Hope

Last night I saw the play "Spring Awakening". With spring, I think of the cycle of life, renewal, refreshing. It was a coming of age story, but there wasn’t a whole lot “spring” about it. At points it almost brought me to tears. This play was written about 100 yrs ago, but the problems among teens are still prevalent: sexual, physical abuse, suicide, death, sex, homosexuality, dictatorial parents and corrupted religion.

The music and literary aspect was great, but it saddened me because there was no redemption. The main character chooses life over death, but is he really hopeful? He has allowed himself to think and write freely, which I applaud, but he has lost everything he loved. And those who should love him, his family, his church, only castigate him for searching for answers we all ask. He is left to feel alone. Hopeless.

I walked away feeling depressed and realizing I could have just watched the evening news to know that these struggles are still so evident. I could walk through the high school I work in, no, I do, and see that these things do happen.

Compare that with the song that I’ve been listening to everyday this week which says, “This life’s to heal those who search to be whole”, and I know, have known, that this is a hard world, but this isn’t it. The fact that I craved a story of redemption and reconciliation is, for me, proof that we are created to be part of a hope filled story of redemption. One in which we are loved far better and deeper than we could fathom, but in the moments we get a taste of this, we are lost in contentment and hope, despite what goes on around us. It is a love and hope that carries us even if we can’t see it or feel it.

Hope. A word I have struggled with for the past 2 months. But,… I do have hope. To wait. To wait on something you believe or trust in, even if your trust is the size of a grain of sand. But that grain of sand has the power to keep you holding on to life, even by your fingertips.

My hope is in a God that is loving, is not overpowering or imposing, He is compassionate and gentle, He knows my every desire and my every question, and gladly welcomes me to sit with Him and tell Him each dream, sorrow, joy, and pain. He does not cut me off mid-sentence, but listens, he doesn’t expect me to live up to society’s standards, and especially not my own. He doesn’t have a standard, but that I would allow Him to love me. In response of this unfathomable love, I want to love Him back. He is not a puppeteer, He will not force faith and religion down my throat, He wants me to come to Him, looking for hope, waiting for faith, in the midst of pain, realizing He hurts with me, in His compassion flows tears. He takes me as I am, even with faith the size of a grain of sand, and loves me. And when we allow ourselves to be loved, our faith in the One who calls us “beloved” is nurtured and grows. That we may experience Spring, new life.

Phone Call

I lied down in hopes of sleeping before the meeting. I just wanted to forget about the fact that tonight I had to tell students about God being there in the hardships when at that moment I didn’t believe it. I had volunteered to share the story about buying groceries. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew that someone needed to hear this story. It was as though God were gently whispering, asking me to take the risk and share this moment with others.

I couldn’t back out now. I wanted to. I just didn’t want to share my story and have the wave of emotions crashing on me in front of 30 high school students. I’d rather hide in my hole of isolation where I am safe from pain.

And I didn’t want to get up there and tell them God is good when I could barely grasp that for myself. I have no problems with lying most of the time, but being fake is another story. I hate it. I think fakeness is a slow death.

What kept me from bailing out was Hagan, a sophomore with whom I was co-teaching. I felt safer with her up front more than me. The idea I didn’t have to do this alone was a relief.

That night, I shared my story, and handed it off to Hagan, who did a much better job than I. Afterwards, I spoke to a few students during a small group discussion. Several were honest about trying to find God in the midst of their struggle.

“I just feel like I’m waiting for a phone call from God. My mom is in the hospital, my dad stays with her, and I’m alone most of the time. I want to know God is there, like I’m waiting for Him to show me that," a girl spoke up. Her voice wavered, and she held back tears. I had a hard time looking at her, with a rush of my own emotions from hearing her story.

When I had the chance, I said to her, “I think tonight is your phone call. God is here. I didn’t even want to share my story tonight because it’s hard for me. But last week, God told me someone needed to hear this. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think He wanted you to hear this so you could know He’s right here with you, He wants to share in your pain.”

She hugged me, and I didn’t want to let go. I stood there wishing I could ease her pain. The one comfort I have is in knowing I did the only thing I could, I offered my vulnerable self. It hurt for me to do this. Part of me wishes I still hadn’t. But part of me is quietly glad I did, that maybe I helped ease some of her loneliness.

