Nov 20, 2006

war stories

We don't talk very often. And we talk even less about real things, things other than the week's menus, or work, or the weather, or... well... that's it really. When we talk about things that matter it is hard. There are scars that I have grown so used to that I forget they are there. Until he calls. Until we talk about real things. All of a sudden I realize I am covered in these scars, I was not born with them, I have not always looked like this. They are the result of years, decades now, of conflict. In this place, this relationship, that should be neutral (like Switzerland), a no fly, safe zone, but this is the battlefield. And I've tried peace talks more times that I can count. I've been careful about the setup of the room, a round table so no one is at the head or "in charge." I've chosen neutral locations, locations on his turf, locations on my turf. I've had strategic planning sessions, utilized script writers, and more self-restraint that I ever thought I had in order to craft perfect peace talks and treaties. I have offered gifts in the form of vulnerability, intimate knowledge of my emotions, given the blueprints to my heart, my mind, my beliefs. The results are always the same. There is a grand gesture of thanks and apology, there are always tears (at least from me). We vow to strive for peace and healing in this land of our relationship. But as the years, battles, scars, and failed attempts at peace treaties increase I realize we are just another war torn nation engaged in ongoing civil war with depleted resources and battle weary troops who grow more reluctant to go into battle each time the call to arms is sounded. And if I have scars from all of these engagements and peace keeping missions I know he is at least as battered and bruised and covered in war wounds. And the shrapnel lodged in my heart may not alert me to oncoming rain storms, but it pulses with each beat of my heart; its presence warning me of upcoming battles like the air raid sirens in London. All I want is to wave the white flag of surrender. At this point I will sign anything to make this war stop. Because what I want is to sit on the porch reminiscing about the war years, and instead I'm nervously awaiting the shrill whine of the air raid sirens deep within my heart or the construction of another Berlin wall separating east from west.

Oct 8, 2006


"I continue to find the Bible the most mysterious book - the more insight I gain, the more I realize how much I don't know. It inspires and encourages and it also frustrates and provokes." (Rob Bell, Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith, pg. 41)

I've been reading Velvet Elvis for two days now. I have been meaning to read it since Erica and I first went to coffee in April. I finished Movement Two just a few minutes ago and I am so excited. I am excited because someone has not just told me it is okay to ask questions, but they have given me biblical support for my desires to ask questions (Bell, 30; Genesis 18). Abraham, the father of many nations, gets into this debate with God about whether or not the "Ruler of the earth" will do right. (Genesis 18) Are you kidding me? Abraham just asked God a question, and not any question, none of this "why is the sky blue" crap. No, he questioned the actions of God, he questioned God's judgement. Why did he question the judgement of God? Because he knows that his God is a loving God who cares for His people.

So I'm reading and I'm in Movement Two and I almost jump up and down. "Sometimes when people are backing up their points and the Bible is used to prove they are right, everything within me says, 'There is no way that's what God meant by that verse.'" (Bell, 43) Why the almost jumping? Because I think that. I wonder what version of the Bible several of our politicians are reading. I wonder what Bible leaders of several churches my loved ones attend are thinking. And I think, "there's no way that's what God meant by that verse!"

Bell further acknowledges something that I have thought for some time: the fact that the writers of the Bible were people within their own cultures who had been shaped socially before their writings. The analogies used, the language, the formats, these were all relevant and understood by those who read or heard these books at the time they were written. (Bell, 64 & 65) Does this mean that they are not relevant for us because we're not first century Greeks, Jews, Romans, etc? No. It means that there is a cultural context that is important to both acknowledge and understand before moving onto what it means for us today. Does that mean I/we/you have to do a big history report on 1 Corinthians before reading it? Absolutly not! God will work through His word whether I understand the historical context of the scriptures or not.

