either she was going to bring me or I was going to kill myself that day. So, she finally brought me.
I’m here voluntarily. I just want help. I want someone, SOMEONE, to help me.
You’re the first person to actually sit and talk to me in longer than I can even remember. I don’t think God exists, but if he does, he probably sent you to me.

I asked him the Textbook Questions like: “do they have you on any meds? Are your meds helping? Have they taught you any positive coping skills?” But Glennon, the Questions We’re Supposed to Ask just seemed stupid and silly and trite, in light of all his story entailed. And he knew it. Usually, the Sensitive People do. So, he gave me all the right answers. Sensitive People are really good at that. We’re really kind and don’t want to hurt anyone, so even when people ask us DUMB UNHELPFUL THINGS, we bite the bullet and give them the answers we know they’re looking for—because we don’t want them to *feel* dumb and unhelpful.

And then I decided to scrap all the Questions We’re Supposed to Ask, and I just got real. I figured if he was willing to be real with me, then the least I could do was actually ask him Questions That Mattered. So, we started talking about God. And we talked about all That Stuff. I used some of the things you’ve taught me, and some things others have taught me, too.

I told him that, really, he’s just a Sensitive One. I asked him if I could try to describe The Dark Tunnel, and I did. “…the one where you spin down and down and down and then you’re in a tunnel with no light and you feel like your body is going to burn up and all you can think about is The Gun.” He just kept nodding. And nodding and nodding. He was amazed that I could re-tell him his own story like that, and really, it’s just because you told me his story, first. I’ve never been in The Tunnel, but because of you and what you’ve written, he felt understood by me.

Sometimes, we’d laugh. Humor is good therapy when conversations take a Serious Turn. We’d talk about his Black Tunnel and then I’d say, “so, you’re feeling that way and then someone comes along and says to you “oh, just tell yourself you want to live; there is light!”  and you want to say back to them ‘GO FUCK YOURSELF,’ right?” He’d laugh because I guess it’s funny to hear those words come out of the mouth of a little pint-sized Golden Girl.

I said things like: “when someone presents in the ED with their arm sawed off, we press all the red buttons and pull out the Crash Cart and call all hands on deck to stop the bleeding right? So you probably wonder why NO ONE IS STOPPING YOUR BLEEDING, don’t you?” He nodded, and his lips quivered; he searched my eyes for answers. I mustered: “Well, it’s because they don’t see it. And sometimes (most times) we don’t understand the things we can’t see.”

We talked about Robin Williams. I asked him if he knew how Robin died. He said: “suicide.” I said “yep; the funniest man on the entire planet was killed by depression. Bitter irony, eh?” (“Killed by depression”–I learned that from you, you know.) I asked him if he realized that, mostly, a lot of really funny people are actually really hurting. The reason we’re funny is because, since we’re the Sensitive Ones, it actually *brings us great joy* to watch OTHER PEOPLE laugh. We really care about the Other People. That’s why we do and say funny things. Because we figure that if we can’t make ourselves happy, we might as well make other people happy. See, the Sensitive Ones are really just the Kind and Caring ones. We’re the ones who NOTICE.

But really, Glennon, I didn’t know much of what to say or how to help. See, I only go to that hospital once a week. So the chances of me ever seeing my New Friend again are probably zero. And, because of HIPPA and all that legal stuff, I can’t contact him or “friend him” or anything like that. I also couldn’t give him my number or the address of my blog or even my email address. I hate that. He needs a friend who will call him every morning and tell him We Will Make It Through Today, Together. I’m praying someone will step up and be That Friend for him. Mostly, ”they all get fed up with me never getting better and so they leave,“ he said. Can just ONE PERSON not leave? Please, God. Just one.

So you know what I did? I said: “look, I have to leave at 2:00 today. And that’s going to be really hard for me. Since I’m the only person who has sat down and given you the time of day for longer than ten minutes, it’s probably going to be really hard for you too. I really wish there was a way I could Be Your Friend without getting the both of us in serious legal trouble. So, since I can’t be your Real Life Friend, I know someone who can be your virtual one. Her name is Glennon. She’s a recovering addict, a Sensitive One, and she knows what Your Tunnel is like. She writes about it a lot. She also writes about things like How to Just Do The Next Right Thing and How To Get Out of Bed Most Mornings. I suggest you read her post on Robin Williams, first. See what I did there? Bringing it allllll full circle *wink*. ” So I picked up a big fat Washable Crayola Marker off the cafeteria-style table, and I tore the edge of a page off a coloring book. I wrote your blog address, and I told him to put it in his pocket.

And then I shook his hand, because Hugs Aren’t Allowed, and I gave him that smile that says: “I hope you know how much I Care, even though I am barred from showing you in any way more tangible than a handshake and a website written on a coloring book page.”

And then I left.

And I drove home in my little car, and I was SO ANGRY AT THE WORLD for being so cruel.

Because here’s the thing, Glennon. I’m a Sensitive One, too. The only difference between he and I is that I have been loved ridiculously, and he hasn’t always been. (Now, I know you were loved Really Well too, and addiction still happened to you. I don’t really know why it didn’t happen to me, but I bet it’s just the difference in a brain chemical or two.) I’m a Sensitive One whose parents cuddled her when she cried every single day after school for seven years; whose parents helped her Do Things To Make the World Better when she felt crushed under the weight of people’s brokenness.. A Sensitive One who has friends who understand me, who send me letters and texts and emails daily to remind me I AM OKAY; friends who also See the Brokenness and don’t happy-clap around it. Friends who are Sensitive too.

Really, I’m a product of the way I’ve been treated. And so is he.

I hate that.

And then I drove to the coffee shop where I work and (also) study until long-after-closing-time, and I tried to Do Stuff for tomorrow’s exam. I really did. I promise I really tried. But I just couldn’t. At least not the Whole Time. So instead, I watched your Ted Talk (for the millionth again). And then I read 12 of your past posts. And somehow I stumbled across the one you wrote about people who are Mentally Different. All alone in that empty coffee shop, I sobbed my brains out. I cried so much I had to use a whole Dinner Napkin to wipe my face and the table. I guess sometimes it all just becomes too much. You’re a Feeler, too. So you get it.

I cried because I wished I had read that post before I met my Friend this morning. I wish I wouldn’t have asked him if the meds are working and instead I would have said to him: “LISTEN. MAYBE THE WORLD NEEDS YOU. MAYBE ALL OF US ‘happy people’ NEED PEOPLE LIKE YOU TO REMIND US THAT EVERYTHING IS NOT OKAY HERE. Maybe THAT is your purpose. Yeah, the meds can help, and we can do things to try to help you keep the Gun away. But WHAT IF your FEELINGS and your DEEP THOUGHTS and your DEPRESSING POETRY actually serve a purpose other than to be Medicated and Cognitive-Behavioral-Therapied Away?!?”

He wanted me to tell him why he is on this earth. He wanted me to tell him why life FOR HIM is worth living. I wish I could have told him that. It’s just that those words hadn’t been taught to me yet. Now they are, so next time I’ll use them.

After I finished crying, I read more of your posts because, well, it might be the case that reading Things People Write is my way of coping with All The Feelings and so instead of turning to booze or drugs or bad love, I just turn to blogs and words and books and writing. It’s just a different sort of coping mechanism; but it’s a coping mechanism nonetheless—and one that keeps me from my studies, on nights like tonight.

And then, I drove home. And I pressed #4 on my CD changer, which is the one where Ellie Holcombe sings “There is good news; there is good truth; that you could never change; no matter what you do; you are loved, more than you know; more than you could hope for, after everything you’ve done. AS SURE AS THE SUN WILL RISE AND CHASE AWAY THE NIGHT, HIS MERCIES WILL NOT END.” I’m glad she sings those words. On nights like tonight that button is ALWAYS my go-to becauseI know that’s the very first sentence I’ll hear after pressing it. And it’s the sentence I need to hear, most of all, for the rest of my life.

I prayed, too. I prayed that maybe my New Friend will type those 15 letters and 2 periods into his search bar when he gets out…before he picks up the gun or the razor or the electrical cord: www.momastery.com. I pray that the God Who Loves Him will guide his fingers to the Right Post. I hope it’s that one about Mentally Different people, because I think he needs to read it, but hey I think God probably knows which one he needs to read better than I do. I’ll let Him handle this one. Like you always say, "I showed up. God can take it from here.”

I prayed that he’ll forgive me—for not knowing All The Things to say today. I prayed that the things I did say will maybe get him through another hour. That maybe I just put a little teeny tiny light into those deep and hollow eyes.

I showed up, Glennon. But more importantly, HE SHOWED UP. He’s the bravest teenager I’ve ever met, even though he’d tell you he’s the weakest and puniest and most miserable. He’s miserbrave. Miserable and still brave. Those People are the very Bravest, I think.

Thanks, Glennon, for helping me do my “job” more gracefully. If it wasn’t for you and the things you’ve written, I probably would have said a lot more stupid things today. I probably would have told him to “just find something you like doing–that will make you happy!” or asked him “so, what are some positive coping mechanisms you can think of and verbalize to me?” I didn’t ask him either of those two questions, so I guess I did a Good Enough job.

Well, I’m tired. It’s now nearly midnight, which means I’m also quite stupid because I have a major exam in the morning (and nursing school exams are no joke). But I had to tell you this. Maybe writing is my therapy. At least now I’ll be able to sleep tonight. I only hope he can, too.

facebook & civil discourse: A Possibility

July 8, 2015

Sometimes, I really like discussions that happen via Facbeook. 

BUT

Sometimes, I feel like comment thread commenting is a *huge waste of time.*

HOWEVER

The other day, Trent, pointed out that, really, “speaking” via social media is no different than “speaking” via a written letter and is, actually *more permanent* than speaking words in person–the majority of which are lost to the air as soon as they exit my mouth. Written letters are simply an alternative medium, but there is nothing in their essence that makes them better or worse. Just, different. It may be the case that “an opinion was never changed in the course of a comment thread discussion,” but it may also be the case that there are a lot of people who simply watch the discussions take place and who care very much about the content and the way (loving, or hateful?) in which the discussions are carried out. These are the Facebook Silent Ones who, really, have a lot to say–they just say it via other mediums. And they care. They watch. They listen. They want to see whether or not those of us doing the Furious Typing will be kind with our words; whether we’ll be spiteful and vengeful; whether we’ll take into account the fact that we’re typing at actual people with souls; whether we can be Good Humans, even when speaking over the interwebs.

SO, with that thought in mind, I have decided maybe communicating via social media is not nearly as big of a waste of time as I once thought. This most recent post (and subsequent comments) are case-in-point. I’m copying them here because I want to keep them forever, amen. 