Lessons from a Horse: Presence

“What does it mean to just be there, be present with somebody?” My friend Michelle asked me this tonight. We were both swapping bad lines people have said to try to make us feel better in the midst of hard life experiences. Makes me (and her) think of the times I’ve said stupid stuff to people hurting. Forgive me if you were ever one of them. I just didn’t know what to say or what was coming out of my mouth. Michelle asked me what it is that we need when we’re in pain. My realization, thanks to Henri Nouwen and my past 2 months of life, was, “I just need someone to be there. They need to be present. That’s all. No solutions. No quick fixers. Americans have this notion that every time we are with people our moments have to be purposeful. We have to walk away having gained new insight, having challenged someone in life, or having inspired them to do something grand. Why can’t we just rest with them, be still, allow our presence to permeate their being?”

Ok I admit my initial response wasn’t as pristine and well thought out, but it was along those lines. But when she asked me what this looked like, my thoughts went immediately to the farm…

“It looks like the time I spend with this horse I’m working with. When I go and get him from his stall before a ride, he doesn’t ask me how I’m doing. He just greets me with his eyes, a depth of greeting that few humans are capable of understanding and dare to even acknowledge. I don’t have to tell him my heart is breaking in to a hundred pieces. He can see it. He comes to the door quietly, waits for me to lead him out, and we walk to the barn. Together. No words. A pat or two, a rub behind the ears. When I brush him off, if I choose to, I tell him about my secret joys, secret sorrows. He doesn’t force it. And on days I really need comfort, I make sure no one is around and I untie him, take off his halter so he has nothing on him, and he just stands there, letting me hold his head (or is he holding me?). On the horrible no good very bad worst of days, I slip into his stall with him, no use in taking him out so everyone can see my tears. I sit up against the wall and fall apart. He looks, his ears go forward, and he cautiously takes a step near me as if he knows I’m fragile. He keeps his head down and investigates with his nose, which usually finds its way in my lap and his ears go sort of relaxed, and he’s just present with me, resting. Sometimes he’ll blow out a deep breath with his head in my lap. It’s just like a deep heavy sigh as if to say, “I’m here, friend”.

That is what it means to be present.

Eyes of a Child, 2

“What’s one piece of advice you would give me about life?”

Rachel scrunched her nose at me, wondering why a 25 year old was asking a 10 year old this question. But when she realized I was serious, she placed her elbow on the table and set her head in her hand in deep thought. I chuckled at the seriousness of her undertaking.

She stopped, looked at me, and gave me a puzzled look again. Hesitantly she answered, “Uhhh…don’t make bad choices?.” I wondered if she was just speaking from rote memory what she had been learning. My next question and her response told me differently.

“Have you ever made a bad choice?” At age 10, of course I expected her to say no.

“Well DUH! We all have.” And she went right back to eating, leaving me with the profoundness of her comment.

“You know, not many adults are willing to admit that.” She just looked at me, nodded, and kept eating her lunch.

I’ve thought a good bit about how children have this sense of reality that adults don’t have. We think the opposite is true. Kids can’t understand this world as it is, they don’t know how to survive just yet. I think they do though. Jesus was always around children, and he said we should become like one of them. Childlike faith with a humble acceptance of our mistakes. We strive so hard to be independent, self sufficient, successful adults. Maybe we’re only harming ourselves in doing so.

I wonder what it’s like to live in dangerous wonder, reckless abandon, with a blind faith.

Eyes of a Child

"Do not let the expert [adult?] in you hold you back! See the world through the eyes of a child again."-Andre Gunther on photography, and in my opinion, life.

I just stumbled upon this quote on a website about how to be a good photographer. I became an adult at a young age. Crying was unacceptable, weakness, bad grades, failures, mistakes. Adults did not have these experiences. They also didn’t have fun.

The child within me has always fought these misconceptions. There is a certain bit of responsibility that comes with being an adult, but I think we let it own us when we grow up. We are jaded by disappointment, heartache, cynicism.

Today my heart wages a war between living and loving like a child or just existing and drawing back from all measure of risk, whether in relationships or work. Safety. We value safety, and children never give it a second thought.

I used to climb this tree in my old neighborhood when I was about 8 or 9. In my young perspective this tree reached to the sky. As an adult, I’d say it was probably a solid 50 ft high. When its leaves had fallen, they were prickly ones, I climbed it with my friends as high as I could go. The branches were thick, sturdy, and there were thousands of them, like a spiraled staircase. I’d leap into the tree as though its first few branches were arms inviting me. It was easy to pull myself up and quickly scale my way to heaven. I could sit on a branch and lean back on another. They held me. It was our fortress, a playground, but man, if our moms knew where we were, the fire department would have been on its way. To children, one thing is an adventure, an opportunity for fun, imagination, but what happens when we grow old?

