So... I figured I should update the links on my blog here...
I've changed a couple addresses to be a bit more current, and I've added the blogs and places I frequent on a daily or nearly daily basis. If you think you should be on my list, let me know!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
in that moment...
I didn't quite know what to do in that moment. She sat next to me, tears pouring down her cheeks, sitting with her knees drawn to her chin, and her arms wrapped around her knees. This is not an easy position to hold in one of those old-school unpadded wooden church pews.
I already knew things were not going well, that her life, like mine, had taken a drastic downturn in the past couple of weeks, and that survival was the only real goal - not thriving, but just making it from one moment to the next. We had spoken for only a few moments, but her trembling body, her haunted eyes and her words told me much about the state of life and emotion she was facing.
I wanted to wrap my arms around her, but hesistated for a moment. A thousand things played through my mind. The first was one my mother taught me long ago - victims of abuse don't always welcome being held. And, a far more shameful thought - she struggles with bisexuality, and I am slightly afraid to hold her.
And yet, I did, I wrapped my arms around her, buried my face in her shoulder and held her. I felt I had very little to offer but my physical presence, and could only hope that it would be some comfort. I knew I needed to pray, but felt so completely inadequate. I whispered in her ear as the music and talking went on around us. "God, take this fear - stop the nightmares. Bring healing and peace..." and a host of other prayers. My heart was shattering with every word. And yet, I felt almost hypocritical praying these things. I have prayed them so many times over my own life, and had others pray them, and nothing has happened. I said all the right words, and believed that very few of them would happen. I hoped only that they served as balm to a broken heart - as a reminder that she was not alone.
My prayer is this, that God would take this tiny mustard seed of belief. That He would honor the whispered prayers that have flowed from my mind as the images from that night have followed me into the week, haunting my thoughts. That He would hear the cry of my heart for her, for me, and not the inadequate words of my mouth. Lord, I believe, help Thou my unbelief.
I already knew things were not going well, that her life, like mine, had taken a drastic downturn in the past couple of weeks, and that survival was the only real goal - not thriving, but just making it from one moment to the next. We had spoken for only a few moments, but her trembling body, her haunted eyes and her words told me much about the state of life and emotion she was facing.
I wanted to wrap my arms around her, but hesistated for a moment. A thousand things played through my mind. The first was one my mother taught me long ago - victims of abuse don't always welcome being held. And, a far more shameful thought - she struggles with bisexuality, and I am slightly afraid to hold her.
And yet, I did, I wrapped my arms around her, buried my face in her shoulder and held her. I felt I had very little to offer but my physical presence, and could only hope that it would be some comfort. I knew I needed to pray, but felt so completely inadequate. I whispered in her ear as the music and talking went on around us. "God, take this fear - stop the nightmares. Bring healing and peace..." and a host of other prayers. My heart was shattering with every word. And yet, I felt almost hypocritical praying these things. I have prayed them so many times over my own life, and had others pray them, and nothing has happened. I said all the right words, and believed that very few of them would happen. I hoped only that they served as balm to a broken heart - as a reminder that she was not alone.
My prayer is this, that God would take this tiny mustard seed of belief. That He would honor the whispered prayers that have flowed from my mind as the images from that night have followed me into the week, haunting my thoughts. That He would hear the cry of my heart for her, for me, and not the inadequate words of my mouth. Lord, I believe, help Thou my unbelief.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Good Intentions...
I had such good intentions of devoting all my time today to studying and writing for school, and to not blogging. But, the combination of waking up at least five times last night while sleeping on the floor in the basement, being roused at 6:30 am when my brother turned lights on right in my eyes because he didn't think about the fact that I was sleeping on the floor right there, and then being woken up once and for all at just before 8 by my parents returning from where they're spending nights during this mess and the arrival of the contractor for the floors who immediately put both his industrial strength vacuum and his power sander to use meant that I was up early with nothing planned until meeting at friend for lunch, shopping, and studying at 11am. Plus, I killed an inch long centipede that was crawling across the basement carpet, and now I'm squirming in my clothes, wondering what may have taken up residence in them while they lay on the floor as I slept last night!
