Get Me Through

When You Don't Know What to Say

2009-09-22T19:36:00.005-05:00

There's a school of thought that holds that when it comes to writing, if you don't know what to say then you should just keep writing anyway because eventually you'll get past the block. Since this blog is about writing about religion, I suppose it's just as good a place as any to work through the block, especially because it's all experimental non-fiction anyway.

I think I probably need a glass of wine to work through the block.

And maybe some cold medicine since I have caught a cold I can't shake.

There. That's better. The cat, the dog, and I are sitting in the living room doing our seperate things. The dog is sleeping, the cat is grooming, and I am trying to sort out my thoughts.

It's been 12 years since my high school best friend killed herself. This year was easier than the others. Each year gets a little easier. I think maybe my concious mind found it easier than my subconcious mind, given the fact that I spent it freezing beans and squash, making salsa, making pesto, and making pasta salad from the time I got home until the time I went to bed. I realized the next day that it had been The Day.

I used to envy her, think she was brave, hate God about her, want to follow her. Now I think it's just sad. It's incredibly sad. There are so many things she missed, things she'd have liked. She would have liked being a grown-up with her own house and pets and yard. She would have liked having a garden like I do. She would have liked being married.

I probably would have liked who I was going to be before she killed herself. Most days I like who I am now, though, except that sometimes I forget to feed the dog on time, and sometimes I drink too much, and sometimes I'm not a patient wife. Sometimes I forget to live in the here and now because I'm always thinking about who will leave me next.

A lot of people took it upon themselves to cause me a lot of heartache before my wedding, and some continue to try to do so, but I love him, and it was a good decision. He is the love of my life; I've never loved anyone the way I love him. He's working again, and I'm on my own a lot, and it's the first time in my life that I haven't loved being alone. I'm lonely; I miss him. He's the only one I let in that much. When I think about how much panic I suffered on that day because my parents weren't happy or a few friends weren't happy or a couple of people on Facebook weren't happy, or a stupid test we took wasn't happy, I smile smally to myself. Best. Decision. Ever.

I love being married. I love being married to my husband. I don't think I'd like being married to anyone else. And it's hard. The first few weeks were particularly rough, and I thought to myself, I know I'm not the only one, so I don't know what all those bitches were being so smug about. But at the end of the day, I love it.

Life keeps taking pot shots at us. I try not to blame anybody. But sometimes I blame God. Sometimes I blame myself. Sometimes I blame the people who I know were praying I'd change my mind and do something sensible. What they thought that was, I don't know. I'm going to do something even less sensible before I'm done, too. I'm going to do what I should have done a long time ago. I'm going to go get my MFA in writing. And I don't care that it's not profitable. There's nothing else I want to invest that much time and money in. I want to learn to write better, beautifully, achingly. I want to make crying people laugh. I want to make them cry, too.

A lot of people died this summer, and one in particular shook me up. She found out she was dying and a week later, she was dead. And I think that would be the worst--no time off, no time for reflection, no time to finish a couple of things on the bucket list. And it was hard because we'd grown closer; she'd talked to me the way I wished my mom or a few of my friends would. She was excited and happy and she said she could just tell that we were in love and that he was a kind man. She was excited to hear my stories; she didn't just stare blankly at me. She ooo'ed and ahhh'ed at my dress and at my invitations and at everything else I showed her. She told me stories about her husband and how in love they'd been and how she still loved him and missed him. And she told me she was sorry that my parents couldn't accept my fiance and how ridiculous she thought that was. She told me that they would come around and that I needed to follow my heart. She told me that she just knew we were going to be so happy together, she could just tell. When I was sinking, she shared her raft with me for awhile. I thought of her words on my wedding day. She teared up when she talked about her late husband. The stories she shared about her love for him were beautiful stories, and I'm thankful to have heard them. And I'm so glad I told her how much that meant to me before she left for the summer because I didn't get another chance. It meant the world to me. I miss her deeply.

Here's the thing. I don't want to get to the end of my life and realize that I missed out on a lot of things that I would have loved. Because not everyone knows when the end will be. Some people, like my high school friend, choose. Some people, like my grandma, seem to live forever and have lots of time granted to them, but maybe they don't enjoy it as much as they could. Some people get months and have the resources to be able to have a few last hurrahs. But most of us don't know when we're going. We just go.

When I go, I don't want to be saddled with regrets. When I go, I want to travel lightly and know that I had a blessed life, a full life, a life I enjoyed living with people who enjoyed me. I want to have beautiful stories to share with people who are in doubt.

Some people live their lives like everybody's on trial and has to stand up under fire and tribulation, but I don't really believe that's the way life is. Life is just life. Everybody gets one. Try to be kind to each other while you live it and try to get the most out of it. I don't really think it's that complicated. Enjoy yourself and don't hurt yourself or anybody if you can help it. Do no harm.

And if you don't do it right today, get up tomorrow and tackle the next day with more grace. What else can you do? Try to be as kind to yourself as you are to others and vice versa. Try to feed the dog on time.

I could spend a lifetime asking myself what I could have done differently to make various people stay. But I'm not going to do that. I'm going to live a life I choose. Maybe it's not the life others would have chosen. That's good. Life would be pretty boring if we all chose the same path.

Finding Me

2009-02-16T23:23:00.004-06:00

I am going through what I hope is the end of my quarter-life crisis because if it keeps on much longer, I'm going to skip any semblance of normalcy and coast right on into a mid-life crisis.

Mostly, I hate my job, and I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. This would be more interesting if I was not already grown up. Since I am, it's irritating. Mostly, I hate listening to people whine all day long. I have two groups to listen to: the "customers" and my "co-workers." These two groups spend the entire day whining to me about things that don't matter. And my co-workers are worse than my customers. To be frank, I don't want to save the planet, and I am sick of hypocrits who think they are saving the world by arguing over the last meeting minutes. You're not saving anybody. Stop being assholes. That is what I would like to say. Instead, I excuse myself and go hide in the bathroom for a few minutes each hour.

Then I come home to my real life and work two hours of overtime (for which I should be grateful) and plan my wedding, which, frankly, stresses me out. I should be happy to have lots of work at this time. Mostly, though, it is just really stressful. But, I need the money. Who doesn't right now? We all need money.

God and I are not really speaking very often. When we do, it's fine. I'm not willing to keep bending to fit into this job. If that's a condition of being on good terms with God, then I am probably going to be on the outs. Once this economy recovers, I am going to get the hell out.

I've given up on finding something that I will love doing. I would settle for something I don't hate every. single. day. I would settle for not dreading going to bed because it means that I will have to wake up and trudge into that job and sit there for eight and a half hours before I can go home and get back to my real life that actually means something. I would settle for something that kept me busy until the whistle blows at the end of the day. I would settle for something that pays enough that I don't have to work every fucking waking minute of my free time in order to pay for a garden, a house, and future fat babies and their college funds. I would settle for so much less than happiness if it just paid a living wage and didn't make me want to walk out on a regular basis.

The truth is, I am bored with everything except my fiance. He calls me every morning, and this gets me out of bed. And maybe if I didn't have him, then I wouldn't realize how good and shiny everything can be and I wouldn't notice that I am so fucking bored. Maybe without him I would think that everything was fine because I wouldn't have anything bright to run home to except two more hours of work followed by long, empty hours that I would have to fill with something.

But I did find him, much to a few people's dismay, and he made me see that I was only living half a life. There's a whole other half filled with vegetable gardens and lovely dinners and foot rubs and snuggling. Snuggling should come with a warning label. It is just that good.

Two people asked me when I'm going to go back to school in the last two weeks. I don't think I'm ever going to go back to school. I don't think I care enough about school. I mean, it might make me less bored, but I don't want what my co-workers have. Most of them have wrecked marriages or insane schedules or both. I'd rather stay in a lower level position. I once asked someone higher up the ladder than I how she balanced her outside life with her work life. She laughed and said, "What outside life?"

And that was the moment. That was the moment I stopped trying to struggle up the ladder. I remembered the book called Hope for the Flowers at that exact moment, and I just quit climbing. Why do that to myself? Why do people do that to themselves?

My fiance says that most people don't have the capacity to just realize what they are and change themselves. I do it a lot. I realized that I was turning into a corporate drone, and I just said to myself, "I'm not going to do that anymore." And I quit. I put in my eight hours, and I go home. And I would like to find a job where it is easier to put in my eight hours each day, but I'm never going to try to climb up the ladder. I think all that's up there is more pressure and more work. I would like more money, but I don't need more pressure and more stress and more work.

Why don't people have the capacity to change? It is my firm belief that everyone knows what they are, but most people can't face it. They pay lots of money to various people to tell them what they already know, and then they don't do what they need to do to get better. My fiance says that this is because most people can only change after years and years of therapy, and then only maybe. I don't get it. He says that people can't change the type of people they are attracted to. He's completely different than my last boyfriend because I made a concentrated effort to change who I dated, mostly because we were just so bad together. As long as we're apart, we're both good people, but together, we were terrible. I was clingly, and he was bossy, and we were both just plain old mean to each other. It was toxic, and it broke me, and it took years to get over it. But on the other side, I knew what it had been, I knew what I had been, and I knew what I was looking for. My fiance says it's not that simple for most people. I think he's wrong. It is that simple. It's just that it takes time, and people would rather spend that time in someone else's arms than spend the time looking inside themselves. Most people are scared of what's in there. I know what's in there. I know my darkest depths. I have few surprises left for myself. When you know your own depths, then facing them gets less and less scary, and changing becomes easier and easier.

I change myself all the time. One day, I hope I will become the butterfly I was supposed to be before my best friend killed herself. I cannot wait for the day when that death will stop affecting me and my decisions. I cannot wait for the day when I will no longer expect people to walk out of my life and leave me. I am always waiting for someone to leave me. Even my fiance. I wait for the day when he will realize my depths and head for shallower waters. I know it will come; I know it will cause me great pain. I don't care. I'm going with him until the time when he gives up on me. And when he gives up, I will change again.

I don't understand other people. I don't understand people who can't do anything they put their minds to. Maybe I'm just an elitist. Maybe I'm just smug.

When I get through this quarter life crisis, I hope I'll have become someone that my grandfather still loves.

Finding a New Church

2009-01-08T00:44:00.001-06:00

I have to set about finding a new church. I really don't want to. I'm really just so done with church. I love having a place to sing, and I love being in God's house. But I am done being judged by people who have nothing on me--people who are not me, who have not lived through what I have, who probably would not have made it. I am done being told that who I am is not good enough for what they're doing. And who I am has never been good enough; I've always had to be someone else, except with my fiance. Someone once told me that the bits that are "not good enough" are not really who I am. He was wrong. Every bit, good and bad, is a part of me. They're the part of me that is shock-proof, and I fought for that, and I'm keeping it. So screw them and the judgement bus they rode in on. Who I am is good enough for me.