"It isn't that we stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing."-unknown

Hoping for Hope

Hope has seemed ethereal. Like a mist that if I were to try to grasp it, it would spin away from my fingers just far enough from my reach. I’ve mentioned my love for words, but this one sounds void of meaning. As though each letter sticks out more than the word. Alone, they have nothing to say. Nothing for me to hold on to.

Hope implies expectations. Expecting good things right now is so hard. I don’t want to be fooled, shamed, if what I hope for doesn’t happen. I’d feel as though I’d been jaded, and then I’d feel crushed. No, I have felt jaded. Crushed. Hope in my mom’s health, hope in a friendship which was broken, hope in myself. Anticipating good amidst all the bad. I guess once I learned hope could be shattered, I shied away from it. I didn’t like that feeling. No, I hated it.

How does that make me feel when I read verses that say “And Hope does not disappoint?”, when I’ve experienced the opposite. It does disappoint. I could say I had my hope in the wrong things. Maybe that’s what the verse means about putting our hope in things that aren’t in this world. But I have hoped in God before and been disappointed. Disappointed that He could allow such great pain. And I know all the arguments for all of these thoughts. He cured others like it talks about in the New Testament. Does He not love me enough to heal mom? I can see myself standing at the edge of the Black Canyon in Colorado. Arguing all of this out with God. Fists and arms beating the air, waiting for the canyon to respond back as a mediator for God.

But my hands eventually drop to my side, my head hangs in fatigue. Is it really her healing I want? Is it? I imagine what it would be like to see her feeling better, life to be back to ‘normal’, but that doesn’t make me feel any better-about life or God. Somewhere beneath the depths of my heart, I don’t think it’s healing I was expecting. It was love. It is love. In my head I separated love and pain like two opposing magnets. Are love and pain separate all the time? I know that my mom loved my brother so much so that when he went through his divorce, she cried with him. That’s pain, in the middle of love. When I saw my mom in the hospital, I felt her pain but because of our connection through love. If love and pain aren’t always separate, then God can hold me, fight for me, love without limits because pain is not a limit, not a wall that keeps Him out.

So if pain, love and God all coexist, is there hope? Can I hope for His love during one of the toughest seasons of my life? I want to. Still wrestling with this...but still content to sit quietly with Christ, my compassionate friend, in the middle of my confusion.

Lessons from a Guitar

I have never been great at guitar. It was just one of those things I decided to pick up and do. I got my guitar on my 17th birthday with some music books and taught myself most of what I know. I can play songs that stick to simple chords. I didn’t have a desire to be great at it, so I’m not.

Tonight, my friends and I got together to attempt to play; we were calling it “bad guitar night”. There were eight of us, ranging from 25-45, and three, including me, had guitars. I sat next to one of the ladies just a little older than me, and we shared music. I knew the song, and I knew the chords, but I have never been able to pick up strum patterns. Even in college when I would play with other friends, I had a hard time.

But when Cassie started playing “In Christ Alone”, I watched for a few moments, listened, and joined her. At first I wanted so badly to figure out how to strum it, but I got frustrated, gave up, and just played my way.

Just a few chords later, I realized I was playing in sync with her. I was strumming the same rhythm. I just naturally picked it up from following her lead. It sounded so clear and pure, playing together. At that moment I understood a little more about life. It felt like time froze. All that kept going was our acoustics and soft singing. My friend didn’t stop and teach me the techniques. She just played. And I followed.

I think that’s how life should look. Right now my life is out of rhythm, and I have so many people telling me what to fix, how to solve things, when all I need is someone to live their life, invite me in to watch and learn and be loved.

Cassie didn’t tell me how to play the guitar, in fact people have done that and I never could get it. She just played, invited me to join, and I got it.

The lyrics to that song start with, “In Christ alone my hope is found, he is my light, my strength, my song”. I could not sing it with them. I still wrestle with this word hope. I’m not sure I have it. I think I’m afraid to. Afraid of disappointment, even though the Bible says, “And hope does not disappoint”. I got another call last week. One of those silent calls. Mom’s latest procedure started sooner than we thought and has a lower success rate than we were led to believe. Will I constantly have to live phone call to phone call? How is there hope in that? I don’t know. But I’ve found a few friends to do life with, to watch them live, who have invited me in, accepted me, and love me. I try to watch the rhythm of their lives and figure out my own, and follow. Maybe in following, I'll learn the chord to hope.

Pictures

New friends out at the farm.

Another new friend.

Metaphor for my life.

My sweet mom in October. Pre-3rd diagnosis.