We can learn from each other, you guys. Even via Facebook. 

I wonder if the oft touted Christian lines “be the best version of yourself; pursue your passions; be who God made you to be (AKA exactly who you already are)” are misleading…even direly erroneous.

Maybe I’m missing something (which is possible), or maybe I need to be more nuanced (also possible), but it seems to me that the over-arching messages espoused by scripture are “be like Jesus; die to yourself; obey the Holy Spirit.”

In the Old Testament, heroes of the Faith were called by God to use their current circumstances/gifts/talents/selves to do God’s work (Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Joshua, David, Esther, etc.)

But the New Testament seems to tow a different line. It’s like Jesus arrived on the scene and said “NOW you know exactly the character of God. No more guessing games. Therefore, the only right response is to die to YOUR self so that the Holy Spirit can begin to form you into the image of Christ…and can continue to do so until The Last Day.”
It just seems like Christ’s message is “I love you for who you are right now, but I’m telling you that *I* am The Best and therefore follow me to become like ME – not to become a better YOU.” It seems like he doesn’t want us to simply “accept who we are” and end there…because God made us to be like Christ. And in our fallen state, we aren’t. So if we ACTUALLY want to “be exactly who God made us to be,” then I think that looks a lot less like being/accepting “exactly who I am right now” and a lot more like knowing that “who I am right now” is not very much like Christ–so I should be asking Him daily to make me more like *Him*, instead of being satisfied with me being me.

I am terrified that we, as The Church, are *saying* “be (celebrate) exactly who you are,” when what we *mean* is “God loves you exactly as you are right now”. The latter is true. God saves us while we are still sinners. What is also true is that He wants us to conform to the image of Christ and be sanctified.

Would love to hear thoughts on this.

(*Update: I have learned so very much from those who have chimed in, below. Please don’t stop your reading at my original post. I think it would have been written differently, had I been taught/known the things written by friends below before I wrote it. So read what they’ve written…)

June 29, 2015

“But the godly (also: righteous) will flourish like palm trees and grow strong like the cedars of Lebanon.”

-Psalm 92:12

Today, I did a Hard Thing; a boat-rocking Thing. It ended up turning out well (they don’t always, you know), but the process of getting to today has been quite a…beast. I’ve taken a lot of darts and felt like NO ONE ELSE wanted to shoulder any of the burdens; NO ONE ELSE understood the importance of The Thing; NO ONE ELSE cared to effect change; NO ONE ELSE wanted to be courageous.

After The Thing, one of my classmates pulled me aside.

Take Psalm 92:12 to heart, she said, it’s the righteous who will bend like palm trees. Think of yourself as a palm tree. You (we) are always going to be the one closest to the storm…closest to the hurricane. And the winds will be so intense that they will make you bow all the way to the ground and you’ll feel like you’re doomed to break…and then the storm will end and you’ll stand straight again and the TRUTH IS THAT YOU WILL BE STRONGER FROM THE STORM. 

Do you know which trees BREAK in storms? The big strong ones. The oak trees break. The pine trees break. The redwoods break. All the people who seem so big and strong and loud and powerful and critical–they break when the storm comes. But you and I? We’re skinny, little, paper-barked palm trees. BUT WE BEND and WE DO NOT BREAK because Christ is at our core, and He is unbreakable.

Be encouraged. We are palm trees, my friends. With Christ at our core and the Spirit of the Living God inside us, we *cannot* break–our job is always to bend as the storm rages on.

To Hear or Be Heard

mikedonehey:

I am the chief among sinners. I’ve stolen. I’ve lied. I’ve cheated. I’ve committed adultery in my heart and murdered in my mind. I am a disgrace, a convict in need of pardon, an orphan in need of a Father.

And yet, Christ saw me, loved me, and gave Himself for me. He lived the life I could never live, died the death that I deserved, and rose again over all I could never conquer on my own.  He breathed His Spirit into me.  He broke through the stone walls of my heart and gave me a heart of flesh. He bought me. He won me. He called me His own.

So now, I give all that I am to Him.  I am His and He is mine.  He is my life and in Him I live and move and have my being.  I am not who I once was.  I’ve been remade.  I no longer come to the world with clenched fists, I come with open hands.  I do not come with a swinging gavel, I come with a life laid down. Servant to all, friend to sinners, I come the way Jesus came to me.

Which means I get to embrace everyone.

If they complained that Jesus hung out with sinners than I hope the same will be said of me.  Homosexuals, chief justices, prostitutes, picketers, preachers; there is no one beneath my service. There is no one beneath my love.  I love those who disagree with me. I love those who boycott me. I love those who tell me I need to stand for truth and I love those who tell me my truth is not theirs.

I get to love everybody.

Of course, the question remains, how do I do that? I mean, practically speaking, how do I truly love people? What does that even mean?  What does it look like?  Does loving someone mean agreeing with everything they do and everything they are? Can you even love a culture who feels hated if they’re disagreed with? How do I love the souls with differing beliefs, especially when minds are made up on two opposing sides? How do I build bridges to Jesus and to others? And in what ways could I be unknowingly burning those bridges down?

I don’t think I have the answers figured out on many of these, but I do know this, I am not called to judge the world. It’s true. Especially if you believe the Bible is true, because Paul even agrees;

“When I wrote to you before, I told you not to associate with people who indulge in sexual sin. But I wasn’t talking about unbelievers who indulge in sexual sin, or are greedy, or cheat people, or worship idols. You would have to leave this world to avoid people like that.” (1 Corinthians 5:9-10 NLT)

I also am quite certain I’m to offer my two cents with supreme tact and kindness.

“Gently instruct those who oppose the truth. Perhaps God will change those people’s hearts, and they will learn the truth.” (2 Timothy 2:25 NLT)

James echoes this thought when he says the wisdom of God is first of all pure and kind and adds, “Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry. Human anger does not produce the righteousness God desires.” (James 1:19-20 NLT)

So let’s recap. I am loved by God and have been given the ministry of reconciliation. In spite of all I’ve done to undeserve His love, He has won me back and invited me to be a part of His work. That is, I’m here to tell people God wants them back.  I get to tell the world God wants them. How do I do that?  Well, I don’t have it all figured out, but I know it does include laying my life down, serving like crazy, not judging, being gentle, listening, and not getting angry, because anger does not produce righteousness.

Got it.

Now, what does that mean for gay marriage?

To say the decision today was a big deal, is a gross understatement.  I wouldn’t even call it “landmark,” I would call it; “nuclear.”  The Supreme Court ruling sent supporters into the stratosphere with joy. Rainbow flags blew up the internet while #LoveWins came straight from the oval office. Furthermore, it sent adversaries into a state of mourning. Doomsday prophecies abounded.  Fingers were pointed.  Prayers were offered.  Hard lines were driven into the sand. I posted a pic without really thinking saying the decision was “historic.”  In a few minutes, I was labeled a heretic, a hero, and a demon; and I didn’t even think I had offered an opinion.

I scrambled. I regretted posting anything, I felt like I was in the middle of a cultural crossfire and I was being commanded to choose; with the only two sides being avid support or open hostility.  I didn’t want to be a proponent of either.  

So I sought solace from my sister and as always, she helped ease my mind. First, she reminded me how the internet gives people all the authority and none of the responsibility to say things they would never say to someone’s face. She also called to mind how Jesus seldom gave people a straight answer, particularly when they weren’t motivated by love.  My friend Audrey pontificated with me via text;  "I don’t understand when the church got co-opted by the idea that legislating morality was the same thing as preaching the gospel. The sooner we stop trying to run society and start loving our neighbor, the sooner the Church gains footing in people’s lives and is able to welcome them, teach them, whatever. Why wring our hands over the culture? If the Church starts to experience persecution, so be it.“

And that’s just what I want to say to you.  What if we stopped trying to be heard and just tried to hear?  What if we served people so well, they were desperate to hear what we thought, because they knew we truly wanted what’s best for them?  That kind of love is more like what I saw Jesus doing.

It’s…incarnational.

It’s Jesus coming and living among us for thirty years, before He did one miracle.  It’s the kind of love that’s messy and practical and can never be lived out on a soap box.  It’s what we were made for.

When I was working at a church in Florida, I had the privilege of mentoring several young men who were experiencing an overwhelming flood of same-sex attraction.  It was strange how many came to me at the same time.  To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know how to respond.  I had never dealt with the issue personally, so I couldn’t offer meaningless rhetoric like, “yeah dude, I totally know how you feel.”  And since no one I knew was friends with anyone who was homosexual at the time, I felt so powerlessly under-prepared for the conversations that followed. I mean, what do I say?  "God hates that you know?“  "You really disgust me man, you should try liking women instead?”  Of course not!!!  They didn’t need me to tell them they were going to hell.  They didn’t need to be told their sin was worse than mine.  They had enough condemnation heaped on them to last several lifetimes.  You know what they did need though?  They needed to be heard.  Seen.  They needed someone to hug them, cry with them, listen to them.  They needed a friend who wouldn’t run in disgust, but run to them with open arms.

And you know, that’s still the case.  Today, I have several gay friends and family members, and if they don’t want to hear my stance on their sexuality, I don’t offer it.  Maybe that sounds bizarre to you, but after the friendships I’ve built and the conversations we’ve had, I’m quite convinced when it comes to the deep places of a person’s heart, like their sexual desires, the privilege of speaking to those things is something that must be built with time and trust. And it must be asked for, not thrown down from above.  If you recall, Jesus didn’t even reprimand the wiring of the woman at the well, He simply asked her why she hadn’t come to Him for water.

Maybe the biggest thing I’ve had a hard time with today, is the sentiment that it’s my job to tell the whole world how to live.  Maybe it has to do with growing up in a Capitalistic society, or maybe it’s just a result of the digital revolution where something can be seen and shared by hundreds of millions of people in a few hours, but either way, I firmly believe it isn’t my calling to steward the morality of mankind.  I’m simply called to make disciples.  And that, is a down and dirty, one person at a time kind of a calling.  It’s small, often times thankless, and it’s not a campaign.  It’s a kingdom. LIke Paul said, I’m not called to judge the world, I’m called to love the world. I’m not even called to change the world, that’s the Holy Spirit’s job.  I’m to simply introduce people to Jesus, and let Him do the rest.  If He is life, my job should be to bring others to His arms, and let the power of His love shift their thinking.  I make the introduction, but Jesus wins their heart.

So, with that, let me remind you of a few last things.