But I have to find a church, anyway, where my future hubby and I can go for our pre-marital counseling so that we can get married in the church where I grew up (and where I am still a member). Because, come what may, I would like to get married in a place that feels like home. And I did a lot of growing in that place, and I am loved there. I love them, too. It's not a pretty church, but I like it. I like the sun shining in the west windows along the wall. I like how bright it is. I like the baptism tub and the plain wooden cross on the wall. I even like the ugly carpet. I like the ugly pews, too. I love the old hymnals even though they don't really use them anymore. I like that it's handicapped accessible when many churches up there aren't. It means that my grandmas can get around easily and that our family friends will be able to attend.

But this counseling stuff scares me very much. I'm afraid that we won't be able to get the counseling without having gone to the church. And I'm afraid that once we get the counseling, the pastor will say that we should not get married or will not approve of us getting married in the church. And we'll then have to get married in my parents' back yard or in the town's communty center (because I am going to marry him, regardless), which would not be the end of the world, I guess. But many major events of my life took place in my good old church back home, and I would like to add another to the list. Plus I think that either of the other locations would be problematic for my mother and grandparents and the caterer.

I am afraid that this pastor will look at us and tell us that we will not work or that we should take more time or that we should not be unequally yoked. I'm afraid that I will then tell him that I am not being unequally yoked, that I am not someone who would ever be happy with a typical Christian, that I myself am not a typical Christian, nor will I ever be. I'm never going to be one of those people who carries her Bible under her arm and her perfect attendance record in her head ever again. I'm never going to believe that it's wrong to love the man I love. Never. That's just not who I am. I am done pretending. And I'm done pretending to feel badly about things I don't feel badly about.

I'm afraid that I am not going to be good enough to remain a member of a BGC church. I'm afraid that if I'm honest, they will kick me out, and I'm afraid that if I'm not, they will say that he and I are not right for each other, even though we are. I'm afraid that who we are together will not be good enough even though I know we are good enough. I know that even on our bad days we are good enough for any seat at the table.

We love each other, and sometimes we hurt each other, and we keep on loving each other anyway. Even though I'm a bad person, a f-ed up person, he loves me. He doesn't think I'm f-ed up. And I love him back. We took care of each other this year by turns. I took care of him while he was sick, and he has taken care of me while I've been sick. No one else even knew how sick I was. No one else knew that at the end of the day, I came home and couldn't hardly get off the couch or out of my bed. No one else petted my hair and held me while my tummy was hurting me. No one else held back my hair while I threw up after my surgery. Not even my mom. Just him. (And, as a good friend once told me, that's real love.)

My dad hates that he's not a Christian, and so do a couple of my friends. I am reminded of a quote that I fell in love with long ago: "Mother, I love you, and if I had two lives to live, I would give you one, but I don't."

If I had two lives to live, I would give one over to being dedicated to what other people want for me. I would give one over to whatever pastor we end up finding who will sit with us for 6 hours to talk about our future together and to my friends and to my dad. I would not make other people sad if I had a choice. But it is either them or me. I know they want what's best for me, but they wanted what was best for me when they told me not to major in journalism, when they told me not to go to grad school, when they told me to get a job or two, when they told me to quit the second job and go to school. Other people have always wanted what is best for me, but they have never known what that is.

I'm not going to live life like that anymore. I'm going to do what I think is right. Maybe I will be wrong. If that is the case, there will be consequences that will be hard to face. I hope I still have friends to help me through it. If I do not, I will make new friends because that is what I do. I love this man, not some other man, not some religious man--this man. People who love me need to love him, too. If not, then we cannot be friends. We cannot even have a casual conversation in civil tones.

It makes me irrate that people judge him for his lack of relgion. He's a better person than I have ever been. He thinks the best of people where I have only ever seen the worst. The things people hide are evident to me before they confess them; to him, people are just what they seem to be. He calms me, makes me see that other people's secrets don't matter, that their indiscretions and horrors are not ours to face. We can be grateful that we are not those people, and that's all we need to do. What could I ever do about the terrible things I knew about people without knowing how I knew, anyway? When I'm with him, they roll off my back. The secrets people have, the lies that they tell, are all irrelevant--discerning them is a clever party trick I pull out while we are people watching or while we are watching the news, nothing more. He believes I can read them and their situations from some largely indecernable cues, but he also believes that just knowing isn't that important. He chuckles when I predict a twist in a news story two days before it breaks. He laughs when we watch cop shows on TV and I say, "He did it" the minute a character appears on the set (and end up being right). It's like what Pratchett says about witches not believing in gods because it would be like believing in the postman--of course he exists. Of course my ability exists, but so what? That goes a long way toward making me ok.

It makes me irrate that people judge me for loving him. What else can I do when I see that he has such a beautiful heart?

And because I have a talent for knowing things, I am not worried about what my father is worried about. He is worried about a hard life for me. He is worried that he prayed to God for my husband for all those years before and after I was born only to have me marry a godless man. He worries that I will lose my faith (if I have any). He is worried that my fiance and Jesus will not mix. I do not worry about these things. I know that God has given my dad what he didn't know he was asking for--someone who will love me completely. And I don't worry about his lack of belief. I know that my two best friends are going to meet one day. One day, it will just happen. One day, the truth will just be clear to him (or if it is not truth, then it will come clear to me). It is not a belief or a hope; it is a fact that I know just like I know that gravity will continue to work tomorrow.

I just hope that whoever we end up with sees that we are both unique and interesting people who were basically made for each other--two people who just wouldn't be as good apart. I hope this person sees the man that I have come to admire. I hope they see the person that I might become, the person I am trying to become. I hope this person understands that, religious or not, everybody has a 50% chance (if my knowledge of the divorce rate still holds), and that we have as good a shot at it as most and a better shot than many because we've already been through tough stuff and held tighter to each other through it.

We're just two people in love. We might be wrong. It might end horribly and crash and burn around us. That's always a possibility that people have to face. But we both hope it doesn't. We both are willing to try to prevent it from burning down. We will hurt each other. There will probably be nights when I will wish for a few minutes alone. There will probably be nights when he will wish I would just shut up and let him watch his TV. But I think we both hope that we will always be sorry when we do.

In the end, I think I hope I find a church that can be a home for us both, a place that will take us as we are and love us as much as we love each other, as much as my home church loves me.

I am sure of what I hope for and certain of things unseen.

In Theory

2008-04-19T00:31:00.003-05:00

This blog was a good idea in theory, but I find that I told too many people I know about this blog, and this leaves me feeling like I can no longer be honest with myself or with the blog. Lately, I don't feel like I can be honest anywhere with anyone. I feel like no one wants to hear what I have to say, anyway. I feel like I can only be honest with myself (and maybe not even then), and I spend a lot of time living in my own head away from other people.

I'm just so tired. I'm tired of people and their judgements and their f-ing problems. I guess my social anxiety is getting the better of me. I had to run to the store tonight, and I realized that it's the first time I've been out alone after 9 in at least a month.

Maybe Senor or Senorita Anonymous is right. Maybe I've never known who Jesus is. God and I, we've come to terms with each other. I recognize that he's not like my dad--he's not waiting to yell at me if I get something wrong, and he recognizes that I am who I am. I don't know why, but he does. When I feel like I don't belong and that everyone is judging me (yes, you), I know that he's not. He'll definitely tell it like it is because that's how I have to hear it, but he's never cruel about it. He's often just chillin', waiting for me to come to my senses. If God's got anything, it's time...and love.

The thing that I've realized over the years is that God isn't threatened by my lack of belief or my lack of direction. He might be irritated, but he's not threatened. I'm nothing and nobody, apart from the fact that he loves me with that fathomless love that I can't begin to understand. He keeps on loving me. He knows I'm going to come around. He's seen the end of the movie, and he knows the plans he has for me. He knows I need him. He's got me right where he wants me.

Sometimes, I wonder if we each make up a God that we can understand. Or if we each see the part of God that we can best relate to. So, some of us see the side of God that is beautiful enough to have created flowers and fawns, and some of us see the side that is strong, and some of us see the side of God that is harsh, and some of us see the side of God that judges (fairly or unfairly), and some of us see the side of God that sent his only son to die in this mud pit, and some of us see the side of God that lets bad things happen to good people, and some of us see the side of God that put Jonah in the whale, and some of us see the God that is coming back for us. And some of us see the side of God that could make an earth that hums in rings.

When I try to picture God, when I try to understand how so many people can have such different views of him, I am always reminded of the fable of the blind men trying to describe an elephant. Each of them has a hold of a different part, so each of them insists the elephant is like a different thing. Sometimes, I think that we are all in the dark, claiming that God is one thing because that is the one piece we can see in our blindness. When we finally get to see him, the lights will come on. We will see "face to face." I don't think a single person is going to get there and go, "Ah, yes, this is exactly what I expected God to be like." I think we will all go, "Now I see. I can't believe I could have been so blind all this time. It all makes perfect sense now." I think it's going to be one giant "light bulb" moment when we all realize what asses we were to each other over things we didn't understand at all.

I'm not done with God. A more accurate statement would probably be that he is not done with me. I haven't been to church in a long time because I'm not doing anyone any good there, least of all myself. I'm cynical and searching and angry and frustrated and not all of it has anything to do with the church itself. And in a lot of ways, I want (and have always wanted) something that church has just never given me. I don't know what. I think I want someone to notice me or something, but not notice me in the way that people always notice other people. I've always wanted to be able to sit down with a pastor and say some of this stuff, but I know that's not possible. I wouldn't feel comfortable with sharing it, even if they were comfortable with hearing it, which I doubt. I don't know. I can't articulate what I want, so it's not likely anyone can give it to me. It's something I have to find.

And I'll be honest, I'm dating a non-Christian, and I like him better than any Christian guy I've ever met. I love him more than anyone else, even more than my family. And this means something. I'm going to find out what. And I'm not about to feel guilty about it. I don't want to have to justify myself anymore. I love him.

Right now, I've got a different part of the elephant than everyone else around me. What can I do? I know what my part is like. I also know that everybody else is probably also right about the parts they're holding on to. I know that the two are not neccessarily mutually exclusive. But I'm tired of people acting superior to me because they think they've cornered the market on what the elephant is like.

This is a rambling post, but that's what this blog is for: rough drafts. It's the notes for a bigger project. So, I'm sorry that I'm publishing the raw materials rather than the finished product, but it'll have to do for now.

Love

2007-11-09T22:19:00.000-06:00

In the spirit of this blog, I'm about to come clean. I am crazy in love with the kindest man I've ever met. When I'm not with him, I'm sad. When we can't be together, I get lonely. When I think of what I want to do with my spare time, I think of him first. When I think of who I want to be, I want to be a better person for him. Sometimes, he even makes me want to cook. :O

"When did this happen?" you might ask. Well, I can tell you, it was the moment we saw the seahorses at the aquarium. Seahorses, you might not know, partner for life. The males have the babies, and the females and males dance together daily. They hold tails and swim together. They greet each other. They are very unusual fish. We were bored with the aquarium, but there was a special exhibit, so we wandered in. We walked up to the first tank, and the seahorses were dancing together, and he took one look and said, "They're hugging!" in the most awestruck, compassionate voice I've ever heard anybody use. Here he is, looking like a linebacker or, as some have told me, possibly a Viking, awestruck by a fish the size of his index finger. He looked at them gently, and he held them in reverence. And that was the moment I knew that I loved him more than anybody else. Any man who can be that tender towards a fish simply because they show affection for each other is a man I want to journey with.