So, I watched a couple episodes of M*A*S*H* (why am I the only person who appreciates the brilliance of this series so much?), and then remembered some quotes I came accross yesterday in class, and wanted to pass on. Therefore, without further ado, I present, Lisa's random list of thoughts and quotes for the day!
First, some lines by Immanuel Kant:
If I have a book that thinks for men, a pastor who acts as my conscience, a physician who prescribes my diet, and so on - then I have no need to exert myself. I have no need to think, if only I can pay; others will take care of that disagreeable business for me.
How true... and how easy to accept this kind of complacency that creeps into my life... This book tells me what is true... that person tells me why it is true... this person nags me to eat properly... that person is more than happy to tell me what to believe about this or that... and I let them all, losing myself in the process, and allowing my life to become one of complacency - they order and I step to it. Now, I suppose I'm exaggerating, but, as I sat in class and read this philosopher yesterday, and listened to the discussion of how his contributions to Enlightment philosophy affected the Christian faith, I couldn't help but be struck by the truth of this particular statement.
Second, some lines from Voltaire - same class, same discussion, different point! Voltaire is commenting on why religion is bad - namely, he believes it breeds fanaticism, and he cites some very strong examples to prove his case. However, the following statement caught my attention and made me laugh a bit...
What can we say to a man who tells you that he would rather obey God than men, and that therefore he is sure to go to heaven for butchering you?
Voltaire's words ring true centuries later, in an era of suicide bombers who are promised eternal blessings for taking the lives of those who believe differently than themselves.
Finally, I've been reading a book entitled "Mudhouse Sabbath" by Lauren Winner. In it, she looks at a number of practices common to both Judaism and Christianity, and suggests that, perhaps, Christians have much to learn from Jews in areas such as hospitality, mourning, prayer and fasting. It's a fascinating book, but I want to share one paragraph or so from the chapter on hospitality, because it adds to the discussion of building community that has been circling through some of my thoughts here, and through blogs I've been reading, and conversations I've been having.
Winner is discussing the fact that she rarely invites people to her apartment - citing the mess and the lack of space among other reasons. Then, in a moment of vulnerabilty, she writes:
I don't find inviting people into my life much easier than inviting them into my apartment. At it's core, I think, cultivating an intimacy in which people can know and be known requires being honest - practicing that other Christian discipline of telling the truth about where we live and how we got there. Often, I'd rather dissemble. Often, just as I'd rather welcome guests into a cozy and cute apartment worthy of "Southern Living", I'd rather show them a Lauren who is perfect and put-together and serene. Often, telling the truth feels absurd...So you see that asking people into my life is not so different from asking them into my apartment. Like my apartment, my interior life is never going to be wholly respectable, cleaned up, and gleaming. But that is where I live. In the certitude of God, I ought to be able to risk issuing the occasional invitation. (Mudhouse Sabbath, 51,53)
How stunningly true. Most days, I don't want to invite people into my life either. I've been thinking about this yesterday and today, and it added to my sleepless state last night. There have been people I have invited into my life at various times in the last weeks and years, and, when they began to speak truth, to accept that invitation to come into my life, I have pulled away. Most days I don't want to hear the truth they have to speak - it is too painful, too messy, too far from that "put-together" image of myself that I would love to project. And yet, I tossed and turned last night in the knowledge that I needed to engage some truths a dear friend spoke, and I woke this morning knowing even more deeply that I need the input of these people to survive these next days and months, to find the healing I crave, the peace that seems so elusive.
So, I watched a couple episodes of M*A*S*H* (why am I the only person who appreciates the brilliance of this series so much?), and then remembered some quotes I came accross yesterday in class, and wanted to pass on. Therefore, without further ado, I present, Lisa's random list of thoughts and quotes for the day!
First, some lines by Immanuel Kant:
If I have a book that thinks for men, a pastor who acts as my conscience, a physician who prescribes my diet, and so on - then I have no need to exert myself. I have no need to think, if only I can pay; others will take care of that disagreeable business for me.
How true... and how easy to accept this kind of complacency that creeps into my life... This book tells me what is true... that person tells me why it is true... this person nags me to eat properly... that person is more than happy to tell me what to believe about this or that... and I let them all, losing myself in the process, and allowing my life to become one of complacency - they order and I step to it. Now, I suppose I'm exaggerating, but, as I sat in class and read this philosopher yesterday, and listened to the discussion of how his contributions to Enlightment philosophy affected the Christian faith, I couldn't help but be struck by the truth of this particular statement.