If you follow Jesus, He hasn’t promised you a government, but He has promised you a kingdom.  He hasn’t promised you freedom from persecution, but He has promised you His presence in the middle of it.  He hasn’t promised you fame, money or prestige, but He has given you the treasure of Himself, and a whole world to share with.  So let’s share Him like we have nothing to lose and everything to gain.  Let’s share Him by sharing ourselves, and that starts with our ears.   I bet when we put down our megaphones, we’ll find a world out there, waiting to be heard.  And when they know we truly want to hear, they just might be interested in what we have to say.

empty chairs & empty tables…

June (I think) 24, 2015. 21:51.

I’ve been awake since 5am, was in a psych ward (where I mostly listened to heart-wrenching stories, prayed a lot, and shed tears) from near-then ‘til 1600; worked out ‘til 1700; showered; sat in traffic; spent $6.11 of my tip money on Chik-Fil-A; and now I’m sitting in the coffee shop where I work on Saturdays…alone, because it’s been closed since 19:00.

I’m working on a group project, the subject of which is “Fetal Scalp Electrode Placement,” and I’ve got about 12 tabs open–half of which are Google Docs/Google Slides/Google Hangouts as my group tries to “work together” to get this thing finished up and presentation-ready for tomorrow. I *really* despise group projects. If you’ve ever been forced to do one, you understand the vehemence with which I typed that statement.

The only reason I’m writing (really) is because I felt the need to explain my recent absence in the blog-posting world. Mostly, this post functions as a place-holder so that when I’m reading back through here someday and wonder what happened during the summer of 2015 that made me so infrequent-of-a-writer, I’ll be reminded “you were taking 18 hours of nursing school classes, helping your family move back to Oregon, working on Saturdays, doing rotations in an acute psychiatric hospital, writing a collaborative devotional, and trying to be a good friend via snail mail and group text; the end.”

So here I am. In an empty coffee shop that closed hours ago. I spend multiple evenings/nights a week in this state, since I don’t have internet in my apartment. I actually kinda like it here. Except the strange noises coming from the dark kitchen make my heart race, sometimes.

I guess…maybe…the psych hospital isn’t sounding too shabby, at the moment…

Here’re some selfies of me wishing I had more coffee, as I sit here in sweats and an oversized flannel, with wet-braided hair so that I can “sleep in” tomorrow and still have “good hair” for our (business casual) presentation. Excuse the desperate/psychotic-looking one at the end and the fishy-lip-seductive one at the beginning and the one in the middle that looks like I’m making out with my coffee cup. I *really* needed a break from reading Medscape…thanks for indulging me.

The end.

when Neville Longbottom grows up.

June 4, 2015

Whenever I see pictures of how much my hair has grown in x amount of time, it gives me pause. Time is such a strange phenomenon. Hair growing longer is, for me, a picture of the reality that time does, indeed, pass. I was telling a friend last night that I still feel like I’m 16 and should be driving down an old logging road Friday night after the football game to find a creek and sleep under stars for the weekend with my buddies. I also feel like I’m still ten and it’s midnight and I’m under a blanket with a flashlight reading an entire Harry Potter book through the night because my dad took me to Barnes and Noble to get it when they released it at 9. 

I saw a picture of “Neville Longbottom” (Matthew Lewis) last night, and thought to myself: “WOAH, HE SURE GREW UP FAST!” And then I realized…wait, we were kids together. I was a kid watching him as a kid on the Big Screen. Does that mean *I* look like a grown-up now too?!? Because in my mind, I’m still an eleven year old little girl and I’ve got a crush on “Neville all grown up.” I feel like time passed in his life, maybe, but not in mine.

But alas. I am not ten or eleven or sixteen. I’m twenty-two. It’s as if one day I just woke up and Adulthood was like “HERE I AM! You won’t feel any different inside but I’m telling you you’re different. Little kids look UP to you (and up *at* you) as if you’re not one of them.”

It’s the same phenomenon that happened when I was helping my parents move a couple weeks ago and was up late one night going through my “box of letters.” I was trying to figure out which ones to keep for a while longer and which ones were okay to part with. Buried in a stack was an old envelope from “Soldier Matthew.” 

When I was 7 or 8, my teacher had us write letters to soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. I wrote one to “Soldier Matthew,” and he replied. He said it was the first he’d ever replied to, on tour. I was so excited to have gotten a letter from a real live soldier. I kept it, tucked away among the stacks, for all these years. I never forgot him–in my mind he was always this Hero–so much older than me, so much wiser, so much more learned. 

So a few weeks back when I was digging through the stacks and re-discovered the envelope addressed in his handwriting, I opened it up. “Dear Jordan, I’m twenty years old and am currently in Afghanistan…”

I stopped there.

Wait. TWENTY? That is two years YOUNGER than I am right now. When sent this, I was a little girl in elementary school, and now I’m two years older than he was when he wrote it. That means he’s in his FORTIES now. I feel like a kid, and I’m 22. HE WAS ONLY 20.

It was strange rediscovering that letter after all these years and realizing how much time has passed since he penned its words. And how I’m no longer a seven year old girl heroizing a twenty year old soldier…I’m now a 22 year old woman reading correspondence from a man who may now have kids of his own.

I wonder if he’s still alive. I wonder if he made it home. I wonder if he’s married. I wonder if he remembers writing a little 2nd grade girl in white keds who wore matching bows and sundresses.

Crazy.

just a worm…

June 4, 2015

Most days, I carry my little blue bike out the front door and down a flight of stairs to street-level and use my little legs and two wheels to get to school. It’s usually a 15 minute ride, give or take, depending on the traffic and the amount of road/sidewalk construction around which I have to navigate. These days, the rides are extraordinarily hot, and I’m all sweaty-like by the time I walk in the door for lecture. Air conditioning is a nice thing.

The pedestrian traffic around the med center is pretty heavy, so by the time I get close to school I often find myself saying “excuse me….sorry, thank you so much…” to people of all sorts walking in front of me on the sidewalk. This morning, there were two heavy-set janitor/maintenance guys near the parking garage. One had a long dark braid down his back. They were chatting about life and the day in front of them. “Excuse me, sirs,” I said politely. They each took to a patch of grass on either side of the path to let me through. “Sorry, ma’am. We didn’t hear you coming!” Oh, no worries at all…thank you so much!

A few turns of the wheel later I glanced down to see a fat, long worm flip-flopping on the hot cement. Without so much as a second thought, I dismounted, put down my kick stand, wrestled with the little guy until I could grab him, and tossed him aside into the grass. I didn’t think much of the effort–it was instinct, really. I then remembered the men behind me and realized that, with my abrupt stop, they were probably close to catching up. So as to not cause them to have to slow their pace waiting for me to go, I hurriedly hopped back onboard and began to continue on my way. As I reached for the handlebars, the one with the dark braid looked at me with teary eyes and said, “that was awfully kind of you.”

“Well, he was going to die on the hot cement!” I exclaimed.

“He sure was,” the gentle man said. “He sure was.”

“Have a wonderful day, sirs!” I shouted back behind me.

“You too, ma’am. You too.”

Now I don’t always dismount to save soon-dead earthworms from frying on hot sidewalks. In fact, before this morning, it had been a while since I’d done so. But as I parked my bike and walked into school, it gave me pause. Why would I do such a thing…ever? It’s only an earthworm. There are millions of others. Millions of them die every day. Plus, stopping made me sweatier. It was an inconvenience. It made me arrive two minutes later than I would have had I continued on my way, and two extra minutes to study for my impending OB quiz would have been crucial.

I don’t really have any answers that make sense. But what I can say is this: there is something that happens in my soul, in our souls, when we make a hard stop and do something for someone (or something) else that benefits us in no otherwise tangible way. I cannot explain why, upon seeing that little worm, I completely cut off my hyperfocus of needing to get to school and, without second thought, hopped off my bike to save him. I really cannot. Sometimes, things like that simply aren’t measurable by our limited human standards. But maybe my inconvenient kindness made that pony-tailed man’s heart stir just a little. Maybe he’ll remember my act when he’s confronted with an annoying co-worker later today and think to himself, “if a little sweaty blonde girl can save an insignificant earthworm, I suppose I can be kind to the human standing in front of me.”

Or maybe, next time he sees a dying earthworm, he’ll think to stop and toss it into the grass.

Maybe you will, too.

June 3, 2015

Spent today (and will spend every Wednesday for the next ten weeks) in a psych hospital. My eyes were opened like never before to the nature of mental health illnesses. Daily, let’s work to increase our empathy toward each other. We might not be able to fix the world’s problems–some are simply too big and complex to be solved this side of Heaven–but we can *listen* to each other. We can try to understand each other. We can ask tons of questions. We can extend grace and charity. We can take time out of our crazy-busy lives to fully attend to “interruptions,” and we can treat one another with dignity and a level of brokenness that says, “hey, we’re all in this together, friend.”
Massive amounts of respect for the tireless servants working hard in their professions–the nurses, the moms, the businessmen, the baristas, the garbagemen, the post carriers.
Be kind; for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. 

Sunday Afternoon Musing

May 31, 2015

I went to church this morning. It’s been a long time. Truthfully, I’ve gotten really worn out by “cool” churches with theology that is off-kilter and teaching that is, at best, superficial and at worst, not Gospel-centered. I had clinicals on Sundays last semester, so that didn’t help my “I should find a church” cause either because, well I simply couldn’t. 

So this morning, I found myself driving by myself to a church that had been recommended to me by my parents’ (beloved) pastor. I sat in the back, by myself, next to a girl who arrived late like me. We had walked in the sanctuary door together, and she started “looking around” as the congregation sang. I figured she was looking for her friends, so I pretended to be looking for mine too. After a few minutes of my game, she pointed to two seats a couple rows from the back and said, “looks like those are free. Let’s sneak in?” Wait, me? You’re asking me to sit next to you? You weren’t looking for friends-already-here all along…you were looking for seats for….us?

I thanked her for inviting me in, and we listened to the pastor preach on 1 John 1:1-4. It felt so right to be back in a place teaching from Scripture. Without any sugar-coating. Straight-up exegetical. Straight up about Jesus Christ–and the truth of who He is. It felt good to be sitting among people who were listening not because the preacher was eloquent and entertaining but because they were thirsty to learn exactly what God’s Word has to say. It felt good to worship with a small band, sans all the flashing lights big shows. Those things aren’t all bad…it’s just that I’ve become jaded a bit because I have watched all the Smells and Bells become the objects of people’s affection, and that is really hard to see.

It’s funny that we started in 1 John. It was about this time, one year ago, that I was starting my summer as a counsellor at Kanakuk K-1 in Branson, Missouri, and we were very thoroughly reading through and studying that very book. It feels strange to be at the beginning of a Not Summer right now. I’m in 18 hours of classes + 3 labs + clinicals. It’s the first Not Summer I’ve ever had…which means that last summer was the last Real Summer I’ll ever have. The days of 3 months “off in the sun” each year are over.