And, oh, wonder of wonders, he loves me back. All the things that I thought made me unlovable make him smile. He thinks I'm cute, despite all evidence to the contrary. I've never had anyone accept me so completely and so without question. It doesn't seem to lessen with time, only grow stronger. He loves me more unconditionally than anyone ever has.

And he is not a Christian, and I do not care.

So then, what does this have to do with religion? I have only the vaguest idea myself. But it seems to me that if you've been searching your whole life for love (whether romantic or friendship) that doesn't cringe at your ugly spots, and you've pulled them all out (even the ones you've never shown anybody because of how they've reacted to lesser ugliness), and this one person (one person in the whole world over the course of 27 years) doesn't flinch, doesn't change towards you afterwards, doesn't talk differently or look at you differently, doesn't even bat an eye, and if that person is the most lovable person you've ever met, if you love that person more than anyone else, then doesn't that mean something?

That's reason enough to hold on and not let go, not ever, no matter what. And I'm so tired of feeling judged about it, I could just scream.

I'm not going to say that there aren't times when it would be nice to have someone who believes the same things I do regarding religion. For example, I'd like to have someone to pray with. At one point, it was on my list of deal-breakers. But he is willing to pray with me, and he goes to church with me (when I go). When I think about our future, I feel a sense of peace.

To me, in the end, it's pretty simple. Do you pitch your tent with people who have nothing but judgement for you or do you pitch it with the person who loves everything about you, even the parts that are pretty unlovable? With the people who have always held you as something of a nut or with the person you trust with your deepest secrets? With the people who lie to you or with the person who tells you all his deepest secrets (and the truth about yourself)? With the people who think you belong on the fringe or with the person who wants nothing more than to be with you. With the people who don't want to share their firelight or with the person who thinks you are the firelight? Don't you pitch your tent with the person who you want to be your best for?

Hmm, as if that's even a question.

Pieces

2007-09-04T23:26:00.000-05:00

I think one of the hardest things about coming to terms with Christianity, and in particular, Jesus, is that I have spent the last ten years learning that no one can really save me. I used to think that if I found the right friends or the right man or the right drugs or the right therapy, then they would push the magic button inside me and make me well. It took a long time for me to realize that that's just false. No one knows the answers, so they can't make you well. You have to make yourself well.

And getting well takes a long, long time. I used to be terrified of what people would say if they found out that I took anti-depressants for my anxiety. Now I don't care what people think. I know what I'm like without them--ten times worse. I remember coming home and lying on the floor with my arms spread out, staring at the ceiling because my heart ached too much to get up. I remember crying and lying there as stiff as a board. I remember staying up until three in the morning drinking huge glasses of rum and coke. I remember many things that would not be better now if I had not started taking anti-depressants.

The other thing I've found about my religion (and it makes makes me sad) is that nobody really wants to see or deal with broken people. This is mostly because they think that Jesus is like a sticker to a six year old--a one-stop shot of get well instantaneously. They think that wounds are kind of like skinned knees, not realizing that some wounds were nearly fatal. A lot of Christians want people to come in a box like Barbie. They think that all the pieces should be included, and if you don't have all your pieces, then clearly you are the cousin nobody likes who loses every nice thing she ever got, and no one should play with you. After all, you might lose their pieces, too. You might break them by association.

The truth is that we come broken. We come in pieces, and we have to learn to put ourselves together. Anyone who thinks there is no assembly required on a human life is fooling themselves. We come broken, and time breaks us even more. It teaches us to be hard and strong or it tears us apart. Worse still, all the pieces are sold seperately. We don't even come in one single box. Sometimes there are even extras. A human life is a horrible puzzle to assemble.

I've stopped going to church again. More and more, I find that there's nothing for me there. There's a lot of judgement for the person I am, but the person I am took a lot of breaking and putting back together. And I might be a mess, but at least I am a mess that I can say I came by honestly. At least I can face up to the fact that I am a mess. I'm tired of starting over in new churches, and I'm tired of going there and pretending I feel bad about things that I don't feel bad about. I'm tired of pretending I feel happy about things I don't feel happy about.

I'm in pieces more often than I'm together. That's the way I came. If Someone wanted it to be different, He should have built me that way at the factory.

What I Know

2007-04-10T00:28:00.000-05:00

What I know:
I am in love.
God loves me.
God is love.
God loves everybody.
I am supposed to love everybody.
Love is real and attainable.

What I don't know:
The plans God has for me.
The future.
What everybody/anybody thinks of me.
Whether or not I love wisely.
Which parts of theology will prove to be true.
How I will measure up in the long run.
How the Earth was created.
Whether or not everybody goes to Heaven.
How many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

Which list do you think matters more? ;)

Rising from the Dead

2007-03-19T13:01:00.000-05:00

How come we never hear from Lazarus?

Oh, we hear plenty about him--brother of Mary and Martha, the one that Jesus loved, etc.--but we never hear from him. In fact, John 11:44 leaves him still wrapped in grave linens like a mummy. Jesus says, "'Take off the grave linenes and let him go,'" and that's the end of it. We do not see Jesus's reaction to Lazarus's rising. We see his reaction to Lazarus's death in that he wept (John 11:35), which people often find to be a great comfort. But on the affairs after his rising, the Bible is very quiet. It moves on to follow Jesus, and they are not mentioned together again that I have seen (correct me if I'm wrong, please... I'm just a lay person), which may not be so strange because they really aren't mentioned together much previous to this, either, though it says that they were pretty much like brothers.

This whole chapter has always confused me. The more I read it, the more confused I become. It also has in it what I like to call one of the footnotes of the Bible, which is that it has a verse that reads like someone inserted it as a footnote after the fact. This always irritates me. The verse is 11:42. Verse 11:41 reads, "So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, "Father, I thank you that you have heard me. " Then verse 42 goes on, "I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me." This reads very much like a scribe was trying to justify Jesus thanking God that he had heard him when they are supposed to be one and the same. Because clearly Jesus is way too cool to give God thanks for answering him like the rest of us. In my mind, it makes the verse even stranger. If Jesus knew that God would hear him, then why did he weep? If Jesus didn't know, then what a risk, but also, what does that say about God?

And the main question, in my mind, is what about Lazarus? I find myself wondering if he was angry. I find myself wondering if he was changed. Was he glad for a second chance or screwed up from being locked in a tomb for four days? Was he alive that whole time? And if not, was he angry at being brought back?

I feel like if I knew more about Lazarus, I would know more about how to handle being "born again." We Christians pay a lot of lip service to this phrase, but we so rarely talk about what it means. To be born again means we come back from the dead. We are given a new life, but to get a new life, you must die to the old one.

I have a terrible time with this. I like my life. I like my sins. Sometimes, they're the only things that seem real. Excuse me for saying, but sometimes some guy in a bathrobe with lights behind his head and a lack of physical body in a grave as his only proof for existence just isn't enough. Sometimes I want someone who I can see. Sometimes I want someone who can hug me. Sometimes I want less God and more man.

"Jesus said to her, 'I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?'" John 11:25-26. And Martha, who had previously been scolded for her concern over the wrong things while Mary poured perfume on Jesus's feet, says, "Yes, Lord."

Maybe Jesus weeps because he realizes what a hard thing this is that he has had to do for the kingdom. Maybe he is not weeping for his dead friend but for his live friends who have suffered for four days not knowing that God would intervene. I do not know. Maybe he is weeping for what Lazarus will come back to. Maybe he is weeping for his dead friend who will live again and have to wrestle with what it means to live after death and die again a second time. There is no way to know this.

The tears of God are a troubling thing because what exactly can one do with them? They are probably so complex that no one can ever understand them, and yet, I wonder about them.

And I can't help but wonder about Lazarus and what he went on to do, too. I can't help but wonder what being brought back to life is supposed to feel like... cause I'm pretty sure I'm doing it all wrong.

Destination?

2007-02-23T14:03:00.000-06:00

"'Where are you going, and what do you wish?' the old moon asked the three.
“We’ve come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea. Nets of silver and gold have we,’ said Wynken, Blynken, and Nod."

Earlier this week, someone said something wise to me. She said that I should be looking for someplace that fits me rather than trying to make myself fit into what I think I can get.

I have spent a lifetime making myself fit into the spaces other people have made for me. I didn't choose a college based on what I liked best; I chose a college based on what would give me the best financial aid package. I am currently at a second college I don't particularly like for money reasons as well. I have been trying to pursue a degree because I "can do it" even though I have no particular interest in doing it because I can make it fit. It doesn't fit, but that's OK. I can get by on a career that is too boring for me. And that is the bottom line. I have been chasing money and status because it is what my parents have always wanted for me. I have been chasing religion because it is what God wants from me. I have been chasing relationships because it is what people expect of me. I have been coveting power because it is what the world wants from me. I need to start asking myself what I want from me.

The trouble, though, is that what I want changes so much it's hard to rely on that. I want so many things, most of which are not practical. And I have to ask myself, as always, what if I don't fit anywhere? I'm weird and multi-faceted. Some of them contradict themselves, for crying out loud. I may not belong at all.

A friend talked to me this week about my tendency to compartmentalize my life. When I'm with certain people, I act one way, and when I am with other people, I act another way. I have a certain set of activities that I do with one group vs. another group. I only reveal certain aspects of my personality to people who I know will accept them.

At one point in college, I realized that every single decision I made was based on other people--what other people wanted, what other people would think, what would make other people happy. I decided to stop doing that. Some days I'm better at it than others. Some days it probably makes me more selfish than I should be. Some days, I think I need to work harder at it because it is the one realization that is going to make me most free.

I don't know where I want to go; that has always been the problem. I'll say it; I'm blessed. I can do anything I put my mind to, even calculus (even though I'm bad at it and hate it). The roads open to me are many, and I hesitate to close the door on any path because I do not know where any of the paths are going. Sometimes, Robert Frost's poem haunts me because I know just what he means about not being able to choose a road and that the road you do take makes all the difference.

“Where are you going and what do you wish?” is the question the moon poses in the nursery rhyme. And the three in the wooden shoe know instantly what they want: Herring. If you carry the metaphor to the end, they want to catch dreams. I have seen many dreams, and I want to cast my net and catch them all. But sometimes, I worry that I am just sailing in a wooden shoe while talking to the moon and casting out a net for herring, which is a fish I never liked anyway. Sometimes, I worry that the destination that will make me happy will not make me satisfied. Sometimes, I worry that happiness will not pay the bills. Sometimes, I worry that I am simply weird and nothing more.