Second, some lines from Voltaire - same class, same discussion, different point! Voltaire is commenting on why religion is bad - namely, he believes it breeds fanaticism, and he cites some very strong examples to prove his case. However, the following statement caught my attention and made me laugh a bit...
What can we say to a man who tells you that he would rather obey God than men, and that therefore he is sure to go to heaven for butchering you?
Voltaire's words ring true centuries later, in an era of suicide bombers who are promised eternal blessings for taking the lives of those who believe differently than themselves.
Finally, I've been reading a book entitled "Mudhouse Sabbath" by Lauren Winner. In it, she looks at a number of practices common to both Judaism and Christianity, and suggests that, perhaps, Christians have much to learn from Jews in areas such as hospitality, mourning, prayer and fasting. It's a fascinating book, but I want to share one paragraph or so from the chapter on hospitality, because it adds to the discussion of building community that has been circling through some of my thoughts here, and through blogs I've been reading, and conversations I've been having.
Winner is discussing the fact that she rarely invites people to her apartment - citing the mess and the lack of space among other reasons. Then, in a moment of vulnerabilty, she writes:
I don't find inviting people into my life much easier than inviting them into my apartment. At it's core, I think, cultivating an intimacy in which people can know and be known requires being honest - practicing that other Christian discipline of telling the truth about where we live and how we got there. Often, I'd rather dissemble. Often, just as I'd rather welcome guests into a cozy and cute apartment worthy of "Southern Living", I'd rather show them a Lauren who is perfect and put-together and serene. Often, telling the truth feels absurd...So you see that asking people into my life is not so different from asking them into my apartment. Like my apartment, my interior life is never going to be wholly respectable, cleaned up, and gleaming. But that is where I live. In the certitude of God, I ought to be able to risk issuing the occasional invitation. (Mudhouse Sabbath, 51,53)
How stunningly true. Most days, I don't want to invite people into my life either. I've been thinking about this yesterday and today, and it added to my sleepless state last night. There have been people I have invited into my life at various times in the last weeks and years, and, when they began to speak truth, to accept that invitation to come into my life, I have pulled away. Most days I don't want to hear the truth they have to speak - it is too painful, too messy, too far from that "put-together" image of myself that I would love to project. And yet, I tossed and turned last night in the knowledge that I needed to engage some truths a dear friend spoke, and I woke this morning knowing even more deeply that I need the input of these people to survive these next days and months, to find the healing I crave, the peace that seems so elusive.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Gone Missing
About half of my belongings are M.I.A. My parents decided to redo the hardwood floors in our house. That means that, starting tomorrow morning at 8 am, the only part of the main floor of our house that we can inhabit is our kitchen. For those that don't know our house, that means that I'm camping on the basement floor, surrounded by boxes for the next two weeks. NASTY. My stuff is in boxes and bags. My clothes are hanging on a rack in our garage. I rescued the most important books and clothes, but have no idea where the rest of my stuff is.
Plus, it's midterm season. One tomorrow, two Thursday, and a couple more next week. Also NASTY! I haven't written multiple choice exams in several years - history majors write papers, not exams. But, when you take mostly options in your last semester of university, you write multiple choice exams again. As soon as I finish writing this post, I'm off to study developmental psychology for tomorrow afternoon. BORING!
Anyway, all this to say that my blogging will probably be sparse for the next couple weeks! Between my missing belongings, sharing a basement that normally sleeps two among all five of us, midterms, and a wedding to attend this weekend, I don't think I'll have much time to write! But, we'll have to see!
And, with that, may you have a very happy thanksgiving (we in Canada believe in spacing our turkey dinners out a bit more than the Americans among us), and good night!
Plus, it's midterm season. One tomorrow, two Thursday, and a couple more next week. Also NASTY! I haven't written multiple choice exams in several years - history majors write papers, not exams. But, when you take mostly options in your last semester of university, you write multiple choice exams again. As soon as I finish writing this post, I'm off to study developmental psychology for tomorrow afternoon. BORING!