I made my way to a coffee shop down the street after the service so that I could sit here and study for the rest of the day. I don’t have internet at home, which makes for a logistical conundrum on most days. But it’s alright. Coffee shops are nice. 

Once my self-control timer ended, I checked my Facebook. In my inbox was a message from an old high school friend. He was wanting to engage me in the gay-marriage debate, since I post stuff so often about it. It was a very kind email, and had many good points and questions. I was happy to hear from him.

 This is one thing he said, and then he attached his friend’s blog post:

I have an acquaintance at Seattle-Pacific that I think you should read (whenever you have time haha). For one thing he is an incredible writer and I find he is worth reading based on this alone. Besides that, he is also Christian, gay, and one of the most authentic people I’ve ever met. He has written some pretty articulate discussions about Christianity and gay culture/identity.

I sent him a quick note informing him of my receipt of the email. Those little “read” blurbs at the bottom of Facebook messages are so ambiguous because when I send an email, see it’s been “read,” and then the recipient doesn’t reply for days/weeks my immediate thought is that I said something catastrophically offensive or hurtful. To avoid that ambiguity, I try really hard to send a personal “got it–will reply as soon as I can. Thank you!” remark when someone sends me an email with content that could be perceived as touchy.

I told him  I had every intention of being dilligent and “finishing my studies for the day” and putting his email off for however long it would be before I “had time” to answer it. My curiosity and heart, however, had different ideas.

I read the post.

Erik is right–Sam is an incredible writer and also an authentic man. The post made me cry. I REALLY think it’s worth reading. I’ve linked it below. I don’t really have a lot to say about it (not even sure *what* to say), except that it, in ways, softened my heart for the Christian men and women who are gay. I think my heart becomes calloused to the PEOPLE over time because the debates get so ugly and filled with such incorrect “facts” and statistics that I just write people off as “unthoughtful” and “wrong.” I start to become more concerned with the debates than the brokenness of the people (on both “sides” involved in them). It is really important for me to be brought back to the heart of PEOPLE sometimes….and to simply sit with them in their pain. This post did just that. 

Anyway, here it is. I really think it’s worth your time. I also would love to take Sam out for a cup of coffee and just have a conversation with him. I think he’d genuinely listen to my questions and concerns…and I think he would be kind in his replies. I think he would hear where I’m coming from in all of this–and I think I could be honest with him. I don’t think he’d mind. 

Thanks, Sam, for your courage. Thank you for speaking gently and honestly on this issue. Thank you for softening my heart for PEOPLE facing brokenness/struggle/frustrations of all kinds. I do not dismiss the brokenness of these past years of your life.

 http://samuelernest.com/2013/03/07/the-end-of-a-silence/

Recent Thoughts on Gender..

May 30, 2015

This is a conversation had via group text a couple months ago, between my best friends and I. 

Me:
What did Facebook just announce?
http://qpolitical.com/what-facebook-just-announced-is-an-attack-on-biblical-values-i-wont-stand-for-this/
Ah, this.
Jesus, come soon.
My heart breaks for this world. Absolutely breaks.

Friend 1:
Gender… What an interesting topic
Interesting… What a value neutral word meant to halt all intentional conversation. Forreal though, I doubt the 1st century gentile or Jew had a concept of Gender…

Me:
FRIEND 1-I literally was typing almost this exact same thing when you sent it. Lol. Brain wave.
So instead I will validate you, since you already said everything of import
1) yes, interesting serves that exact purpose
2) YES EXACTLY. That we are even having this discussion is indicative of the sickness of our current world. We are so sick, so very sick. As evidenced, in part, by the fact that a concept that has been black and white since the beginning of time is now so…translucent.
And what’s worse: we are completely unaware that what I just said is even INDICATIVE of sickness. It doesn’t occur to modern humanity that there is a PROBLEM here. THAT fact, in itself, is even more indicative of how the sickness has permeated deeply and widely.

Friend 2:
Wow j, thanks for sharing that. That makes me so sad and confused.
I mean, I just wonder what that must be like.. To have so many options in front of you for what to call yourself and thereby how you relate to others
Studies show that the more options we have, the less satisfied we are with our choice.
So interesting
I love the word you used J.

Can something become translucent because we call it translucent?

Friend 1:
Exactly, this cultural enshrinement and idolatry of choice–endless choice!– to define oneself in every arena. We forget that it all equates to how many ways we can be autonomous, masters and commanders of our lives, how far man can become the measure of all things, to what extent can we control nature, our very selves; which necessarily excludes obedience to an outside lawgiver… aka God.

Friend 3:
^So true!!!

Friend 1:
In short, Obedience vs. Autonomy. The latter is the guiding light of the self-made American hero, rousseau’s romantic individual divorced from place, family, tradition, lived-out values, cultural context, or obligation to his roots. I think of the movie blue like jazz

Me:
↑ amen.
Imagine how broken someone’s soul must be to be conflicted as to what gender to call themself.
Like of all the things we should be certain of in life, absolutely certain of, gender is top 5; right up there with needing oxygen.
So to be uncertain of THAT (to be ALLOWED to be uncertain of that) must cause so much turmoil. The problem, like Friend 2 said, is that our society has MADE it an option.
It becoming a choice LEADS TO gender uncertainty.

No different than the anonymous clicker quiz we took in health class when I was 14 and one of the questions was “what is your orientation?” And the options were
1) heterosexual
2) homosexual
3) undecided

“UNDECIDED?!” I remember thinking. “How has this become something 14 year olds just get to DECIDE?!” Can’t we just assume we are heterosexual (like, natural) until we need to consider otherwise? Why are we given a CHOICE to be undecided? That only creates more uncertainty.
↑ those were the thoughts going through my little sophomore brain
And YES, I believe things become what we call them. Things end up taking the shape of their name.

If society names a girl “fat” her whole life, she will most likely ACTUALLY grow into that name.

Words are the same.

If we begin to say gender is translucent, decideable, there will come a day when it actually IS. When we have believed the lie for so long that it has actually and literally become a reality.
Woe the day when the lies we concot become our realities…

Friend 1:
This is straight outta Lewis’ abolition of man. He thought liberalism–rights of man to free speech, expression, self-governance– insofar as it neglected the “Tao” or first principles, natural law, judeo-Christian values, etc, would eventually lead to this: personal “re-creationism”. We are creating man, we are creating ourselves, we are even creating our progeny (via genetic recombination) into OUR OWN IMAGE. Whatever we want! God’s image is done for, the only standard left is one we decide for ourselves.

Me:
Lewis was right.
So are scriptures.
We should not be surprised. But I am so broken, always, over the state of things

Friend 1:
We are way too serious a bunch..

Me:
↑ NO! There are enough un-serious, apathetic, “you do it your way, I’ll do it mine,” people in this world. We MUST maintain our seriousness about these issues. These things simply matter.

Friend 3:
Turn up. Shat that’s good, Friend 1! Dang J, I remember thinking the same thing in my typical Boulder middle school sex-ed class. It’s crazy how autonomy has become the greatest value in our society – I think it goes hand in hand with the moral relativism that seems to dominate our culture. And the idea of an individual person having an individual “orientation” is pretty new – before the 1700s, orientation was always referred to as a society’s “orientation”. Crazy how language can shape our thoughts and our actions.

Me:
And Friend 1-YEP to all you said. The day when WE ourselves are the standard-setters is here upon us. I suppose it has been since the Garden of Eden.
That is Hell. When we give ourselves over to ourselves.
When.
We.
Become.
God.

Friend 4:
The media frenzy on the Indiana law is where it’s at right now. The liberal sexual movement snaps and all fall in line. No tempered discussion whatsoever. Check out your boy Ryan Anderson on MSNBC, etc doe

10 {ridiculously simple} ways to be less wasteful.

May 25, 2011

It has been twelve days since I’ve seen the sun shining at 8am. The storms here have been insane, and my thoughts and prayers go out to our fellow Texans in the hardest-hit counties. Homes have been swept away. People are missing.

But this morning, I was awakened by sunshine. Glorious, warm rays.

And the sun got me thinking about nature’s beauty, which got me thinking about running to HEB with Trent yesterday, which got me thinking about how we spent much conversation-time in the car lamenting over all the trash all over the place as we walked and drove. We were up at Circle Point, checking out the flooded trails below the cliffs, and within a 2′ circle of my boots was a beer can, a piece of paper, and a plastic cup. IT BROKE MY HEART. Then, as we wound through the forest roads, there was trash strewn every few feet along the roadside, mixed in with the lush ferns and tunneling tree branches.

If it were up to me, I’d impose an immediate death penalty for littering. 

I can understand murder–I can understand being enraged to that point. I simply cannot understand littering. It is the epitome of apathy–the epitome of small souled-ness. One must have complete disregard for beauty, nature, others, responsibility, and thought in order to discard their trash in a place it doesn’t belong. To take the wasteful products of our consumerism and drop them off on nature’s doorstep is a travesty of the highest order…because it speaks about the state of one’s character. It screams “I DO NOT CARE.”

In light of all this, I’d like to propose some simple ways we can all “do our part” to be less wasteful. These are things I have woven into my life, and they have become so much a part of how I operate that they are simply second nature. In every area of our lives, we form habits. It is just as easy to form good ones as bad ones…so I am pleading with each of you to consider forming these “good ones.”

1) Reusable grocery bags.

I keep a stack of them (stuffed inside each other) in the trunk of my car. After I unload my groceries into the house, I hang the bags on the knob of the door going into the garage so that I’ll remember to throw them back into my trunk next time I leave the house.

IN ORDER TO DEVELOP THIS HABIT I began “punishing” myself if I forgot to bring my bags with me into the store. I would have the bagger load all the items loosely into my cart and walk out of the store with a cart full of unbagged items. Then I’d have to bag them once I got to my car (with the bags I left in the car). I only needed this punishment a couple times before I started remembering them 100% of the time. 

Asking the baggers to “please stuff everything into only the bags I brought” initiates conversations, too! I love teaching them about the Great Pacific Garbage patch and telling stories about all the little sea animals I’ve personally saved from death-by-plastic in my ocean travels and snorkelling adventures. Often, I need to be firm and repeat myself: “here, let’s actually put that in this bag–you can have the plastic one back” because the statement “I DO NOT WANT A SINGLE PLASTIC BAG” doesn’t always register fully. It’s okay to be kind and firm!