This afternoon, I was re-filling the candy bowl at work, and as I dumped out an entire bag of silver wrapped hugs and kisses, one lone mint green wrapped kiss tumbled out onto the very top of the pile.

Sometimes, God just makes me laugh.

Let Go

2007-02-13T17:42:00.000-06:00

That was the message on the way home today.

Hiding

2007-01-28T18:32:00.000-06:00

In the game of hide n seek, I have always been much better at hiding than seeking.

My favorite hide n seek memory involves me and a childhood friend (we'll call him R) hiding from his sister (A) and my cousin (H). They decided that it would be "oldest" against "youngest," and R and I were to hide first. We hid out in the woods on the side of the yard nearest the house. Then, R said to me, "OK, let's trick them!" and he and I belly crawled army style across the lawn while A and H searched the treeline on the other side of the lawn. The house had been declared "off limits" by their supreme highnesses, but we belly crawled behind it and then we crouched down and ran around the other side while they searched the woods where we had just been. That gave us time to come in the back door to the kitchen without being seen. We could hear them calling our names as we eased the screen door open and gently let it latch.

Inside, the adults were having choir practice, and some of the ladies were getting "lunch" ready, which where I come from is an afternoon snack that is composed of several types of bars, possibly some kind of salty snack such as mixed nuts or crackers, and sometimes sadwhiches, served with beverages that include, but are not limited to, hot or iced tea, coffee, lemonade/Koolaid, and ice water (if you are lame). It is not the midday meal that people in the city think it is; rather, it is served at 3 or 4 in the afternoon. The ladies, good Luthern grandmother types, welcomed us in, and we sat down at the counter to brownies and milk for at least thirty mintues before A and H came tumbling in asking if anyone had seen us. There we sat, covered in chocolate frosting and smiles. A and H were so mad, but we had proven our point. Don't mess with the youngests. We hide incredibly well.

I have always found great places to hide. I was the first of our set to consider hiding in the bathtub behind the shower curtain. I once hid in the bottom of Grandma and Grandpa's bizarre closet that you had to step over a little partition to get into. It had a wooden door that we were forbidden to shut if we were hiding in there, and they kept old magazines in the bottom. Don't ask me why. I piled these on top of myself. Even though this was everyone's favorite hiding place, no one had ever thought to get under the magazines, only behind the suits. No one found me that time. I was also an expert at coming out after someone had been caught without letting anyone see where I'd come from so that I could continue to reuse my hiding place over and over again.

At college, I would disappear on Saturdays to do homework. I had a series of places I would go, all of them excellent places to hide: The DC early in the morning, the end of the department hall until 11 or 12 when people starting arriving for events, the Seminary Library on the bottom or top floors, two rooms back in the journals where they stored extra furniture because so few people used the space. Even now, at work, if I don't want you to find me, you won't. I know who goes down what hall and when. I know a few good places to lay low when I need to get away from people. I can even hide pretty well in a crowd. I have been known, even now, to turn off my cell phone for a day (sometimes, in rare instances, two) and just disappear. I go to various places that make me happy where no one will look for me, though this is harder now that everyone and their mother knows me from work.

My faith is no exception to this rule. At church, I recently decided that I should volunteer to be a greeter because they needed greeters and it wouldn't be that big a hassle to me. Aside from the fact that no one knows where anything is (cause I also help set up some of the decorations), I am finding myself extremely uncomfortable in this new role. I have been going to this church for three years, but I take long vacations from church altogether from time to time, and I have mostly been sneaking in after the first worship song has started and bolting out before the last chord of the closing song has finished ringing. Now I am shaking hands and saying hi to people and mostly people say things like, "You haven't been going here very long, have you?" like what the crap am I doing being a greeter already.

Everytime someone from last week remembers my name this week, it makes me want to run. Everytime someone says, "Hi, how are you, (my name)?" I cringe. Even though the fact that no one knew my name even after I got involved was the reason I left my last church, this makes me want to head for the hills. Everytime someone says, "Wow, you just really jumped right in, didn't you? You just started coming here, right?" I want to spend the rest of my Sundays on my couch watching NASCAR. No, I did not just jump right in. I have been hiding for three years, and I don't want to stop. How about I go back to hiding, and you all can go back to doing this yourself? I thought it was going to be really easy and they were begging for help, so I did it, but God is really using it to show me just exactly how much I have distanced myself from His people--His Peeps, if you will.

I don't know what verse to put with this. I guess it has a little to do with Matthew 5:15: "Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house." I have long been afraid that my lamp is not the kind that shines light on people but the kind that lights things on fire and destroys. I'm afraid of getting too close to people of the religious variety because so much of who I am and what I've become does not fit into what they believe perfect religious people should be. And maybe who I am doesn't bless or benefit anybody.

And I get tired of telling that story. I get tired of telling the story of my dead best friend and how it broke my heart and changed me and let me see past a lot of the bullshit that people make up to make themselves comfortable. I get tired of explaining that that's why I live in extremes--taking as much of everything I like as I can get because I might not be around tomorrow and it might not be around tomorrow. I get tired of telling how I have very little faith in other people. Other people leave you--abandon you. The only person you can rely on is yourself is what I've come to believe over the years, and I have built my life around being self-reliant because of it. I don't want to depend on God. I don't want to depend on anyone.

I get tired of explaning how I don't really want to be a Christian and I don't really want to follow God's plan for me (even though I know I should, which creates all kinds of contradictions in my actions) and how my biggest struggle is believing that God has good things in store when so much has been taken away so violently in my past. I get tired of explaining how I wanted to be an atheist for a long time but just couldn't and having to listen to people stare at me like I'm crazy. I get tired of having to tell people about how I was once suicidal and sometimes still feel empty at the end of the day. I get tired of having so many damned problems.

The thing is, I can't come out of hiding one more time only to have people say, "Oh, just kidding. We didn't really want to find you. We wanted to find something pretty and nice and neat. You are a mess. Why don't you go back to hiding?"

Then again, maybe what this stupid religion needs is a few more people who are a mess who just won't hide it anymore. You can't have redemption without a fall. Without a mess, you can't see miracles. Without being willing to see other people's problems, you can't fully appreciate how far they've come and how far they will continue to go. You can't see God move unless you see what He's had to wade through to do it. That's just the way of it. "You have to dance both, they say, otherwise you can't dance either" (Pratchett).

"Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.'"

I guess in the end, all I know is that I can't hide from God. I can run, but he always comes looking for me. And he's far better at finding than I ever was at hiding.

Hungry

2007-01-16T11:34:00.000-06:00

"Then Jesus declared, 'I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty.'" John 6:35

When I was 15, I developed some bad dieting habits that followed me into my college years. While I never stopped eating entirely, I generally ate only one small meal in the evenings. I drank crazy amounts of diet soda, and I exercised like a maniac (usually at least two hours a day). I never got incredibly skinny, but I did drop a lot of weight in a hurry. Then I would hang out at that weight before starting another attack against the fat. One of my friends split a candy bar into threes and that was her entire food for the day. I pretty much didn't eat unless my parents were around to make me. I sucked on Diet Mt. Dew ice cubes all day in the summer and ate a bowl of cereal for supper. My goal was to keep the total calorie intake under 600 for the day, and if I kept it under 400, I was a rock star.

After awhile, I got very comfortable with hunger. In fact, it felt good to be hungry all the time. It became a friend, and if it wasn't there, gnawing at my stomach, then I was not doing a good enough job of dieting, and I should definitely eat less. The harder the hunger, the better I felt. Sometimes, I still long to have those hunger cramps keep me company and eat less than 600 calories every day. Sometimes, nothing would make me happier. I swung out of this more when I went to college, but I would turn back to it every summer to take off the weight I had gained while eating three meals a day. Again, I was never skinny enough for anyone else to notice other than to compliment me on my looks, which became another drug to crave.

The thing that finally ended it was the year I was on some antibiotics for something else, had a couple allergic reactions to a couple of different antibiotics, and got so sick that I literally couldn't eat. I couldn't swallow anything without getting sick--not tea, not bread, not vegetables, not even water... nothing. I was so dehydrated that they were going to put me in the hospital. I lost at least thirty pounds in less than a month. I had to teach my stomach to deal with food again by eating bannanas, rice, apple sauce, and toast (BRAT diet--no dairy, no green veggies, no salt, no flavor, nothing). My stomach has never completely gotten back to normal from this. I get sick sometimes for no reason. And now, rather than being a (albeit treacherous) friend, hunger is a frightening entity because I can remember being so hungry and just wanting to eat one thing and knowing that if I did, I would wind up crying on the bathroom floor because I was too sick to leave and too weak to climb into my bed anyway. I like to say I got a sampling of what was at the end of the path I had been dancing down. I can't willingly inflict anything like that on myself again. I would rather be fat for the rest of my life than flirt around with something that can turn so dangerous so quickly. And what kills me is how many people told me how good I looked.

I think our spiritual lives end up like that. We get so used to being spiritually hungry and getting complimented for being spiritually starved that we think that's normal. That's because it's so easy to pretend to be full in this society while all the time, underneath it all, we are making friends with our hunger, coaxing it into setting up a permanent home and nursing it on a steady diet of emptiness. And everyone is always so pleased with the results of this destructive behavior because it looks so good on the outside.

It's OK if this appearance of beauty costs so much, we seem to say. It's OK if it makes you sick to appear this way, so long as you are ill in private. Cry on your bathroom floor all you want, but do not bring substance back to our worship. Do not confront us with something that might scare us and later feed us. We prefer to be empty and "pretty" than to be fed and "ugly." Do not show us the images that do not match our ideals. And all along we miss the point that ugly is ugly whether it's done in private or out in the open. It's just a matter of figuring out what is the least ugly. And believe me when I say that crying alone on the bathroom floor weak and sick is about as ugly as it gets.

I have had it with both images--the physical and spritual ideals--that say to be perky and skinny and starving and really just ill is better than being real and heavy and fed. Feed me, Father. I have had it with hunger. Fill me up with living water and the bread of eternal life. To hell with pretense. I'm ready to be honest and show my ugliness for what it is: The seeds of the things that are making me spiritually strong. Bring it on.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a New Year

2007-01-04T09:16:00.000-06:00

My co-workers are offended by Merry Christmas, so I try never to say it at work, and thus, end up not saying it much at all (habits in work life bleed over to personal life and vice versa). Never mind the fact that some of them feel they can pretty much attack my religion whenever they want. Keep in mind that this is coming from me. I have no Jesus paraphanalia at my desk and very little in my house for that matter. I do not bring up my religion as a matter of course throughout my daily activities with anyone except close friends and this blog. However, I am subjected to regular rants about how Christianity is based on the Zodiac or about how it's a fable or a myth that no intelligent person should believe. If I said anything like that about some other religion, I would be fired, but it's OK because I'm a Christian; therefore, I should be railed against. And it pisses me off. But I look at it like this: I know better. I need to be forgiving and loving. So I say Happy Holidays.