Anyway, all this to say that my blogging will probably be sparse for the next couple weeks! Between my missing belongings, sharing a basement that normally sleeps two among all five of us, midterms, and a wedding to attend this weekend, I don't think I'll have much time to write! But, we'll have to see!
And, with that, may you have a very happy thanksgiving (we in Canada believe in spacing our turkey dinners out a bit more than the Americans among us), and good night!
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Angry
I am tired and I am angry tonight. My very act of sitting here at my computer and writing is an act of defiance – an act of rebellion and frustration. I have been hit hard by depression again this week. I noticed recently that my patterns of writing have changed from the early months of this depression. Then, everything stirred me to write – every frustration, every triumph, every worship service and house church, every time I had a spare moment there was a pen in my hand, chronicling the moments and emotions. Now, there is little that drives me to write. My love affair with words has not faded. What has happened is that, as time has passed, there have been fewer and fewer new ways to describe this time. What were once daily and even several times daily entries are now one or two a month, often jotted on my computer for speed, rather than with a pen on paper for the cathartic release of making the words appear.
Thursday nights have become my time for musing. I have an evening class that ends at 7:45. From 5:00 until 7:45 I sit and learn about abnormal psychology. At 7:45, I pack up my books, and head outside (after bundling up appropriately!). While I stand and wait for the bus (which arrives at 8:04) I hum worship songs to myself, trying to center my mind away from the school work that has consumed my day. Once I board the bus, I use the 45-minute journey to muse, to reflect, to read scripture or whatever meditative work I’m currently working my way through. I know that once I get home my mind will be taken up with other things – it’s Thursday night after all – there is television to watch, emails to read, things to do to get ready for whatever I have planned for Friday. But, those 45 minutes on the bus – those are mine, to quiet my heart, to allow my mind to wander, to wait for God’s occasional voice.
Tonight, I alternated between reading, and reflecting on things I’d written earlier in the day, and things I’d contemplated on the bus journey to school this morning.
The most accurate sentence I’ve written all day is the very first one of this entry. I am angry. It has been building all week, perhaps even for months. This is an anger I have faced before. The circumstances of my life are making me furious at the moment. I am twenty-two years old. I am physically healthy. I come from a very good family. I was never abused or neglected. My parents and siblings loved me and I knew it. And yet, I have spent at least the last two years struggling with a depression that refuses to be satisfied. And it makes me livid! My siblings had the same experiences I did, and they turned out healthy. Why me?
Did you know that a woman who’s mother was depressed stands a 30 percent greater chance of being depressed herself? I’m part of that statistic. But my mother has recovered, and I am still floundering. Why did God intervene there and not in my life?
Maybe that’s the biggest part of all of this. I am furious with God. Do you have any idea how long it took me to admit that for the first time? Probably a year ago, a good friend listened to one of my many rants about my life, and asked me if I had told God how angry I was. I told this friend that I couldn’t possibly tell God that, that I couldn’t yell at God in that way. My friend just looked at me, and told me I needed to do it. It took me until a couple of months ago. It’s still crazy hard to say.
Some time ago I journalled about a book I had just read. Stumbling Towards Faith by Renee Altson. It was, at the moment I read it, incredibly liberating. I was reading it again on the bus tonight. I have carried it with me often in the intervening weeks, always knowing that the truth contained in Renee’s words was something I would come back to. Tonight, as I read, her words were once again cathartic – a balm to a soul that was wondering if I was the only person alive who felt this way about life and faith. I want to close with her words, so freeing in their expression of my soul’s cry tonight….
a god who wants my woundedness but not my covering – WHAT KIND OF GOD IS THAT? a shivering god, a jealous god. “give me yourself,” he says, “trust me without those protections, trust me with your pure vulnerabilities.”
and I laugh.
“and what will you do with them?” i wonder, knowing all too well what this means.
the rage wells up within me, like fire.
“and what have you done? what have you saved me from? i have spent a lifetime yearning for you, aching, longing, desiring to be whole more than any other thing. i have brought as much as i could to your feet – passed them over, surrendered my will, and all i have received is silence. this much i have given, and would give more, but for a word, an acknowledgement, a sense of comfort. and yet there is still nothing.