2) OB Tampons or Diva Cup

Ladies, do you realize that you will be tossing out 250-300lbs of period-related waste in your lifetime? Crazy! Most of that waste is in plastic applicators and packaging. OB tampons are 58% less wasteful (not having an applicator is seriously NBD once you get used to it), and you get like 40 per box! I save A TON OF MONEY by using them. Another awesome option is the Diva Cup. Seriously, coolest thing. And also PERFECT for outdoorsy trips (backpacking, hiking, climbing, etc.)

3) Bulk Stuff

I spend as much time in the bulk aisle as possible. I reuse the same bulk-bags every week and just print a new label (and put it on top of the old one) every time I re-fill them. Oatmeal, flax, chia seeds, trail mix, flour, spices, coconut shreds…the list goes on. Plus, it’s usually a cheaper option.

4) Bake Bread

Bread is one of those things that is expensive if you get the “good stuff” and filled with preservatives if you get the “cheap option.” AND IT IS SO EASY TO MAKE. I make a loaf whenever I run out and then, after letting it cool to room temp, slice it up and freeze it sliced. Then whenever I make a sandwich, I pull a couple slices out of the freezer and nuke ‘em for 10 seconds. Voila. Fresh bread at your fingertips. 

Mama’s recipes here and here. Cinnamon rolls here. If you don’t have a bread machine, you can grab one at your local Goodwill for $10 (zero need to buy new) or you can knead the bread yourself and just let it rise for an hour somewhere warm.

5) Buy clothes second-hand/ DUMPSTER DIVE!

I would say at least half my wardrobe (wish it was more), including shoes, is from thrift stores, dumpsters, Twice, (link) and hand-me-downs. And I generally wear name-brand stuff. If you’re a college kid and your school puts massive dumpsters outside the dorms at the end of each semester, GO DUMPSTER DIVING! It’s such a blast, and you’ll find such great stuff. I even got myself a *brand new* vacuum cleaner last year, in addition to leather shoes, new dresses, and a Pottery Barn dust ruffle, which is currently on my bed. I dumpster dive not because I’m too “poor” to afford new things (though that’s a perfectly legitimate reason, duh) but because WHY NOT? Why send a ton of perfectly good appliances, shelving units, shoes, clothes, lamps, sheets, towels, etc. to a LANDFILL when I am perfectly capable of salvaging and using them? Washing machines and bleach are my bffs. Take a friend with you. Make it fun. Sarah and Sydnie came with me last year about this time. :) 

{{You can do this for food, too! Grocery stores always throw out anything past its sell-by date, BUT IT’S ALL STILL GOOD! Go to the dumpsters behind Aldi, HEB, Trader Joes, etc. and see what’s in ‘em. I keep my grocery budget to <$100 a month, and I eat like a queen… :) }}

6) Time your showers

I am very proud of the fact that I can take a 10 minute shower, complete with shaved legs and washed/conditioned hair. ;) I know some of you enjoy your long, hot showers (*cough* Alli *cough*), and that’s alright. But if you want to put a little skip in your step each morning, see how quickly you can get in and out. Plus, it will contribute positive juju to your efficiency. ;)

7) GET A WATER BOTTLE

This may be my #1 deal. Treat yourself. Buy a water bottle. That you can refill. For the next 30 years. Like my Hydroflask. It’s my baby. It keeps ice frozen, in a HOT TEXAS CAR, ALL DAY LONG. I think it was invented by angels. I 100% believe using disposable plastic bottles is pure laziness. Use 30 disposable bottles and you’ve spent enough to buy yourself one that will last your entire life. Plastic water bottles contribute to a massive portion of the world’s waste. There are places in the world WHERE THEY ARE AN ABSOLUTE NECESSITY because of unclean tap water. THAT IS NOT AN ISSUE IN MOST PLACES IN AMERICA. Drink your tap water and save the disposable bottles for people who actually need them. I wrote on this topic here.

8) Recycle.

Okay, I grew up in Oregon, where the walls of the garages of everyone we knew were lined with recycle bins: “glass” “plastic” “paper,” etc. It was no skin off our nose. It’s just what we did. Once a month Dad and I would load up the truck and take it all into town to the Recycle Depot, where we’d sort it and break everything down. Many of you live in a place where ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS THROW IT ALL IN ONE BIN AND STICK IT AT THE END OF YOUR DRIVEWAY. WHAT?!? If you’re in that group of people and you still choose to throw recyclable stuff away, I have no words. I know there’s been a lot of discussion about whether or not recycling actually helps, etc. Here is what I know: it’s gotta be better than burying it under the ground or throwing it in our oceans. So just do it.

9) Use old boxes

We’re in the process of packing a 3,000 sq. foot house right now. Which means we’re in need of A LOT OF BOXES and also means we’re all miserable because packing is quite possibly the worst non-tragic activity in the Western world. However, we have spent ZERO DOLLARS on boxes. This is because my mother is insanely resourceful, and she sends Dad and I to the hospital every couple days to the “Receivables” shoot to grab all the to-be-recycled BRAND NEW medical boxes. They’re awesome boxes (thick, sturdy, perfect) and come in all sizes.

10) Companies

If you’re a gear junkie like me or a name-brand junkie like my mama, think about the companies you’re choosing to support. You are voting with your dollars. If you, like me, simply cannot get everything second hand, consider where to buy your new stuff. Personally, for all things “gear” and “outdoors,” I choose Patagonia. I love their business model, and I LOVE their environmental conscientiousness. I trust them. I don’t spend extravagant amounts of time researching companies and their carbon footprints, but when I come across a company “doing it right,” I *bookmark* them in my brain as “a good place to shop.” There are loads of other Good Ones besides Patagonia, but that’s my personal go-to. They have somehow figured out how to couple awesome quality with environmental awareness.

At the end of the day, it comes down to this: be a thoughtful person. Think about your actions. Think about your waste. Think about your consumption. Don’t make it your idol–don’t obsess over it and make yourself horribly guilty. Simply give it some thought power. It’s worth the effort. Truth is, I don’t do all I *could* do. And probably, neither will you. But we can do some things, right?

What are your favorite ways to reduce waste? Share this post and add a few of your own! 

Friendship ~ the verse of a life.

May 11, 2015

I think some days are meant for staying in bed ‘til noon. Or 3…or 5. Even if it’s two days before the last final of your first semester in nursing school and you have another 50 color-coded pharmacology flash cards to make. There are days to wake up, boil some water, climb back in bed and pour French-pressed coffee into the mug on your nightstand…to drink it slowly, propped up on some pillows, snuggled under a down comforter.

And watch YouTube videos for two hours. And call your Mama just to chat. And read some Scripture and some of Brian Woods’ poetry. And stare at the ceiling and wonder at the wonder of life. And listen to Robin Williams’ voice on Devin Supertramp’s channel:

No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world. I’ve got a little secret for you—huddle up. We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business—these are noble pursuits…and necessary to sustain life! But poetry. Beauty. Romance. Love. These are what we stay alive for. 

To quote from Whitman:  

Oh me! Oh life! of the
questions of these
recurring,
Of the endless trains of the
faithless, of cities fill’d
with the foolish…
What good
amid these, O me, O life?
Answer:
That you are here—that life
exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes
on, and you may
contribute a verse.

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse…

What will your verse be?

Last night, I found myself on a 4-hour drive home from Dallas. Halfway through, my buddy Justin rang in, as is custom when either of us finds ourself driving any sort of distance. We talked and talked, like the long-time old friends we are, and then I punched in the gate code, pulled into my apartment parking lot, turned off the engine, and laid across my front seats for another couple of hours…because it wasn’t yet time for bed, and there was much to be discussed. It was dark outside, and there seemed to be something undeniably sacred about being alone in my favourite car, surrounded by silence except for my own voice and the strong voice of a kind friend, all the way up in Canada. Undeniably sacred and indelibly beautiful. We told stories and re-hashed events from years past and laughed and got a little choked up at times and discussed The Church and a new book (“Jordan, PLEASE read the whole thing tomorrow so I have someone with whom to discuss it!”) and some Hard Stuff having to do with Jesus and Faith and Truth. And he reminded me that the Truth will always prove itself, will always win, will always come out ahead–because if it’s True, it doesn’t need our help or our defense. Truth cannot, will not, be squashed.

He gave me heck because I talked at him for no less than thirty-eight minutes without so much as taking a breath, and then I stopped and laughed and said, “okay, you can talk now!” and he said “it’s alright; I’m a good listener—and I always know when I see your name on my screen that as soon as I pick up the phone, I better be prepared for an absolute flurry of words, the subject of which could literally be absolutely anything. But that’s just you, and I get it—and love you for it!”

My feet were up on the dashboard, and I stuffed a pillow behind my back so the seatbelt thing would quit digging into me, and I turned the car on to spruce up my juice every time my battery dipped below 20%. He gave me advice on some Life Stuff and pointed out a few things I need to think about and cautioned me in a couple areas and spoke the truth about some of my faults without hurting my heart.

It was a beautiful conversation, but the reverberating line running through my mind was simply: he gets me. And isn’t that the most profound realization of all? It is, in fact, the Mark of True Friendship.

Justin and I have fought a lot of fires together. Sometimes we’ve made it out alright, and sometimes we’ve arrived on the other side pretty burnt up and burned out. But there has always, *always* been forgiveness, and we have always met each other with a big hug and the sentiment, spoken or not, “I get it.” “I get YOU.” Whatever you’re going through, whatever you’re processing, whatever Hard life is throwing your way; wherever we disagree, whenever I’m not making sense, whenever my words are Unkind or confusing; however long time passes between hearing each other’s voices, there will always and forever be three sets of three words at the foundation of our friendship:
  I get it. I get you. I love you.

I love you, anyway.

I count myself ridiculously undeserving of the sort of friend Justin is to me and really, the sort of friend each of my True Friends is. Eventually, we said our goodnights and I rushed inside to hop into bed, and he texted and said he was currently enjoying a glass of red wine and wished I were there to partake so that we could talk for a couple more hours and then he could laugh at me falling asleep on his couch because #redwine. There might be more stories where that comes from.

I just finished reading a book on friendship, actually. I ordered two copies: one for me, and one for Bree. That is, after all,  my life’s poem. I’ve got a couple Life Mantras, but my Life Poem is just that: “One for me; one for Bree.” When we were at Baylor and I’d pull over to pick a bouquet of roadside wildflowers, I’d pick one for me and one for Bree. When I’d print Anatomy outlines or bake a loaf of bread or eat a cookie or when she’d buy donuts or make soup or pick up salad from Penland with a hard boiled egg and some peanut butter or buy a pack of hair ties or a cool new sports bra or a Common Grounds coffee, or when we both got dates to the Air Force Ball because we come as a pair, or the fact that we sat next to each other in every single class we had together, for two entire years…or when I had a hammock and decided she needed one too. It has simply been that way since, forever. One for me, one for Bree. And anytime something Sucks and we call/text to inform the other of the Suckiness, the one of us not experiencing the Suck-y will say to the other “if it’s any consolation…” and then proceed to form a sentence describing an equally-awful woe (however untrue) simply in order to make the other feel she is not alone. It’s our little way of saying, “hey, I get it.” Because isn’t that always what we need to hear from our friends?