Which offends my mom. This is a lot of fun because she too knows better. And she gets mad at me for saying, "Well, Mom, there are other holidays that people celebrate at this time of year." But she believes she has the One True Religion, so she says Merry Christmas. And she does this in the name of Jesus because she thinks it's right.

When did our well-wishes become statements about our religion? I was under the impression that many people who are not Christian celebrate Christmas. Technically, the holiday has its roots in paganism. And why is it so offensive to Christians that other people celebrate other holidays? Does it really hurt you to wish them a happy whatever they celebrate? Besides, who doesn't like presents and saying kind words to strangers? I would take a Hanukkuh present if someone felt so inclined (though it probably does not work that way). Feel free to wish me Happy Kwanzaa.

I liked the days when you could wish someone Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas. I realize that I'm ignorant about some things, but I wish that rather than automatically assuming the worst about people, we could cut each other some slack and assume that since there is no other occasion for good will in this society (name one holiday that celebrates good will besides the set of holidays in December. Go ahead.), people mean to use the time of year to tell you that they value you. And each person does this in a different way. Rather than assuming that this holiday is only about the receiver, maybe we could believe that it's about the givers. That giving someone something (a card, a gift, a kind word, a pat on the back) is an act that says, "I was thinking of you and wish to honor you through my culture." I don't know. That's just me. I feel like everybody, Christians and non, should just chill.

Last year, I bought Christmas cards that said "Merry Everything and Happy Always." I enjoy this. It may become my new greeting just to create some controversy.

I have to say that I'm a little relieved that the holidays are over, and I can wish everybody a Happy New Year... wait a minute...

Abandoned

2006-09-12T08:18:00.000-05:00

My best friend committed suicide when we were seventeen years old. The other night I had an epiphany about it that I can't really share with anyone, so I'll share it here. She was a sister to me, and when she died, it was like losing a sister. I loved her like my other two sisters: in that fierce, protecting, big sister kind of way that lets you kick each other one minute and clean up each other's skinned knees the next. She called my mom "Mom," and I did the same thing with her mom. We were family.

I have never let anybody else that close since. Not God. Not friends. Not family.

I have had other best friends, but they come and go. I have had religion, but it comes and goes. I have had boyfriends, but they come and go. What can't get close to me can't leave me. What can't leave me can't hurt me. If I don't depend on anyone but myself, I cannot be failed. I don't even feel it anymore when people walk out on me. There is always something to fill the hole. Someone once told me that I am a good person but not a good friend. I think that's true.

Don't get too close to me; I come and go, too.

I'm Tired of It All

2006-08-01T07:50:00.000-05:00

This entry is not going to be funny. In fact, it's going to be a downright whine-fest. This is because I am terribly tired. I can't imagine why because after my four hours of sleep last night, I should be fresh as a daisy, right?

I'm exhausted. Mostly this is because I was up late, but also, my soul is exhausted. I was up late because I was feeling blue, and I never sleep well when I'm down. This is pretty much going to be an entry about all the things that truly exhaust me.

I'm tired of being weird, and I'm tired of people thinking I'm nuts, and I'm really sick to death tired of being made fun of. I spent a lot of my weekend working, but even when I wasn't working, I stayed inside. It was hot, and I just couldn't face anybody. I faced a bottle of wine instead. It was lovely, and you know what else? It didn't want me to talk. And it didn't make fun of me when I did talk, either. And I'm tired of feeling like I can't say this. I'm tired of avoiding things and people I really do enjoy just because I'm tired.

I'm tired of the expectations people have for me. I'm tired of feeling like I'm not doing what I should be doing. I'm tired of talking just to fill the empty space because no one else can come up with anything to say. I'm tired of being mocked because of the crap I come up with to fill the empty space. I'm tired of being fat, and I'm tired of dieting. I'm tired of people telling me that I'm doing something good by flirting with my old bad habits with dieting. I'm tired of people wanting to be my friend so long as I don't say any of this when I'm filling the empty space that they won't fill.

I'm tired of having a messy house. I'm tired of filling every spare second, but I'm tired of having whole empty evenings, too, that have to be devoted to cleaning or working. I'm tired of having to figure out other people's problems and give them solutions. I'm tired of having to think for people. I'm tired of having to think about what other people probably want every f-ing time I'm trying to make a goddamned decision. I'm tired of vegetables that go bad three days after you buy them. I'm tired of the city. I'm tired of the heat. I'm tired of hearing my neighbors. I'm tired of worrying about them hearing me.

I'm tired of the Bible and its promises and its threats. I'm tired of being bossed around. I'm tired of doing nice things. I'm tired of doing the right thing. I'm tired of feeling like a decision is anything more than that. I'm tired of feeling like good and evil hang in the balance of every single thing that happens in this f-ing world. I'm tired of feeling like I don't have a home or anything worth keeping. I'm tired of trying all the things that are supposed to help and still coming up empty handed. I'm tired of people telling me to try again. I'm tired of wanting a hug. I'm tired of crying.

I'm tired of losing. I'm tired of missing the people that I've lost. I'm tired of having to explain this to the people I still have.

And I don't see what God has to do with it at all, other than being the jerk who made it all up.

What's So Scarey about Being Adored?

2006-06-05T15:43:00.000-05:00

I once clipped this line out of a magazine and passed it along to a friend. I never realized until, oh, probably today that not everybody finds being adored scarey.

My church has been talking about the Song of Solomon off and on for about the last two years. At least. And I always said that I wasn't sure I wanted God thinking about me that way. Lately, I did what He told me, and good things have been coming my way. I have to admit, though, that there's a little piece of me that is looking around with one hand on the loot and the other on the door, asking suspiciously, "What do you want?"

My friend tells me that I have to get over this not wanting to be loved by the all loving God. I say that it isn't just God that I'm afraid of these days.

The truth is that letting God love you is even scarier than letting other people love you, which is scarey enough. As soon as you let somebody love you, then you also have to love them. This applies to any kind of love--romantic or otherwise. Sooner or later, those people depend on you, but even worse, you depend on them. Then you find out that you need each other. What happens if they turn out not to need you as much as you need them? Then you get left by the side of the road.

The truth is that I have always resented God's love. How dare He? I never asked Him to love me. Furthermore, I resent it when guys start to love me more than I love them. I hate it when they want to spend every evening around me, and I hate hate hate it when they want a committment before I'm ready. I like my freedom. Anytime my friends want more information or time or attention than I'm ready to give, I become highly suspicious and agitated. I am a terrible person to love.

And the truth is that you are never completely free once you love someone and someone loves you. You might be able to pretend you are, but you aren't. They begin to want you to change, and you begin to want to change for them and they begin to change for you, and suddenly who you were is just gone. And what happens when that person stops loving you? What happens if they leave you?

I think that's what I worry about with God. He will always want a little more from me, and when He gets it, He will want a little more again. And what happens if He decides that I'm not giving all that He wants? What happens when He gets tired of me and leaves? Then do I go to Hell?

The problem with all of this is, of course, my heart (like usual). My heart doesn't want to be alone. My heart enjoys other people and wants to open up to them. My heart believes that God is loving and wants to give me good things.

Yet, the rest of me is terribly, terribly afraid of being adored.

Jonah

2006-05-09T14:31:00.000-05:00

Somedays, I think very seriously about running away. I feel a lot of sympathy for/brotherhood with Jonah from time to time. I mean, here's a guy who doesn't want to go to Nineveh, which is not such a terrible offense in and of itself, except for the fact that God told him to go. And if you look at this situation from the outside, it's very easy to see Jonah as sort of a self-righteous and spoiled child who thinks he knows better than his Parent. It's also always very easy to see this sort of behavior in others. At the same time, I do this sort of thing all the time without ever thinking about how self-righteous I look.

That's the thing about Jonah. From the outside, you think, "What a yutz," but when you're playing the part of Johan, suddenly you do not see it as clearly.

The other thing I love about Jonah is that God basically drags him kicking and screaming to Nineveh via the belly of a whale (gross), and then God's plan works. Then Jonah is just as pissed off as he was when he thought it wasn't going to work. He thought he was going to die, so he didn't want to do it, and then it works, and he decides that he would like to lay down and die.

Even as I write about him, I see that he's ridiculous--the asshole of the Bible. And I am every inch like him. God wants me to do one thing, and I don't want to because it's going to turn out terribly, but as soon as it turns out well, then I'm pouting under my vine bemoaning the fact that I am not dead.

I personally like Jonah. I wouldn't say he's my hero or that I want to aspire to be like him, but I think he's a fairly accurate representation of who we are. We don't want to do what we're supposed to do, and we won't be happy with any result once we are arm wrestled into doing it. I can relate.

I Would Not Hold Them from You

2006-04-12T14:58:00.000-05:00

Today, this guy at work was trying to convince me that all releigions are really allegories for the zodiac.

Nothing gets me as hyped up about Christianity as when someone starts trying to prove that it's all nothing more than a good set of stories to illustrate the human plight. It's kind of like when someone picks on your younger sibling. You can pick on your younger sibling all you want, but heaven help anyone else who tries to do so.

Lately, I find it almost laughable. Kind of like if my younger sibling was the size of a tree and three times as strong and the nerdy kid with asthma tried to threaten my sibling with a toothpick. It's so pathetic that it's funny.

The thing about it is that I have had too many encounters with "something," and I believe it's God. I don't care what anybody else believes. Far be it from me to try to tell you what truth is for you, but I can certainly tell you what truth is for me. The truth is that when I most need someone, there is Someone there. I can't see Him. I can't touch Him. I can certainly argue with Him, but lately, when I have been in grave need, He's been there. He's enveloped my shoulders. It's been as near as something can be to touching you without actually touching you. Can an allegory for the zodiac do that? It's ludicrous to think so. It's more ludicrous than the fact that I believe at all.

My theme song lately has been Jack Johnson's "No Other Way," which goes "Just go to sleep and know that if I knew all the answers I would not hold them from you." The reason this has been my theme song is not because I want to sing it at other people. It's because so often I have wanted other people to give me the answers, particularly to the question of death. I have often been angry at others because they would not solve things for me when the truth is that they don't know the solution, either. So, I tell myself that that is what they would tell me if they knew I was angry. If they knew all the answers, they wouldn't hold them from me. Why would anyone do that? Particularly a friend? They wouldn't. I wouldn't. It's been a big comfort to me this time around.

So there you have it. No one has all the answers. The most we can ever get out of life is a search, but I believe that if you search, you will find the truth. That's a promise of my religion. "Seek and ye shall find." So, I have to believe that my real goal in life, as a Christian, is not to tell people what to believe but to get people asking the right kinds of questions. Then you'll find the answers that are right for you, and it's out of my hands (which it is anyway).