…i am so angry. i have been so angry for so many years, yet i walk a fine balance between anger and fear. which feels safer? which will get me through? often i fear the anger itself, the way it rises up in me, clutching and desperate and needy… (Stumbling Towards Faith, 45-46)
There is so much more to that passage, but due to time, space, and copyright issues, that’s all I’ll include. Go buy the book, and then email me and I’ll give you the page numbers for several other passages that spoke to my wounds tonight… And Renee, if you happen to find this entry – thanks. You can’t know how many times your words have encouraged me to keep journeying over these last months.
Thursday nights have become my time for musing. I have an evening class that ends at 7:45. From 5:00 until 7:45 I sit and learn about abnormal psychology. At 7:45, I pack up my books, and head outside (after bundling up appropriately!). While I stand and wait for the bus (which arrives at 8:04) I hum worship songs to myself, trying to center my mind away from the school work that has consumed my day. Once I board the bus, I use the 45-minute journey to muse, to reflect, to read scripture or whatever meditative work I’m currently working my way through. I know that once I get home my mind will be taken up with other things – it’s Thursday night after all – there is television to watch, emails to read, things to do to get ready for whatever I have planned for Friday. But, those 45 minutes on the bus – those are mine, to quiet my heart, to allow my mind to wander, to wait for God’s occasional voice.
Tonight, I alternated between reading, and reflecting on things I’d written earlier in the day, and things I’d contemplated on the bus journey to school this morning.
The most accurate sentence I’ve written all day is the very first one of this entry. I am angry. It has been building all week, perhaps even for months. This is an anger I have faced before. The circumstances of my life are making me furious at the moment. I am twenty-two years old. I am physically healthy. I come from a very good family. I was never abused or neglected. My parents and siblings loved me and I knew it. And yet, I have spent at least the last two years struggling with a depression that refuses to be satisfied. And it makes me livid! My siblings had the same experiences I did, and they turned out healthy. Why me?
Did you know that a woman who’s mother was depressed stands a 30 percent greater chance of being depressed herself? I’m part of that statistic. But my mother has recovered, and I am still floundering. Why did God intervene there and not in my life?
Maybe that’s the biggest part of all of this. I am furious with God. Do you have any idea how long it took me to admit that for the first time? Probably a year ago, a good friend listened to one of my many rants about my life, and asked me if I had told God how angry I was. I told this friend that I couldn’t possibly tell God that, that I couldn’t yell at God in that way. My friend just looked at me, and told me I needed to do it. It took me until a couple of months ago. It’s still crazy hard to say.
Some time ago I journalled about a book I had just read. Stumbling Towards Faith by Renee Altson. It was, at the moment I read it, incredibly liberating. I was reading it again on the bus tonight. I have carried it with me often in the intervening weeks, always knowing that the truth contained in Renee’s words was something I would come back to. Tonight, as I read, her words were once again cathartic – a balm to a soul that was wondering if I was the only person alive who felt this way about life and faith. I want to close with her words, so freeing in their expression of my soul’s cry tonight….
a god who wants my woundedness but not my covering – WHAT KIND OF GOD IS THAT? a shivering god, a jealous god. “give me yourself,” he says, “trust me without those protections, trust me with your pure vulnerabilities.”
and I laugh.
“and what will you do with them?” i wonder, knowing all too well what this means.
the rage wells up within me, like fire.
“and what have you done? what have you saved me from? i have spent a lifetime yearning for you, aching, longing, desiring to be whole more than any other thing. i have brought as much as i could to your feet – passed them over, surrendered my will, and all i have received is silence. this much i have given, and would give more, but for a word, an acknowledgement, a sense of comfort. and yet there is still nothing.
…i am so angry. i have been so angry for so many years, yet i walk a fine balance between anger and fear. which feels safer? which will get me through? often i fear the anger itself, the way it rises up in me, clutching and desperate and needy… (Stumbling Towards Faith, 45-46)
There is so much more to that passage, but due to time, space, and copyright issues, that’s all I’ll include. Go buy the book, and then email me and I’ll give you the page numbers for several other passages that spoke to my wounds tonight… And Renee, if you happen to find this entry – thanks. You can’t know how many times your words have encouraged me to keep journeying over these last months.
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