So when Ann mentioned Melanie’s new book, I knew it had to be read STAT. I may or may not have woefully neglected my pharmacology and pathophysiology studies for a few days in order to fulfill my self-prescribed order. And it is, in all honestly, one of the most genuine, heart-warming, soul-inspiring books I’ve ever devoured. It’s just, perfect, and it does exactly what Melanie intended it to do—it reminds us all of the beauty of True Friendship.

In 2 Samuel 18, it is said that David and Jonathan’s souls were knit together. Sounds to me like marriage and I think, in nearly every way, it was. I believe in the marriage of friendship.

A couple months ago, I was sitting in a cowboy hot-tub way up on a hill with two of my best friends in the entire world. There was no light, save the half-moon and brilliant stars…and the glow of the embers in the make-shift outdoor “furnace” keeping the water on the warm side of lukewarm. (It’s probably a good thing the light was sparse, because I imagine had we seen the state of the stagnant water that had been used by far too many unshowered campers, we would surely have been concerned about contracting something like Hepatitis.) We were talking Life and somehow the conversation turned to marriage, and I said: “I cannot wait for the day when a man gets me…gets all of me—all my too-much and all my too-little; all my emotional and all my stoic—all my thoughtfulness and all my common senseless-ness—all my everything—and says “I’m staying, anyway.” And my dear friend turned to the two of us and said, “That’s me. I am married to our friendship. I am absolutely committed to you two, in deep and abiding friendship, for as long as the three of us shall live. Through thick and thin. Through fire and water. Through frustration and forgiveness. Through misunderstandings and miscommunications. Through thoughtfulness and thoughtlessness and dirt and academics. I’m in.”

There may have been silent tears, because the moment felt somehow covenantal.  And I believe it was just that. I believe that True Friendship is divinely appointed and that in that Appointment, there is an unspoken covenant. C.S. Lewis said it best:

In friendship, we think we have chosen our peers. In reality, a few years’ difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choice of one university instead of another…the accident of a topic being raised or not raised as a first meeting—any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly speaking, no chances. A secret Master of Ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples; ‘ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you.’ I can truly say to every group of Christian friends, ‘ye have not chosen one another, but He has chosen you for one another.’ The friendship is not a reward for our discriminating and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each of us the beauties of others.

I woke up this morning to a whole bunch of missed group texts because, unsurprisingly, my Baylor pals do in fact carry on conversation past my 10:30 bedtime. They’re late-night conversationalists, and I’m an 8am replier. What gives? It works for us. Usually, the texts are hilariously funny and include some ill-constructed meme with one of our faces as the centerpiece and then a bunch of really dumb (hilarious) commentary on the whole thing. And then sometimes we solve a bunch of the world’s problems or inform each other of the latest news or ask each other for prayer and hugs when things get Hard. This morning’s consisted of a zoomed-in screen-shotted picture of me with my arm around Bree and a guy I dated for a while in the background, trying to get in on the picture. The caption cleverly read: “clearly didn’t meet the old soul criterion. Swerve.” The discussion then turned to the topic of “criterion” vs. “criteria” and how it’s really confusing because there is no objective grammatical truth and then someone piped in, “tell that to Chomsky and his ‘universal grammar,’ you prude!” and then Kevin told everyone to HOLD UP because “we all need to stop and appreciate how powerfully hilarious that photo from Lane was…so friggin good!” And Lane appreciated the “love [he] rightly deserves.” And we all probably LOLed in our respective locations.

I called Lane and left him a voicemail about how much I appreciate him and how important it is to my heart that he “gets me.” I went on and on for a minute or so, thanking him for his friendship and for the fact that if I text him at 10:45 he’ll say “wait, WHY ARE YOU STILL UP? Is everything okay?!? Are you okay? Did something happen?” and usually I’ll laugh and tell him no, I just happen to be up 15 minutes late tonight because I needed to fold my laundry, or something. I proceeded to let Sarah know that I love her more than 10:30pm, and Bree left a comment on an insta picture of us from ONE HUNDRED WEEKS AGO, and then Cary texted me and asked me to go climbing with him on Thursday and informed me that he got his “beloved pack towel back today!” and that “it will soon accompany him again in various natural water swimming activities.” You guys. That in itself is practically a miracle. That itty-bitty pack towel travelled (unbeknownst to any of us) rolled up in the hammock I keep stuffed in the trunk of my car, from the Ozark mountains, to Baylor for a semester, to Houston. Then it sat on my shelf for a month or so, and I eventually took it to Dallas and left it on Bree’s desk with a note for Logan to take it back with him to Waco to give to Oliver to take to Cary’s house. And then today, Cary and the Traveling Pack Towel were gloriously reunited. Life amazes me, sometimes.

When I drove to Dallas on Saturday, I spent 3 hours on the phone with Jordan. We’re long-time lifelong friends, and we’ve done school and life together since we were six years old. I think we ended up with the same teacher in 3rd grade, actually. He just graduated from Georgetown and will spend the next two years in D.C, pursing a career and saving money to attend Oxford for his PhD. We haven’t “caught up” in at least a year, so the conversation was long-overdue and just an all-around Good Thing. We talked about the early church and modern-day creeds, and the trend of highly intellectual people leaning toward Catholicism. We discussed The Bandwagon Effect and thoughts on my to-be-written piece for the First Things contest and how neat it is that Elizabeth is one of my dearest friends and most well-loved professors and so I was able to connect Jordan to her via their mutual interest in Michael Oakeshott. He said that in D.C. they call that “networking,” and I said I call it “being a helpful friend,” and we agreed we prefer my (our) way of seeing it. Because that’s what Friends do for each other. They’re helpful. They speak life. They listen. They get it. We ended the call agreeing to see each other soon—maybe in D.C., maybe in Sisters, or maybe at Oxford. When it comes to meeting up with an old soul-friend, the place matters much, much less than the Person.

This afternoon, Nicole “liked” a photo posted on the @humansofny Instagram page. It was of a middle-aged man with a group of young boys. I think he’s their mentor, or coach. In an interview for the caption he said, “I just want to participate in the conversations they enjoy, because I know there are going to be times when there needs to be a tough conversation. And I want them to know that I cared about them before there was a problem.”

I want to be a part of my friends’ lives, in everything. In the superficial moments of hilarious meme-sharing and the profound conversations about the State of the World and the commentaries when people-watching is the activity of the day. And I want to be part of their lives in the Tough Times, and in the times when I have to tell them something (or they, me) that is hard to hear…but I want them to know I cared about them before there was a problem.

We all have been given a chance at life. And therefore, we’ve all got an opportunity to contribute a verse to the Powerful Play. If I could pray only one prayer every day, it would be this: “Lord, help me to be a good friend.” A friend of Grace; a friend of kindness; a friend that brings joy and speaks life and listens well. A friend who is committed to the Covenant—a friend who allows souls to be knit to her own; who welcomes advice; who is willing to hear criticism; who is gentle with reproof and unafraid to be truthful in the face of sin, yet loving enough to stick around anyway.

A friend who says, “I’m in.”

I get it. I get you. I love you.

That’s my verse. And that’s the verse my pals have spoken over my soul. They come from all age groups and all different places, and they all met (and continue to meet) me at drastically different points in my life. Some of them have known me since I was six, and some of them met me in a castle in England. Some of them have been my professors and teachers; and some, my parents friends and therefore my second parents. Some are my Big Brothers, and some have been my youth pastors. Some are my Sisters, and some I had the grace of forming circles with in my time at a beautiful little university in Waco, Texas.

But they all share the same sentiment, and I return that sentiment to each and every one of them.

I get it. I get you. I love you.

May 7, 2015

A few weeks ago, the UTH Public Affairs Office sent out an email requesting submissions by students for a “My Picture of Wellness” contest. Today, I received a notice that the photo I submitted has been chosen as one of the finalists to be used in the UT #NursesWeek social media campaign. The sender asked me to give him some further insight into why I submitted this photograph and why it represents wellness to me. 

{Photocredit: Trevor Barry}

My response was as follows:

To me, wellness is holistic. It’s not simply about being free of illness but about being full of WELLness. I believe that in nature, a part of us comes alive that isn’t able to flourish when operating under the confines of structures (buildings, systems, etc.) humans have created. There is something about what GOD has created that touches a place deep in our souls and rejuvenates us–brings true life and wellness to our minds, bodies, and spirits. There is something deeply profound about being somewhere that we cannot control–I cannot control the mountains or control the situations that nature might throw at me while being in them. And that is GOOD for my soul–to be in a place where I am simply a recipient–there to receive beauty–and not a controller/executer of anything. So that, to me, is a huge piece of wellness. Nature. Being outside. Breathing fresh air. Walking in stillness and silence. Listening to the birds. Thanking God for His creation and for how much His creation teaches us about the beauty of His character.

What It’s Like Being President

By Brian Wood

It is strange, this work of being a man
And a nation. When I took the oath six
Years back, I became not just me but this
Country. I was its face. I would fly to
Other lands and my mere presence, and our
Flag, stood for USA. Until there was

A new president, for better or for
Worse, I was us. This is one thing abroad
And another here. Away, people in
Foreign countries hold back a bit, give you
The benefit of not knowing for sure.
At home there are no doubts. Millions did

Not vote for me and never would, and the
Millions who did mean nothing. We love
Our country so much we forget others
Might. Voting for not-my-guy is the wrong
Vote, not just thinking different. Something
Like that in every soul. Millions

Hate me and more millions yet will hate
My successor. To get this job is to
Accept free-flow hate, hate looking for home,
Boiling over, hissing. I could give a
Speech saying water was wet and my mail
Next day will be full of stuff about how

My kids can rot in hell, my wife can go
There too, plus you hope my dog gets killed. So
I (kind of) look forward to the head of
State days, when I am more symbol than man.
Today though is its own challenge, at the
Veterans’ hospital, giving what aid

I can to our soldiers injured on my
Watch. Some will live and some will sleep. I talk
With those who would and read to men whose speech
Has stopped. A little boy asks me why I
Weep, but no words come. Together we read
His father’s citation for bravery.