Irrational

2006-04-05T14:42:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I hate God because so many assholes are walking around breathing my air while people I loved and cared about are dead. I think that if God were being fair, one asshole should have to go away (not neccessarily die, but go away from me) for every person I have to lose. Then I could at least feel glad about something.

Petty

2006-03-20T10:00:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, I think I forget that, however close we might be at times, God is God. I think I try to assign Him petty behaviors when they don't really apply. So even though I stand behind what I said before as evidence of how I felt at the time, I think that I don't feel that way today.

I am in a funk. Mostly, this is probably because I feel like crap (i.e. I'm sick). I feel like everybody wants something from me, and I don't have the energy to provide it. What I wouldn't give to go to sleep right now and not wake up for a very, very long time.

Sometimes, I see what's attractive about walking away from your life. Sometimes, I see what's attractive about walking away from God. And the trouble is that I know I'm just like Jonah, and no matter how far I run, God is gonna follow me there. And it bothers me sometimes. I know it's best, and it still bothers me. Sometimes, I wish I could disappear, but the problem is that you can't disappear from God. So you're stuck.

What is life anyway. Sometimes, it just seems like an ocean constantly recycling itself and its experiences. Sometimes, I feel like one of the grains of sand: Little, insignificant, and wave tossed--worn down. Look at me while you can. One day, I'll be so small you'll have to see me with a microscope.

Enough!

2006-03-06T13:31:00.000-06:00

Here's what I really hate about God:

Whatever you give, HE WANTS MORE! It's not just that He wants some, and then you can have a life. Oh no, you've got to give it ALL. If you give a dollar, next week, you should give $100. If you have $100, then you should give $1000. If you show up for church, next week, you should show up and be a leader. If you become a leader, then you should join a seminary and be a pastor. If you become a pastor, then you should open up your home and adopt needy children and give them a good home because there's a need, and you should fill it. As long as you've adopted the needy children here, you should move to Abudabi and preach to the needy children there. Never mind that you don't feel comfortable. Try to ignore the fact that you feel weak and insecure. Forget about the fact that you have your own people to take care of who need you and are three steps away from being out on the streets themselves. Give it all to Him anyway. Then you'll trust when you see how good it turns out, but we're not going to give you any damned assurances because then it wouldn't be faith. You should give out of faith and believe not out of proven fact.

And if you don't, He sends His peeps to tell you about it like a damned thug. And if you still don't, Bad Things happen, so be warned.

Sometimes, I ditch out on Christianity because I FEEL LIKE I'VE JOINED THE MOB. Like I can't get out without either dying and going to hell or faking my own death and going into witness protection. Like whatever I do is being WATCHED by Him and His croonies. Like whatever I do, my entire life has to be about "The Family" of God.

And if we're going to cut the bullshit and be honest about it? I HATE IT! I don't even LIKE God. I don't want to be a part of another family. I have enough family. And not only that, but I've done the do everything thing, and you know what happened? I got burned. Because the bottom line is that for me, it's all or nothing. There's no half-assed bullshit with me. There's either I do nothing, or I throw myself into it wholeheartedly. But other people? They're not like that. You think people are just going to go around helping you out of holes if you fall into one? Then clearly you haven't fallen into one lately. I've fallen into lots of holes, and now I know that the only way out is to throw my own damn rope over the top, make myself some footholds, fall on my ass a lot, and finally, if I'm lucky, get out of the damn hole and stay there for three whole days before being shoved back in by some other asshole. This is the world, kids. It isn't pretty. And it isn't leading to anything but more and more giving up of yourself. And I've spent too much time trying to live for something or someone else.

I'm not strong, and I'm not tough. I just have to be that way from time to time, so I am. And I've lost about all I'm prepared to lose in this life.

Thirsty

2006-02-10T15:06:00.000-06:00

I find winter to be a bad time of year as far as moisture goes. My skin, my scalp, my throat, my plants, my furniture, and even my soul are all facing destruction due to a lack of moisture. They are all thirsty at this time of year.

Soon the snow will melt, and the rain will fall, and all the pretty things will start blooming again. Then it's harder to notice how desolate I feel from time to time. Then it is so easy to see how there can be such a thing as eternal life.

I came to an interesting conclusion today about why I do some of the things I do, and as always, it stems back to my dead best friend. Sometimes, I really hate her. Sometimes, I really wish the worst for her because of all the hell she's put me through. Sometimes, I let people (i.e. our secretary last week) say mean things about people who committ suicide and never come to her defense because sometimes I feel like she deserves whatever she gets. That's not very protective of me. It's really rather mean. I should be a better friend. But honestly, I am constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the next person to leave, for the next crack in what looked like a state of the art defense system.

So far, it's never not come.

I've also realized lately that all this b.s. about whether I really believe or not is just an excuse to keep stalling God. If I keep pretending that I maybe don't believe, then I never have to actually do anything. Not only that, but as long as I pretend that I don't believe, then I never have to connect with anybody or risk my heart in the poker game yet again (and I mean in friendship, not in romantic relationships). If you don't really want to play the game, then whatever you lose doesn't really count because you weren't exactly playing with much that meant anything to you anyway.

At any rate, it's always at the coldest times of the year that I think of her and hate her and God for a good long length of time. I hate them both. What business did He have bringing her into my life. What business did she have walking out of it. Why should I ever give anyone else the chance to hurt me the way she did? These are the times of year when I get the most thirsty. I thirst for faith, for trust, for hope, for steadfastness, and for something from my past that I can't quite define. Maybe it's innocence.

Lost

2006-01-20T15:35:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, I lose my path. What am I saying? I lose my path all the time. Hell, if I find a path, I'm pretty damn excited. And then I run down the path until it gets rocky, and then I say, "Hell with this; I'm going to go through that meadow." Pretty soon, I'm lost again.

I wish that faith were a state of being that you arrived at. For awhile this Christmas, I was so damn sure of myself. I was so certain that everything was going to work out all right, and I was so certain that I was going to see my faith work out for me. I was positive that I was seeing miracles.

I wish I could grip that conviction with a stronger fist so that it would last me through the rocky parts of the journey. I wish that faith was something you could get and keep rather than a process you go through for your entire life.

Last week, God and I had a chat. I was thinking about how I have everything I ever wanted when I was a teenager (well, OK, so not the penthouse appartment), and it still hadn't made me happy until I started asking God to surprise me, and then amazing things started happening (really. I can't reveal them here now, but amazing things). And God (or some other voice, which if you think about it, is probably the reason I still believe in God. There either is a God, or I'm completely insane, which may also be true) said, "And isn't it better when you trust me?"

Me: Well, I don't want to be having that "giving it all to God" nonsense again.
God: You don't have to give it all right now, just your trust.
Me: Yes, but I'm not very good at trusting.
God: (Laughing.)
Me: We've had a lot of talks about this, haven't we?
God: Yes, many.
Me: What makes you love me so much? (In my mind's eye, I saw space (suns, stars, planets, galaxies, light, explosions, expansions, wormholes, etc.))
God: I love it all.

Maybe what I get out of believing is someone to believe in me, too. And maybe God's not real, but somedays, I just need one person in the whole damn world (who doesn't think I'm crazy River Tam from Firefly) to get behind me and push. Sometimes, I just need someone who knows that it's still possible to get "there" (wherever that is) from here. I need whatever made me who I am to laugh with me about it and tell me that it's OK to be myself for four minutes a day. It's OK to burst into tears when I feel like it and to laugh when I feel like it and to do some of the things I feel like doing when I feel like doing them because every single thing I do (mistake or otherwise) is teaching me something. I need someone with omniscence backing my ass from time to time.

Maybe God's not real, but I hope He is because otherwise, I know beyond a doubt that I am never going to have that kind of a relationship in my life.

Blessings Counted? Check.

2005-12-16T14:52:00.000-06:00

Well, I've been trying the whole "Surprise me, God" thing for a week now, and I would have to say this. First, I'm probably thinking about it incorrectly. You're not neccessarily going to get nice surprises. Second, I tend to agree with Rhett. It is sort of like asking the universe for a surprise. Well, unless you're clarvoyant, of course you're going to be surprised.

What I am discovering is that it's helping me to be a little less negative overall. This is not to say that I've been especially pleasant because I haven't been. In fact, I've been suffering from a bad case of emotional funk. This is sort of like regular funk, but rather than stinking up the house, emotional funk is a cloud of icky emotions that stinks up the astral plane.

But it could have been a much worse state of emotional funk, and it wasn't because all week, I've been re-learning how to count my blessings. I think of surprises as pleasant, even though I've had one or two unpleasant ones this week (beginning shortly after I wrote my last entry.) When I get to the end of the day, I have to think about the things that happened. This gets me thinking about all the good things that happened to me during the day to see if this or that might be the surprise. And one or two days have held some really good things, but I'm not entirely sure that those things are "the surprise."

I'm sort of the opinion that maybe the process is supposed to teach you something, and that winds up being the surprise. If that is the case, then I would say that so far, I'm seeing that I need to spend more time thinking about the good things that go on in the day. Hokey as that sounds, it's been nice to spend some time focusing in on the things that I liked about the day rather than the things I didn't like about the day. And yeah, it's becoming a little less unique, and it's starting to seem like one more thing I have to check off my get-ready-for-bed list, but I'm not so sure that's a bad thing. I usually go home and try to process out how I can fix what went wrong during the day, and then I wind up stressed and cranky.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still stressed and cranky, but now I'm spending a little less time each day in that state of being, and so far, that's the surprise I've gotten from this experiment.

Trust?

2005-12-10T10:18:00.000-06:00

I'm battling the common nuisance known as "the cold" (AKA Hell), so forgive me if this record is disjointed and strange. I plopped down in front of the TV this morning because I actually woke up when my alarm clock went off--an unprecidented and unlooked for event--which meant that I had the hour I normally reserve for snoozing to do what I would with. I turned on channel 11, and they were interviewing the guy who does their jingles. He was promoting his book Surprise Me, God, which I found rather interesting. You can check it out at his website. I'm thinking about trying this experiment myself. It could get interesting, I suppose. And Christians are supposed to have turned over the "canvas" of their lives anyway, so maybe it'd be an interesting plan.

I like to think that my real issues right now are too important to try something like this, which probably means that I don't really trust God. That's probably true. I've spent my whole "Christian" walk echoing Peter in Acts. Acts is sort of like the psychadelic trip of the Bible. I pretty much read it and think everybody was probably stoned, but at any rate, in it, these animals come down from Heaven, and God tells Peter to kill and eat. Peter responds by saying, "Surely not, Lord."

Even in the 6th grade, I resembled this verse. In everything I was ever asked or told to do, my response was always, "You can't really mean that... 'Surely not, Lord.'"

And sure, Peter was talking about eating unclean animals, which is a totally different issue (and one that, as a white American Christian, doesn't really affect me)(thankfully), but I still think it applies because I think the verse is really about trust.