But here's why I started this. Here is what inspired me to, instead of climbing up into bed, sit down and write this. The importance of asking questions. Not arrogant questions that are vain attempts at disproving God (i.e. can God make a rock so heavy God can't lift it?). Questions that help me to further understand my God, my Creator, my Savior and my faith. "We have to embrace the Bible as the wild, uncensored, passionate account it is of people experiencing the living God. Doubting the one true God. Wrestling with, arguing with, getting angry with, reconciling with, loving, worshiping, thanking, following the one who gives us everything." (Bell, 63) Praise the Lord I'm allowed to doubt and question and get angry and attempt the silent treatment with, and love and cry out to in both healthy and despereately needy ways, the love of the living God, of my savior Jesus Christ. What a blessing that he welcomes and appreciates my questions. Because my questions are my way of learning more about God. They are the way I discover more of who God is and more of who God intends me to be.

"A Christian doesn't avoid the questions; a Christian embraces them. In fact, to truly pursue the living God, we have to see the need for questions. Questions are not scary. What is scary is when people don't have any. What is tragic is faith that has no room for them." (Bell, 28 & 29). Questions are scary when we are locked into a black and white belief system, a legalistic way of believing and understanding God. How arrogant to believe that we can create a set of rules, a system within which both we and God opperates, a set of rules for how we interact with, please, understand, serve, disobey, and worship God. One might argue that it is God who created this system. Why would an infinite God, the Creator of heaven and earth, the Creator of everything that ever was, is, or will be place Himself within a set of guidelines and rules? Why would God limit Himself? The ultimate creative power decides to give Himself a set of rules by which He is to abide? My answer: I don't think so! No way. No stinkin' way.

At the end of Movement Two Bell mentions the story of Jacob wresting with the angel and how rabbis used this metaphor when they wrestle with a particularly difficult piece of Biblical text. Here's what Genesis 32: 24-31 says:
"So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob's hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, 'Let me go, for it is daybreak.' But Jacob replied, 'I will not let you go unless you bless me.' The man asked him, 'What is your name?' 'Jacob,' he answered. Then the man said, 'Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel [d: Israel means he struggles with God], because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome.' Jacob said, 'Please tell me your name.' But he replied, 'Why do you ask my name?' Then he blessed him there. So Jacob called the place Peniel [e: Peniel means face of God], saying, 'It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared.' The sun rose above him as he passed Peniel [a: Hebrew Penuel, a variant of Peniel], and he was limping because of his hip."
"And some people have no limp, because they haven't wrestled. But the ones limping have had an experience with the living God." (Bell, 69) I love this invitation to wrestle with God, the story of Jacob wrestling with Him is so beautiful. They wrestle all night long, Jacob refusing to let go, demanding a blessing, knowing that his demand could be met with death because he is demanding something of God, a blessing nonetheless! But he hangs on because he knows this wrestling is significant.

I can read my Bible, I can learn things at church and in books, but what is the point if I just take them all in without questioning? Sure, I just quoted lots of what Bell has to say. I read Velvet Elvis and I underline lots of things and fill the margins with my notes on what he's said, the questions his writing provokes, my agreements and my disagreements. Because I have to. I cannot go through life without questioning what I encounter, the written, the seen, the heard, the felt. I am not a passive being. I was created to experience the life with which my Creator has blessed me. Passivity is a terrible way, in fact it is no way, to praise Him and respond to His gift of life, His gift of spiritual gifts and the talents with which He has created me. I choose limping and questions because through my questions, through delving deeper I don't figure it out, or get to be right or know The Meaning. I do get to seek and find Truth. And in that Truth I uncover more questions, and I ask and I cry and kick and srcream and laugh and smile and hold onto Him for dear life, and best of all we grow closer, God and I. I learn more about the Ultimate Mystery, the Creator, my God, my Creator, my Abba, Yahweh.