We say it again and then a third. On
My way out, a Marine’s mother holds her
Hands up, defiant—“Why does Y O U R child live,
While mine rots in Arlington?” I start to
Speak but wisdom tells me to be still. Her
Words are white hot and far from done and far

From quiet. She calls me every foul word
She knows and this is when all of my staff
Stops hoping to be president. The man
In me revolts at this but the nation
That lives in me must stand and wait. I stare
Into a fury undiminished. My

Role is to take this, be the face of wrong,
And everything wrong with everything,
Our first sin and last bad act, living proof
Nothing here could ever break right. Now her
Husband can only take so much grief, and
Leads his wife into the closest chair; his

Eyes have some pity, man to man, but on
My watch, on my watch, he lost his son, and
I must know the wages. On our way home
My staff says little. I say less, except
‘That woman hates me with an undying
Fire.’ No one disagrees. I wonder if

Tonight, when I see her son in sleep, when
I see him wandering in the shades, if
My sight will be pierced by the salvation
We hope saves those who perished from faith, or
My eyes blinded by the freedom purchased
At so high a price by soldiers sent too
Far away, and just one day too long.

Lessons from Everest

May 3, 2015

I was scrolling through my instagram feed sometime last week, and I passed over a post by Jedidiah Jenkins. It was a picture of a man named Daniel Fredinburg—a picture which will forever be etched into my memory.

A few days prior, I had somewhere seen a picture of Jed and three beautiful women (one being Sophia Bush) at some fancy White House function. Somewhere in the caption of that picture, the author mentioned that Sophia was “dealing with a very personal loss” from the Earthquake in Nepal and asked for us all to keep Nepal in our minds and hearts.

So when I saw the picture of Daniel a few days later and read Jed’s caption, it all made sense—Daniel Fredinburg was one of the “great loves” of Sophia Bush’s life…and he was swept off the side of Mount Everest during the earthquake, along with 18+ other climbers. The mountain simply came down on top of them.

Dan was a Google Executive. He was at Everest because he was part of a team whose goal was to map out Everest base camp so that it could be accessible via Google Maps—a noble pursuit, really. It was his second attempt at an Everest summit, and until the earthquake, everything had gone as planned.

I spent a few hours perusing articles on Dan and the life he lived; looking through his Instagram feed; reading captions his friends wrote after his passing, and the whole thing just really shook me up. He was 33. Handsome. Prepared. Wealthy. Famous, even. I mean shoot, he had an article written about him in People Magazine—that’s got to count for something, right?

But then I realized this: nature is no respecter of persons.

I remember being sixteen years old. It was springtime, and we were on a 4-day rafting trip with my junior IEE class down the Deschutes River. We stood atop a high cliff, and these were our instructions: 

“As soon as you hit the water, bring your knees up and cross your arms across your chest. Put your feet out in front of you. Swim out into the middle of the (raging) river until you feel yourself being funneled into the ‘V.’ It’s going to shoot you into the rapids. Hold your breath and close your eyes until you reach the top of the first wave. Once you’re up there, breathe deeply and open your eyes until you’re on the down-slope, at which point you need to hold your breath again and close your eyes. Repeat this (breathe on top, hold your breath in the valleys) until you get out of the rapids. If you are able, swim to the eddy on river right. If you are unable to swim, we will throw you a rescue rope. WATCH FOR THE ROPE and do not miss it. If you miss it, there are kayakers downriver, before the waterfall, and they will pull you into their boats.”

Seemed simple enough. I’ve got this, I said to myself. I love jumping off cliffs. And I love water. And I’m a very strong swimmer. Reaching the eddy will be easy. I can’t wait for everyone to see me battle this thing out—the boys are going to love it.

So I jumped.

I hit the water, and every muscle in my body instantly contracted. My knees drew to my chest, and my arms hugged around myself on their own volition. My lungs froze. These things happen in 40-degree whitewater in the middle of May. Come on, Jordan, pull it together, you know what to do. You’ve been swimming rapids since you were five years old. Don’t be weak—be strong.

But the river was stronger.

I gasped for air and 100% gave up on any ideas of taking nice, relaxed breaths at the waves’ crests. I didn’t even know which way was up and which way was down. I was spinning in a vortex of freezing, foaming white rapids, and I thought I was going to die. I actually and literally thought I’d never see land again. I had always known people die in rivers, but I had never understood why. In those moments, it all became very clear: human power is no match for God’s nature.

I remember noticing the rapids getting smaller (maybe 6 feet high instead of 14), and as I continued shooting downriver, I saw the eddy on my right. Use your arms, girl; SWIM. I remember people yelling from the bank: SWIM, SWIM! I saw Eric Carlson in all his muscley-manly glory emerge from the swirl. If he can do it, I can do it. But my arms were locked. I could not physically get them to do what my brain was commanding. So I laid on my back and stared at the sky. I’m headed for the waterfall, I guess. Hope someone throws me a rope between now and then.

And then it came. As I laid there all locked up and unable to move, I saw the red rope come sailing into my field of vision; the line landed right on my chest. “JUST HOLD ON!” they shouted from the bank.  “Nice throw, man! Good aim, Runco! Well done,” I could hear them saying as the congratulated whoever threw the rope for actually hitting me. They pulled me right up onto the shore, where I continued to lay and unthaw. My friend, Hayden, was rescued by Justin in a kayak further downstream. This is not a field trip for the faint of heart, I decided. Nevermind the rattlesnakes potentially slithering across our feet at night, as we slept on the riverbank under the stars…directly on the path the snakes take to find warm rocks once it gets dark. I remember Jeff telling us: “Don’t freak out. Just be still. They don’t expect you to be here.” Yeah, okay buddy. But that’s another story for another time.

The truth is: the River doesn’t care who you are. And neither do the mountains.

Mount Everest does not care if you are a materially-poor Sherpa from a small Nepalese village or a high-flying Google Exec with all the best, new equipment, on a sojourn to literally globalize a trail to the most famous mountain in the world. One can prepare for years—gathering data and gear; taking courses in Wilderness First Aid and Ice Climbing and Avalanche Training. But at the end of the day, we are not in control. Not really. Not at all.

I think sometimes, nature’s harshness reminds us that no matter how Big we “make it,” no matter how famous we become or how well-traveled…no matter how prepared we may be for It All, there are just parts of life completely out of our control. It’s a reminder that we can “do everything right” and still, God is Ultimate.

I think part of humanity’s current problem stems from the fact that we have largely removed ourselves from nature. We have built concrete structures and well-paved streets and lit-up cities. We have built and built and built in an effort to keep ourselves both safe and successful. Sometimes what we don’t realize is that we are, in effect, self-destructing. When we remove ourselves from the dirt from which we were created, we concoct a lie and believe we can be our own gods. But the stark reality is that no matter how tall we stack our bricks or how well we weld our steel, we will NEVER be God. He is always in control, and He always knows. Nature reminds us of our insufficiencies, in the face of the God who spoke the earth and all its magnificent parts into being.

I was hashing out this realization just the other day, as I laid on Bree’s couch in my plaid boxers with my feet up on the armrests. I had eaten chocolate chip pancakes at Nicole’s that morning and then mosied on over to my best friend’s apartment. As she was baking oatmeal cookies without a recipe (because Bree somehow cooks/bakes like a gourmet chef sans recipes), we discussed everything from our favourite lipstick colours to Dan Fredinburg’s Everest death.

She had the water running in the sink and was finishing up the last of the dishes, when she paused. “It’s kind of like sin, I think. Sinful nature is no respecter of persons, either. No matter how wealthy we are or what life circumstances we’re born into—no matter how many self-help books we read or how many good things we do or how often we put $5 in a homeless person’s cup—we are all subject to the same Sin. Therefore, we are all subject to the same wrath of God. We are all born into the same broken world.”

Nature unites us in reminding us that, ultimately, we are not our own—we are not in control. We can delude ourselves into thinking so til’ Kingdom Come and, at that point, “there will be two kinds of people: Those who say to God ‘Thy will be done,” and those to whom God says, ‘THY will be done.’” (C.S. Lewis) The latter sort will find themselves in a Place where they are each their own king—and it will be the most terrible, most awful, most dehumanized place imaginable.

But there is another sort of Nature, too. It is the nature that we are a Broken People…

Our sin, and therefore our equal need for a Savior, unites us all.

We must never forget that sorrow can come to any kingdom. It can come to kingdoms built in the suburbs and kingdoms built in wealthy cities; it can come to kingdoms built in third-world countries and kingdoms built on mountains and kingdoms built in middle-class neighborhoods. But there is a King whose Kingdom will ultimately know no sorrow. He is the King whose presence erases tears; whose death conquered death; whose life is the only True Life. He is the King who created the world and defeated the author of Sin so that we can be free from bondage. We all need Him desperately.

That earthquake could have killed any of us. There’s no telling when or where Nature will strike again…or how long it will be before it does so.
But what it boils down to is this: Sin has ALREADY killed all of us. We’re dead. We’re sick. We’re twisted. And we’re broken. AND THERE IS A GOD WHO ASKS US TO BELIEVE WHAT HE SAYS so that we can be free…

In His Kingdom, there is room for the businessmen and the street-beggars; for the sherpas and the Google Execs; for the trafficked and the traffickers; for the men and the women; for the farmers and the lawyers. Nature may be no respecter of persons, and Sin may be the same–but our God? He is a respecter of ALL the persons, and He’s always only inviting us to Come. Come give up our attempts to be our own gods. Come give up our struggles and our misfortunes and our successes and our good fortunes. Come equally broken and be united by the King who breathed life to the earth…and came back to Save Us.

Come.

FiMiFri no.10

April 24, 2014

What a friend we have in Jesus. What a King. What grace it is that He WANTS US and that He knows we have The Truth. We don’t have to fight to prove His truth. 

He says to our weary hearts “Hey, I’ve got it. I’ve been fighting Satan since before the world even existed. You just keep praying, keep reading my Word, keep doing whatever you can do put one foot in front of the other and do the next right thing. Keep deeply loving people, and keep speaking My Truth over them. I’ve already given you the words you need. Just put my name on Repeat. Then take a deep breath. Before you can even blink, you’ll be standing before me in Heaven.”

Ah, sweet relief when my heart is heavy. Heavy with the weight of Sin on the world. Heavy with how often we want to DEMAND OUR RIGHTS and DEMAND that we get to make CHOICES.

Heavy that we, I, so often fail to bow low before the God who is in control.

I love you, dear readers. Be encouraged. The most repeated phrase in the bible is “how long oh lord, how long?” and the most repeated answers are “do not fear” or “do not be afraid.”

God’s answer isn’t to give us a time: “this long, just be patient!” Or to tell us “I’ll take away the suffering because you begged”

No.

His answer is

“Do not fear”

“Trust me”

“Yes, the world is broken, yes you are suffering, yes your heart hurts-but do not fear. I have overcome the world. I am God.”