I've never trusted God. To me, it's like letting go of the steering wheel when you're on the freeway and entrusting the destination of your vehicle to an invisible passenger. This passenger may have made himself known in the past by various, albeit vague, signs, but that's no reason to risk life and limb on a hunch that he may steer the car in the right direction. In fact, there's a country song out right now that suggests this very thing, and it freaks me out to no end. I can tell you one thing, if I am ever in a near accident (which I frequently am), the last thing I will consider is throwing my hands in the air and telling Jesus to "take the wheel."

So this whole, "Surprise me God" thing makes me a little nervous becuase I really do have a real crisis on my hands right now and the last thing I want is to give Him an open license to do whatever He wants. As if He couldn't anyway.

And so that's the bottom line. I don't have any control over what God does, anyway, if He does, in fact, exist, so what am I so worried about? And if He doesn't exist, then no harm, no foul. So maybe I will try this experiment. It might be a simpler way than my own meandering thoughts to see whether or not I actually do believe in Him.

I guess the bottom line about trusting God is this: Where the hell is he? It'd be so much easier to trust a passenger who I could see. (And one who didn't have all kinds of weird sub-clauses like "I-will-steer-the-car-only-if-you-have-faith" or "I-would've-steered-the-car-but-you-were-testing-me-so-I-didn't," which, blasphemy though it may be, seem to me like easy ways to explain the laws of chance.)

On the other hand, maybe I'm not even in the driver's seat at all. Maybe that's what scares me about faith in general. I may not even understand my position in the vehicle.

Truth

2005-11-25T16:57:00.000-06:00

I am not sure when I stopped believing in Santa, the toothfairy, the Easter Bunny, etc. As the oldest, it was my responsibility to protect my siblings from the bitter truth (that there is no fat man in a red suit coming down our non-existent chimney) and to encourage their belief for as long as possible. This was for two reasons: 1) They are younger, and I should protect them and 2) More presents for me. The youngest believed for a long time, and I have been known to bold facedly lie about having seen Santa myself in order to keep the belief alive in her.

That is my problem. I am not sure that if I knew that God did not exist I could tell anyone.

I believe strongly in the little white lie. I think that some lies are not only OK but are also actually the right answer. (This leaves me in a bit of a pinch with the ten commandments, but that can't be helped.) I can't tell people the truth about themselves because I believe that lying to oneself is one's last line of defense. How much less, then, if I ever discover that Christianity is not true, will I be able to tell people that the whole basis for their lives is bogus? I would never be able to do it.

I was always puzzled by the book Silence, and I want to go back and read it again, but I've never been able to make myself do it. The book is about a priest who has to decide whether to deny his faith or to refuse to deny his faith and let hundreds of the people he's been working to save die. He renounces his faith, but the rest of the ending always puzzled me. Part of me believed that he did it so that all of the people had a chance, but part of me believed that he really lost the idea of God when he renounced his faith.

My problem is this: If I couldn't bring myself to admit to my younger siblings that there was no Santa, then how much less able would someone who has devoted his/her entire life to religion be able to admit to someone that there is no God.

Sometimes, I worry that I am lying to myself about the existence of God, too. I look around, and I don't understand, and sometimes, I just don't see how what I believe can be true.

Fear

2005-11-19T10:17:00.000-06:00

Fear is the most paralyzing emotion I have. As a person with a panic disorder, I am afraid of everything. Things that most people don't even give a second thought to (Did I just say the wrong thing to that person? Did I leave the curling iron on? Is my car making a funny sound? Is my stomach making a funny sound? What should I do about x, y, or z? Am I living up to my potential? Should I get this cereal or that cereal?) drive me crazy. These questions, and ones just like them, race through my head, and while to most, they might seem like only ant-small thoughts, in my world, a stampede of ants is still a stampede.

And yet it is fear that at last sends me scampering back to prayer, usually. Yes, this is usually after everything I can do has failed to alleviate the fear, and yes, it is usually the only thing I can think of to solve the problem I am scared about. And heaven help the God who doesn't give me the answer I want, or so I seem to think most of the time.

A song I really like has a line that goes, "I never minded calling you a king if that meant that I could count on you to give me everything." So often, this is how I respond. Everything is cool as long as everything is going my way. Me and God can have a great relationship so long as he gives me what I want. Otherwise, he's an ogre, I'm way too cool to hang out with him, and I hate him. I can never decide whether or not this makes me a toddler or a teenager, but either way, it's infantile behavior.

Yesterday, something happened to cause me a great deal of fear. It's probably irrational. On Monday, I will probably find out that everything is OK and that nothing is really wrong. At the same time, there is nothing I can do and nothing I can find out until Monday. So here I am again, calling on the God I believe in from time to time to do something amazing and fix it all. I'm calling on him to make it all right because I want to believe that it is all right.

I am so fickle, both in my believe and lack thereof. How can one person hold so much doubt and so much belief? And if it doesn't go my way come Monday morning, am I going to throw another tantrum and refuse to talk to God for months even though, as far as I can tell from this blog so far, I seem to believe he exists? And if it does go my way, am I going to hold it as more evidence that he does exist?

Sometimes, I am appalled at my own lack of steadfastness. I feel like I should take to heart the part in Serenity where Book tells Mal, "I don't care what you believe. Just believe it." Sometimes, I feel like that's what God would say to me if I would hear him. Pick a direction and go with it. Stop flirting around the point. Either get on board and be a Christian, or get off the damn train, but don't hang from the railing or swing off the steps and make me come rescue you over and over again.

Even there, my fear paralyzes me. Even there, I don't know what direction to pick. I want to believe, but sometimes, I just don't. While it makes me angry with myself and with him, sometimes, I just "need someone with skin on," and when I'm scared, it never seems like he does.

At the same time, a lot of times, when I'm scared, he's the only one who comes close. I read my Bible last night because I couldn't sleep, and I stumbled across Psalm 4:8 "I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety." So it comes to me that it doesn't matter what the outcome is. I know that I'll come through it regardless, not that "coming through it" neccessarily means the same thing on both sides of Heaven. One way or another, the answer will come, and if I really believe what I seem to keep saying I believe, then I'm protected. Not neccessarily from pain (because that was never the point) but at least from the fear, and that's usually what I have the hardest time dealing with anyway.

You Must Respect My Authoritae!

2005-11-12T10:24:00.000-06:00

One of the main reasons I never really liked God is that sometimes, particularly in the book of Mark, Jesus can come off as a real jerk. As the older sister, I've always been the one to boss the younger sibs around, so I can see the classic signs of an older sibling written all over his reaction to his fam and to those around him.

When I was younger, I read the whole New Testament, including all four Gospels, at least twice, and after doing so, I came to the conclusion that I was the oldest and no one was going to boss me around, particularily after being invisible for several thousand years. That was probably the first time I decided that Christianity might not be my bag. In those days, there was no other option, though, because my parents are quite devout. They wouldn't have stood for even voicing the idea that I might be having a sibling rivalry with Jesus. So, I kept it to myself. But on the inside, I thought that he was a bit of a jerk. I'd always wished for an older brother, but wishing for one and actually having one are two completely different things. How dare he be the oldest?

When I got older and began reading The Chronicles of Narnia, my belief was only strengthened by the portrayal of Aslan. I am probably the only person on the face of the earth who doesn't think Aslan rocks. I can't stand Aslan, and here's why: He only shows up when you suck. He also lets you know, in detail, why you suck even after you've admitted that you suck. And even after all his talk about not being "a tame lion," I still find him a bit on the harsh side. Aslan? Not my favorite superhero.

The older I get, the less I like being an older sibling. All the perks came when I was a kid. I may have gotten the biggest room, but I have paid for it many times over in skinned knees I've cleaned up, mistakes I've fixed, meals I've paid for, supplies I've purchased, and sacrifices I've made. I get tired of being the one who has to take care of everybody else. It burns me out. It makes me realize what Jesus may have meant when his family came looking for him (Matthew 12) and when the crowd told him that his mother and brothers were looking for them, he said that his disciples and the crowd were his family. I can imagine it was hard for Jesus to give up the responsibilities that should have been his and go out and be responsible for the whole world. Sometimes I wonder if he ever felt that he was letting them down, especially when he talks about a prophet being without honor in his hometown. At the same time, can you imagine having Jesus as an older brother? How could you ever live up to that! And if what he says is true, then he is our older brother. Ugh. Like what I need in my world is more pressure and guilt about living up to standards.

In addition, I've always had a problem with authority. I purposely do things to thwart it. For instance, sometimes, when it's late at night and I'm the only car even visible at the particular intersection I'm sitting at and I've been sitting there for several minutes and the light still shows no signs of changing, I've been known to run it. I pushed the outer limits of "walking" in the hallways. I hate speed limits. I seldom make rules for myself because I know that it's just tempting me to break them. I switched cold medicines purely because I don't think it's any of the government's damn business when I buy cold pills, and I refuse to give in to the idea that I should have to wait in line for a drug that is non-prescription. I don't like not being in charge of my own life.

And yet, here I am agin, back in the fold (loosely. I'm not sure I ever stay completely back in the fold, at least not for long) after Jesus or God or whoever it is that does the walking came to get me. And I never understand why because I am one of the biggest problem children on the face of the planet. They just get me back with the rest of the flock and then I'm off wondering around getting lost again. I don't even like the herd. I don't even like the fold. I don't even enjoy following a shepard. It's not like I'm even terribly bad so that heaven actually has a reason to rejoice. I'm just compacent and willfull even though I know better. I whine and complain and wander off over and over again, and yet I'm always searched out, pursued, carried back, and rejoiced over. I don't get it.

I guess that's what older siblings do: They come to get you when you wander away from safety. They rejoice when they find you, however dumb they may think you've been. They keep coming for some reason that's beyond my understanding, even though they know you don't want them and don't respect their authority. And you know what's probably the funniest thing about this? Whatever makes him keep coming after me, I hope he never stops.

Names

2005-11-05T11:36:00.000-06:00

One of the thing I love about mythology and most religions is their emphasis on names. A name, in many mythological tales, tells you all you need to know about someone. Additionally, in many myths, everyone has two names: One for everyday use and one for secret power. Anyone who knows a being's true name has power over that being.

I have always had more names than I needed. When I was small, my surname held everyone's key to understanding me. "Oh, you're so and so's granddaughter? You're who's daughter then? Oh, well, how are they all doing?" Instantly, I had friends I'd never remembered meeting before. The trouble with going somewhere where "everybody knows your name" is that then everybody "knows" everything about you. Not only do they know everything about you, but they discuss it with everyone around until they're dead (not until you're dead--your legacy can hang around for much longer than that). For instance, I once heard my grandparents discussing someone who lived down the road from them who'd gotten extra sugar rations during the war in disgusted voices, finishing with, "And I tell you what; it stuck with 'em!" The whole community still buzzed with someone's misdeeds from over forty years ago, which is, I guess, what happens when the biggest news you've got is whose chickens lay the best eggs. This is the type of world that I grew up in. A surname was a thing that you carried, for better or worse, with you for your whole life and beyond, and let me tell you what, you've never carried anything until you've carried a name through a small town. You don't even know what weight is.