Oct 6, 2006

"it's not my job to wait by the phone"

I find myself on one side of a window looking in at so many people I know and love. They are with their boyfriends, fiances, and husbands. They make breakfast or coffee for each other. One of them rushes off to work calling farewell, perhaps mentioning something about dinner or a phone call that will take place later that day, during a lunch break or the ride home. The other is making the bed or is only a few seconds behind the other, finding themselves in just the right place for a quick kiss goodbye and time to call, "love you," as the door closes and their partner rushes down the hall, out the door, or down the steps.

I keep wondering what it is I have to learn. What life lesson am I missing? Where do I go and what do I have to do to earn the merit badge that okays me for that stage of life. I don't mean the dating stage. I have done the dating stage. I have thought I had the one. I am, in retrospect, glad I was wrong about them. Yes, them. Serial monogamist at your service. And I am tired of thinking about the one, hoping he's the one. I am ready for a new stage. The last first kiss, I know he's the one, no more heart broken loneliness, tears streaming down my cheeks forgetting to say yes because I'm so happy this is finally it stage. The stage in which so many of my friends find themselves. When I finally get to that stage, and I am past the place where I doubtfully pout that it will literally never happen, I imagine a light, invisible to all those who are not ethereal, above my head changing from red or perhaps yellow to green. I imagine those angelic beings pressing tips of fingers to ears, like they do in spy movies, like Sidney Bristo in "Alias," intently listening to the instructions of their commander. Then they signal to each other with complicated special opps sign language that I have been cleared. Send in the one their signals say.

Most of the time I am not upset by this loneliness. In fact loneliness is rarely what it feels like. Most frequently it is just where I am. And I like where I am. Mostly. My own room, apartment, or even house would be nice. Maybe I would have a cat, definitely not a fish. I have the freedom to, mostly, do what I want when I want. Today I relaxed. I spent a good 90 minutes making lunch, slowly simmering my tomato sauce until it was just sweet enough for the pasta over which it was poured. I read a magazine. My friend came over and we went for a walk on the beach. We talked about singleness, actually. We talked about being so happy for our friends and the success of their different relationships. And we talked about the bitterness that occasionally creeps in, and how much we dislike those moments. I am not certain who said it, but I entirely agree that comparison is the thief of all joy.

Perhaps instead of waiting for the green light and secret agent type angels with special hand signals, I just want to be content with this place. This time I am in now. Not just content. Hopefully content. Genuinely satisfied with where I am, while hoping, but not longing, for the future. A time when a relatively unplanned, but absolutely perfect roadtrip requires the consideration of more than my schedule. When we have plans for the weekend. When my close friends are not the only ones with a distinct ringtone. When I can cuddle with more than a blanket on a rainy day. When rather than looking through a window into coupledom, I am on the other side making the bed, or hurrying out the door.

Sep 22, 2006

green is for grace

I remember over a year ago now when I stood in my friend's little apartment in Portland and we watched a trailer for something called "Invisible Children." Back then I didn't know anyone other than the two of us who had any idea what it was. As the weeks and months progressed I met more people who'd heard about Invisible Children.

I remember 11 months ago when that same friend created an art piece that represented the Invisible Children. It was beautiful, it was inspiring. Then he told me he was putting on a huge showing of "Invisivble Chlidren" in Colorado where he was living at the time. And again, I was inspired and proud. It is beautiful to watch people we care about be passionate, especially when the passion is directed at something other than themselves.

I remember February 2nd 2006 when I saw "Invisible Children" for the first time. I sat on my friend's couch with 20 other people and sobbed silently for 30 minutes. My shoulders shook and tears and snot streamed down my cheeks. I vaguely remember being passed Kleenex on and off throughout the movie. I remember the movie ending and someone from the group giving a brief statement about the film and what the filmmakers are doing. We watched the extras section that talks about their ultimate goal of a safe place the children can live, work and learn. I remember sitting next to my good friends and being rendered completely speechless for half an hour, something I can honestly say that, since I began talking, has never happened.