Amen.

April 19, 2015

I am sitting in Starbucks, twenty minutes from the little loft I’ll call home for another year, and I have clicked through upwards of 500 HESI/NCLEX questions since my little butt hit this leather chair this morning.

My brain is, fried.

And David Neuve has carried me through the day with his instrumentals, as always. But when “It is Well” shuffled on and the piano notes lilted in my ears, the tears started flowing because I MISS BREE, and the last time I heard this song, she was playing it on the piano as we sat on the little velvet-covered bench together in the chapel of her Dallas hospital, the morning I woke up at 5 and drove to surprise her after her big exam.

It’s also my all-time favourite hymn, so I get tears every time I hear it, but the tears today were more due to my missing of Bree-girl than anything else.

Alright, back to questions. And instrumentals.

street swimming.

April 17, 2015

Most of the time, days are pretty ordinary.
And then once in a while, on a dark night around 8:30, you might get caught in a flash flood…

So here’s how it all went down.
We’re sitting in our favorite little tea shop, clicking through mind-numbing HESI/NCLEX study questions when Michelle looks over at me and asks when I want to leave. This is a conversation we have almost daily—and my answer generally falls somewhere between the hours of 1900 and 2100. I said “how does 9 sound?” and she said “mmmm 8:30?” Deal.

About 5 minutes later, all phones everywhere were screaming that horrible “ALERT. WARNING.” noise that makes it sound like the WORLD IS ENDING and is triggered whevever there’s an Amber alert…or a natural disaster…or, apparently, impending flash floods.

“We need to get home, before they hit…and force us to be stuck here all night,” we decided. By this point, the parking lot was already starting to flood and the rain was literally coming down in sheets. Michelle sprinted to the car and picked me up on the curb. That 100yd sprint had us both soaked to the bone. We rolled as quickly as we could, to maintain momentum so as not to stall. There were cars “driving” (half floating) everywhere, every which way, on all sides of the streets, sidewalks, and medians. Eventually, the car in front of us stopped and we lost momentum and knew we needed to find higher ground…and quickly. “I’ll pull up onto that curb in that parking lot right ahead of us,” Michelle said. “Good plan. Just keeeeeeeep movin.”

“I just really hope we don’t flood before we get there…we’re so close…”

Close, but no cigar.

Pitter, pitter, pitter, konk. Engine done. Flashers on, everyone’s honking (yeah, just keep honking, that’s a super effective plan), and we’re like shoooooooot. “Know anyone with a truck?” Nope. “Hm….well, we could push?” No can do. The current’s too strong—we wouldn’t be able to push against it. So we texted everyone we knew but the truth was (and we knew it), no one would be able to GET to us—there were stalled, flooded cars causing backups down every street in the area.

Enter: Triple A. Decided tonight it’s the best gift Dad’s ever given me. I’ve never had to call them before but boy oh boy—when you get stuck in a flash flood they’re the people you want on your team…and I vow to never ever in my life NOT have a membership. The woman told me someone would be there to help us within 40 minutes, and I gave her Michelle’s number as a callback because my battery is always on 10% and my tank is always on empty when there’s an emergency. Story of my freaking life.

So, I guess we just sit here and….wait.

10 minutes go by, and 40 minutes is starting to feel like a lifetime. As cars pass by, they send waves that literally lift our car off the ground and rock us back and forth. If we had been in a sailboat, they’d have been the waves that lulled me to sleep in the bay. I can feel the water rushing beneath the floorboard with every passing swell. I wonder when water will start coming through the doors? Michelle was confident in her reply: “we can always use the sunroof—the battery still works!”

20, 25 minutes pass and we’re just not digging the situation. We’re soaked to the bone from running to the car in the first place, and therefore all the windows are fogged up beyond hope. I rub at mine just enough to be able to barely make out what is beyondt. “Uh, Michelle….L O O K.” The water had risen to the bottom of my passenger side window frame.

Meanwhile, our barista group text is funnier than ever…

…and then gets super serious. 

“You guys need to get out of the car. Now.” David says. “Climb out the windows.”

Michelle and I look at each other…yep. Time to move. We think about what we need to take with us, in case the car ends up flooding inside, and we decide on our laptops in backpacks, because #school. Michelle crawls out her window, I pop the trunk so she can grab her belongings, and then I follow suit. We half wade, half swim across the street, to the parking lot where we had tried to make it to find high ground in the first place. There’s a woman with a half-shaved head and a man with dreadlocks waiting on the sidewalk: “Ya’ll okay? We’ve been watching you sit there and were starting to get worried. And then we checked back and saw you crawling out the windows. Our boss told us to just hang tight, even though the shop’s technically closed. Wanna come inside?”

Actually, yes. You don’t happen to have an i5 charger, do you?
“Come in, come in. Here, charge your phone. Want a coke? Might as well.”

It was a smoke shop, and we drank cokes and shot the breeze for a while. It never ceases to amaze me how, when Things get rough, everyone becomes unlikely friends. It’s like suffering together, in community, restores our humanity. It’s as if, in suffering, we see through and effortlessly climb over barriers that once seemed like insurmountable brick walls. Because in a flash flood, a little blonde nursing student and her cute little curly-haired friend shoot the breeze and drink Cokes with smoke shop employees with whom we’d have otherwise never interacted. 

I called Mom and explained the situation. “Quay! Jordan’s stuck in a flash flood. HOW COOL. She’s telling me all these crazy stories. Can you believe that?” Glad to be of entertainment value, Mom. “Jordan, now you can say you’ve been caught in a flash flood. What a great life experience. You’ll remember this night for the rest of your life!” Glad to have parents who (apparently) aren’t the freak-out sort.

Our smoke-shop friends decided we might as well go back outside and revel in the entertainment of the whole situation, so we did. We stood on the sidewalk, which was by now level with the water, and we did a lot of laughing at people who kept turning into the street in front of us, only to find themselves literally submerged in water up to their windshields. We were ultra confused because it was OBVIOUS that that street was completely flooded, as evidenced by the other 27 cars sitting there flooded up to their grills but I mean, whatever floats your boat man. And then sometimes a big truck would blast through and spray water on all of us poor drowned rats and we’d call him a dirtbag and tell him he was real cool and not to mind the rest of us just stuck here soaked to the bone in C.Diff and Hepatitis A and whatever other nasty diseases were floating around in the brown water that was filling our cars and turning us into prunes.

A guy came by with an unopened pack of chocolate mints. “It’s one of those times,” he said. “Where it’s like a big community and everyone just hangs around and helps each other out. I went and picked these up from Trader Joe’s across the street. You want one?” Thanks, bro. I won’t ever turn down a chocolate mint. Not even in the midst of a flash flood. Not even when I’m soaked to the bone in brown Houston street water–or, more appropriately termed, Houston street liquid, as water seemed to be only one component of the raging river…

Eventually the tow truck called: “hey, where you at? Can you help me find you?” So I gave him our cross streets and he said, “wait, are you stuck in the water?” Well…yes…? Isn’t everyone?

“Oh, I’m really sorry.  I’ll have to call my dispatcher. We aren’t allowed to go through the water to rescue people because we might get stuck too.”

Um, isn’t that your job? Am I missing something here?

“Ma’am, are you outside that smoke shop across the street?” Yes… “Okay, I see you. Can you just cross the intersection and come over here to me? We can talk about this over here, but I can’t come through the intersection because there’s too much water.” Haha, so you’re asking me to swim across the intersection to you…? “Well, is it too deep to walk?” Yeeeeeees. I probably wouldn’t be talking to you right now if it was shallow enough to walk through….

We waited some more minutes, and eventually the water did recede and Michelle and I waded through the intersection on a green light, as if we were cars just movin on by–as if there was nothing strange about two 5-foot-nothin girls crossing traffic on foot, in the middle of a highway lane like normal cars, up to their waists in 3 feet of flowing (sewer) water. It was probably one of the most memorable things I’ve ever done. Or, at least, it’s up there on the List. We found Mr. Tow Truck Man, and I put on my “get on his good side” face and begged him to PLEASE try getting through the intersection to get Michelle’s car. We gave him a bunch of encouragement: “your truck is really big! Your wheels are huge! Your floorboards are high! You can totally clear it. You won’t even hit the water!” He eventually agreed to try. It pays to be little and cute.

And try he did. He actually turned out to be quite the fantastic Tow Man, and in the ensuing minutes we felt like we had been teleported into a literal game of Grand Theft Auto. Apparently tow trucks just do whatever the heck they want? We were zipping here and zipping there and cars were letting us in whenever we so much as nudged in their direction. We blasted “Uptown Funk” and totally rocked out to it, as the rain kept falling in sheets and cars kept dying all around us…and we sped through all the dead cars and the poor, wet-rat stranded people (our people—as of tonight). And then he handed the phone back to us and we got some good T-Swift pumping and it was just an all-out jam session, in the back of the tow truck.

He told us he needed to stop for gas or we were all going to be in big trouble, and we laughed and said “sure, whatever! Just get us home.” Is that even a thing? Tow trucks just stop for gas in the middle of a rescue mission? I mean sure, cool, whatever bro. “You guys need anything from inside? I’ll go get us some Cokes or something!” Nah, we’re good man. Thanks though.

We rocked T-Swift all the way back to my place, and he pulled up along the curb to let me off. “You get my friend home safely now, ya hear? She’s really important to me.” I’ll get her home. She’ll call you in 20 minutes saying she’s safe, alright?

Thank you, sir. And then a handshake was in order. And he gave me his business card…and cell number…”just in case any of your other friends need a tow tonight, you call me alright?” Will do, Roberto…will do.

I came inside and peeled my nasty clothes off my pruney figure, and I made some joke on the group text about how I swam through the streets of Houston. Robert kindly pointed out that not only have I now disimpacted a woman with my fist, but I have disimpacted the entire city of Houston with my body. Thank you for that beautiful sentiment, Robert.

In the shower I went, and my phone was ringing as soon as I got out. Roberto. “Miss Jordan, I just dropped Michelle off. She’s all safe and good to go. You have a good night now, you hear?” You too, Mr. Tow Truck Man. And, thanks.

So I guess it’s all in a day’s work for these two little nursing school gals. One minute we’re plunking through HESI questions and the next we’re klunking out and climbing out windows and swimming down city streets in an effort to save our Macs and save ourselves from drowning in the middle of a road.

One of these days, I’ll learn to keep my phone charged and cash on me and gas in my tank. Until that day, I guess adventure will keep finding its way into my life. Even here in the city. I like it that way.

{On a sad note, Michelle’s car is no longer living at the moment. She is in the process of submitting an insurance claim–thank God for flood coverage is all we’re sayin’.}