Aside from my surname, I had a given name that was used when I was meeting people and a nickname that all my family and everyone I knew actually used. As a small child, I had other nicknames as well. My sisters had a nickname for me, my mom had a pet name for me, my dad had one for me, an older couple at our church had one for me. Everybody called me something different. I did not really begin using my given name until I went to school. As I got older, I also had a series of school nicknames. When I got to college, I chose to go by the name that one of my best friends had given me, and it stuck.

So now, I have a professional name, which gives me a formal attitude; a family nickname, which makes me feel like a goofy child; a college/friend nickname, which makes me feel like a bad ass; and a secret name that I gave myself that no one knows but me. It sounds crazy, I know, but one day, I decided to test the myths and see why so many stories thought that a secret name gives power. And I found out that it's because a secret name does make you feel powerful. My secret name has no county, no allegiances, no responsibilities. It would not be recognized in my hometown. No one has turned it over on their tongues and attached meanings to it that I don't want and didn't ask for. It is the me that no one knows because no one can ever fully know another human being. I grasp it when I have trouble remembering who I am without everybody else. I hang onto it when I am in need of calm.

How does this relate to my faith? Well, it makes Revelation 2:16-18 a great comfort to me: "He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it" (NIV). If this is true, then it means that someday, we will get a name that only God has turned over in his mind. We will recieve the identities we were always meant to have.

It's just a small verse tucked away in Revelation where even most concordances ignore it, but to me, it means more than all the promises about a new body or a new attitude or even a new Jerusalem. What good are those things to me if I have to drag around the identity that everyone attached to me here on earth? No, to have a new identity, one that God has given me rather than one other people me or that I have given myself. This is the greatest comfort I can imagine. Someday, I will be loved for what I truely am, not for my reputation. A new name. A new identity--A hope--A future. What a blessing that will be.

Rationality

2005-10-28T15:13:00.000-05:00

The single greatest thing keeping me from being a Christian is the fact that I don't believe my rational side can participate, and I don't want to be the kind of believer who is purely emotional.

I re-read C.S. Lewis's The Last Battle this week. Every time I read this book, it changes me. This time, the part that hit home was the part about the dwarves who "wouldn't be taken in again." There they are in a beautiful world surrounded by wonderful things to eat and fabulous joys, but all they can see is the stable they used to be locked inside. All they can taste is trough water. They aren't shut out of the real Narnia, but they can't ever enjoy it because they never realize that they are part of it.

It's time to face the facts: I am probably like the dwarves in this story. I am so afraid of falling on my face again that I choose not to run.

When I went to college, I went with the idea that I was going to kill myself. I cut all ties with people back home. I didn't even call my mother. I made up my mind that I was not going to make any new friends. I had a mission.

But of course, that isn't how things went down. I made friends. Even now, I feel like there are two stories happening here. The first is like this: I went away and was determined not to be the loser without any friends any more, so I did everything in my power (hung out in the dorm lounge, provided homemade cookies to all the guys on my floor, walked around offering candy to people and introducing myself) to make friends. At the same time, in the back of my mind, I had this big plan for how to leave the world without hurting anybody. Even now, it is such a broken thought process that I have trouble explaining it. I have difficulty telling which was the real me.

So when one of my friends told me that all I had to do was give it all to God, I lept on the plan. I went to counseling, and I threw my necklace in the lake, and I went to Vespers and church and chapel and Bible study. I became Super Christian. I drew up encouraging note cards and left them in people's POs. I chatted with people who were lonely and sad. I helped set up the sancuary at the church I was going to.

And you know what? The next year, a friend I had been praying for asked me how I knew that God was real, and I had no answer. This prompted a complete turn around on my part. I stopped going to church; I stopped going to chapel; I quit talking to God.

I have since come to believe that faith (and life, but for the purposes of this blog, faith) is sort of like a pendulum. There are two poles: Complete belief and complete doubt. Somewhere in the middle is the ideal of faith. Our lives are spent swinging between the two poles. This is normal and neccessary because without experiencing extremes, we can never balance ourselves out. This is not an excuse to live in the extremes, of course, but it is a way to recognize them as natural parts of our growth and move past them.

I understand that God saved me from more than just my sin. He saved me from making the biggest mistake of my life. Sometimes, I have trouble choosing a path, though, and end up like the dwarves of Narnia. I feel as though I am trapped by my doubt. At the same time, complete emotional belief is not the faith I want. If that is what is required, then I fear that I will never know true salvation. I cannot fall head over heels into a system without room for questions again.

Belief

2005-10-15T12:26:00.000-05:00

Two of my favorite songs have very similar lines in them. The first is by Switchfoot, and I can't remember the title, but it's off the New Way to be Human album. The line says this: "Oh, I'm a believer; help me believe." The second is by Andrew Peterson, and I also can't remember the title of this one off the top of my head, but it's off the Clear to Venus album. The line from that one says this: "Hope is hard to hold to. Lord, I believe, only help my unbelief."

I feel that these two lines do a good job of summarizing my belief in God. I believe, but I don't. I need help believing. After reading Anne Lamott's Blue Shoe this week, I feel much like the story she uses to illustrate our need for a tangible God. She tells the story of someone who tells their daughter not to be afraid because God will take care of her. The daughter replies, "I need someone with skin on."

I don't want to be Thomas, but there are times when only a physical presence is good enough to comfort us. At these times, I find it very difficult to believe in God.

So why do I continue to do so? I've said that I never really liked God, and now I'm saying that I am a believer with a lot of unbelief. What's holding me to this religion?

This is a very interesting question. I suppose the truth is that I've felt His "presence" one too many times to completely write Him off. For instance, once when I was still in high school, I was weeping in bed about something. I was praying at the same time, and finally, I decided that I'd had enough. I said, "God, you promised you'd send angels to comfort us. Well, where are your angels now?" Instantly, a light went on inside my head, and I stopped crying. To this day, I can't remember what I was crying about, and if I try to think about it, all I can remember is the light and calm that filled me. I don't think it was real physical light, but it was there behind my eyes nonetheless. Almost immediately, I went to sleep.

Sometimes, when I'm between dreaming and completely awake, I hear music. I hear thousands on thousands of voices filling in harmonies that I've never heard before. Sometimes, they're singing "Hallelujah" and others, just "ah," but it is the most beautiful music I've ever heard. If I were a composer, I would be a rich woman. There are so many voices and more parts than I've ever heard before, which gives the harmony a rich texture, but the voices are so light that I can just feel the joy in them.

Starting when I was about 10, I knew I should be baptised. Everytime there was a baptismal in church, I would dread it and end up crying and embarrassed because I knew in my heart that this was the next step, and I wasn't taking it. When I was 12, I finally gave in. The day of my baptism, we got a phone call from the church. The power was out, so the water was extremely cold, and they were thinking about cancelling it. What did I think? And I knew that if I didn't do it then, I would go through another two years of chickening out and misery. I agreed to do it. Everybody prayed that the power would come back on. It didn't. I was baptised by candle-light in a vat of ice cold water. The power came on almost immediately after the service was over. Maybe this didn't mean anything, but to me, it meant that someone or something really was working hard to keep me from being baptised. I'll probably never know why, but I've never forgotten the experience.

And I guess the last thing that keeps me believing is that something always pulls me back. I've never wanted to take any of the major steps of faith, and something always demands that I do so anyway. If I don't, I always regret it. Not that I think I'm being punished or anything, it's just that the choices I make to avoid doing the thing I feel I'm supposed to do are usually bad ones. Somedays, just the fact that I'm alive to keep a blog is a definite miracle to me. I know I never would have made it if something bigger than myself wasn't sustaining me. Some people call this our animal survival instincts, but I don't think so. All I have to prove this are my feelings, which aren't much, but my feelings tell me that I didn't get where I am under my own power.

So all I have to keep me in the faith are a bunch of voodoo stories and emotional responses. Can I prove any of these things to be more than figments of my imagination? Nope. So how do I know that there's a God? I don't know. Nobody does. But I believe there is one. I believe that He exists and carries me through when I don't even realize He's doing it. I believe.

I Never Really Liked God

2005-10-08T10:39:00.000-05:00

To introduce myself, I would like to start out with a disclaimer. This entry is it.

I never really liked God. I was afraid of him, sure, but I never really liked him. Not the way some people do. So, if you are looking for a place to visit in order to support your Happy Jesus Freakiness, this is not the blog for you. (Yes, I am aware that saying "Happy Jesus Freakiness" may, in fact, mean that I am going to hell.)

Additionally, I am not trying to be converted. I believe in God. I tried atheism, and it didn't work out for me. I can't deny the existence of a God, and I believe that, for me at least, this God is the God of Christianity. Perhaps this means that I am weak-minded, but I'm all about following the advice of Emerson, who says, "I will so trust that what is deep is holy that I will do strongly before the sun and moon whatever inly rejoices me and the heart appoints." While I recognize that Emerson was not saying this to support Christianity, I believe it is good advice, nonetheless. I believe that the holiest place we humans have is in the depths of our hearts, and in the depths of my heart, there is an image (maybe imagined and unreal and unlikable, but still an image) of God.

Since re-believing (or whatever you call it when you renounce the religion of your youth only to return to it while still in your youth), I have had a very blunt relationship with God. If I think he's being an asshole, I tell him so. He usually tells me if he thinks I'm being one, too. I believe that God is loving, but I also believe that he responds to us in a way we'll understand. I'm not one to beat around the bush when it comes to my life, so neither is he. If he's really omnipotent, then there's no point in pretending that I don't think he's being an asshole because he'll know anyway. And this works for us. If it doesn't work for you, perhaps you should read another blog. (I feel I am beginning to sound like Lemony Snicket, but seriously, maybe you should read another blog.)

I don't go to church regularly because I don't like church. I feel like it's one big show for the masses. I've tried a gazillion churches, and I am currently most usually attending a small one that has probably bothered me the least out of all the churches I've been to. It's sort of Baptist; although, for a long time I thought it was non-denominational. Other people like church, and I support this decision on their part. I'm a tiny bit too cynical to sit there and feel like I'm connecting to God. This is probably because God and I tell each other we're assholes on a regular basis, and most of the people in any church I've ever been to would never even dream of saying the word "asshole" on a regular basis, much less saying it to God. Church just doesn't speak about the God I've come to know and appreciate. This is probably another reason that I may or may not be going to hell.

So basically, if you're really attached to your version of God or are really hung up on being properly spiritual, you're probably not going to like me very much. That's OK. I probably won't like you either. If, on the other hand, you like to hear the truth about someone else's existance, and like to wrestle with the idea of spirituality, what it means to us semi-sort-of-when-we-feel-like-it Christians of the 21st Century, and if/why we believe in it, then this is the blog you should read. Because I'm semi-sort-of-when-I-feel-like-it funny, and you may just like it.