I remember April 29th 2006 when I sat in a parking lot off Pacific Avenue in Santa Cruz, CA writing letters to the President and the senators of California. I remember the frustration I felt, not being able to put into words my passion for the lives of these children. I felt hope and dissapointment all at the same time. I was hopeful that we would, combined with all the other people in all the other cities and states, write enough letters to not only bring this situation to the attention of our government, but would inspire them to do something. I was dissapointed because after only six years of voting exprience I have very little faith in our government anymore. And I remember fear. I was afraid that the government might actually do something about the violence to which we were attempting to open their eyes. My fear was that their response would be equally violent. These children and even the Lord's Resistance Army have seen enough violence. Their country has been in the middle of this war for over 20 years. Another war, another "peace-keeping mission" is not what this country needs. But I was afraid—am afraid—that if or when the United States decides to respond, the United Nations decides to respond, it will be with fatigues, combat boots, and fire power.

I remember finally getting my first bracelet in the mail and how excited I was to finally participate financially in this heart wrenching movement. I remember the knot in the pit of my stomach when I saw the DVD that came with the bracelet. Grace, a child mother, a sex slave at only 13, pregnant. I put on my bracelet and left the DVD on a set of drawers and promised myself I would watch her story soon.

I remember waking up this morning wondering what I would do before meeting a friend for lunch. I looked around the floor of my room, strewn with clean and dirty clothe nagging me to put them away. My eyes caught on a black box, the words "Invisible Children" wrapped around it over and over, reminding me of these children I had put on the back burner until it was convenient for me, until I was ready. I picked up the box and walked downstairs, and as I reheated my coffee I was scared. This beautiful young woman named Grace, a name that screams irony, was waiting to have her story told. And it was beautiful—is beautiful. Her story...her child...her name...the name of her newborn child...I cried. I cried and I cried and I prayed. I watched a montage of shots as "Amazing Grace" played in the background, and I couldn't understand how I was supposed to respond. The woman narrating the film quoted Anne Lamott, "I do not understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us," and as the film progressed and as I have reflected on this brief description of a beautiful life that has become two beautiful lives I am astouded by the truth in that quote.

codeword trendy

I watch trailers to these movies. And they are hip. They are cool. They are “indie” which is this new code word for trendy. And if they are by default trendy because they are indie are they really indie? And these movies are supposed to capture my generation. They are suppose to speak to my generation…speak to me. I watch quirky male characters who would not be called handsome, cute, or good looking if they weren’t so indie. These male characters have crises and pick the wrong girl and then decide to pick the right girl. Or they don’t have a girl and want one. Or they have the girl and want the boy. And all the time there is Snow Patrol or Imogene Heap or some obscure indie soon to be trendy band singing about love and living life and lost love and wasted life in the back ground. And I love Imogene Heap, I love Snow Patrol, and Death Cab for that matter, and all the bands a hip mid-20s girl like me is supposed to love. But this life they describe is not mine. I do not go on cross country road trips spreading my deceased father’s ashes all the while listening to mixes made by a girl (boy) I met along the way. There is no one who is handsome because he is awkward and true struggling to confess his feelings as the flight attendant announces the imminent departure of his plane. And these stories are not about me because I am not the quirky, lost, boy next door type in faded Converse low-tops. But I have this mid-twenties post-college crisis. I live far from home struggling to make home where I am when nothing is familiar and I don’t even have a room of my own. Just borrowed space above a desk that isn’t mine, what do you think Virginia? Where is my room, where is my story? Somewhere in here, inside. And if I write is this all some attempt at being indie, being trendy, writing the untold story which is really the story of at least thousands of other mid-twenty, late-twenty, early-thirty women? And in telling it, in writing it I wonder if we all just saw the title and secretly hated Dave Eggars for stealing that title first. Because that is my story, my indie, code-word trendy, novel I am writing with characters so closely based on reality it is hardly fiction at all. Because what can I write but what I know? Who can I write but myself? The people I see everyday. This little attempt at creativity is merely my desire to be recognized, remembered, called significant by someone other than my mother.