(If you're looking for the account of my trip to Tijuana, that can be found here.)
I don't like admitting defeat. Even when I know I'm wrong, even when I know that I've dug myself into a hole that's too deep to get out of, I hate giving up. But this week, I had to do just that. I had to look at myself and face the fact that this time, I failed.
This blog is not a place that I want to whine about my life. It is not a diary of my personal problems. This last week has been a continuation of what is apparently the lesson I'm supposed to be learning this year—how to be humble. It's been painful and frustrating and confusing and more emotional than I can really explain. In the midst of it all, though, I have had friends surrounding me, reminding me of the truth that I can preach to others (see this post) but struggle to take to heart for myself: the fact that I fail sometimes does not make me a failure. It makes me human. Saying that won't get me out of this particular hole that I've dug for myself, but it might help me find the motivation to start climbing.
We All Fall—Superchick
We all fall
Sometimes
We all let ourselves down
Sometimes there's nothing left but to live with what's been done
And know you're not the only one
Who falls
We all fail
Sometimes
We all let someone down
Sometimes there's thing left but to promise to ourselves
That next time we won't be the one
To fail
I want to tell you you can go on
That beginnings come from ends
I still believe in you
And so does God
He's the one who still believes in those who fail
He's the one who still believes in us who fall
Monday, April 14, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Happiness, Humility, and Hospital Visits
A couple of days ago I returned home from a week-long missions trip to Tijuana, Mexico at a ministry called La Roca. La Roca is very dear to my heart—I went on the same trip last year, and I fell in love with the place, the people, and the ministry itself. La Roca is a shelter of sorts for women and their children coming out of bad home (or homeless) situations. It offers the families a place to stay, feeding and clothing them, teaching the moms some jobs skills, giving the children a place to go to school for free, and most importantly, sharing the love of Christ with them. It is a ministry that I am passionate about, and I would love to be able to work there long-term someday.
When our team arrived at La Roca on the evening of March 6th, I was so happy I almost cried. I couldn't wait to reconnect with the friends I had made the year before and to start on our work project. The following morning we found out what that work project was—repainting the one-room kindergarten building at La Roca. We got to work right away scraping paint and priming the ceiling and the walls. Our team of 14 women and one very patient man was excited about this chance to be creative—we were given free-rein to design the room however we wanted. We decided on a Noah's Ark theme and started digging through coloring books for animals we could use for the walls.
That night, I went to bed around 10:30 feeling a little bit dehydrated. Shortly after midnight, I woke up, felt a little queasy, rolled over onto my back, and proceeded to vomit all over myself. I ran to the bathroom where I apparently spent the next two hours—I don't remember that much time passing. At some point during that time, one of my leaders knelt down beside me and said, "Look, Lyss, I know you're stubborn and you're not going to want to have to say this, but if you're going to need to go to the hospital, you have to tell me, because I can't make that decision for you." She was absolutely right—I am stubborn and I hate admitting that I need help. By that time, however, I had more or less reached my breaking point. I was losing a lot of water really fast, and I couldn't swallow without gagging, so I was getting incredibly dehydrated. I finally turned to my leader and told her that if I didn't stop throwing up in the next twenty minutes, we would have to go to the emergency room—I needed to get an IV if I hoped to get rehydrated.
I don't remember much of the trip to the hospital. I know that the road was bumpy, and that the guard at the border asked to see my face. Shortly after crossing the border into San Diego, we were at the emergency room. Several hours, some blood work, a CT scan, and one massive IV later, it was concluded that I had some sort of infection, but that it wasn't anything too serious. Once I got somewhat rehydrated, we left the hospital and headed back to La Roca, where I collapsed into bed and slept all but about two hours of the rest of the day.
The next day was Sunday. I felt significantly better when I woke up, but after walking down to breakfast, eating most of a pancake, and walking back to my room only to feel like I was going to crash again, I realized that I wasn't going to be able to spend the day with my team. The church everyone at La Roca was going to was 45 minutes away; the service was to be at least two hours long, and then they were planning to go to a park afterwards to have a picnic lunch and play soccer. I just didn't have the strength for a day like that. Andy, the incredibly patient leader who had taken me to the hospital, decided that she was going to stay with me so that I wouldn't spend the day alone. While it ended up being good for both of us (she needed the rest almost as much as I did), I felt terrible at the time. I felt like I was a burden to my team—a feeling that I loathed with every fiber of my being. In spite of that frustration, I knew that there wasn't much I could do about it, so I did my best to accept my temporary state of relative helplessness.
While Andy and I were alone at La Roca, I had to promise her that I would respect her decisions regarding what I could and could not do for the rest of the week as far as work was concerned. I promised that I would tell her if I needed to take a break, rather than being my usual stubborn self and just pushing through. It was not an easy promise to make. I love and respect Andy immensely, and I wanted to honor her as a leader, but I also wanted to keep believing that I could handle everything myself. I didn't want to admit that I needed help.
In the weeks before we left for Mexico, I was so excited to go back to La Roca. The week before the trip was one of the most anxiety-inducing weeks of my life. I was so ready to go down to Tijuana and be able to get my focus off of myself and just spend a week serving and caring for other people, and instead, within 36 hours of arriving, I was the one being served and cared for. The irony of it all was that just hours before I got sick I had shared my testimony with my team, deviating from what I was planning on saying to explain that God had been breaking me over the past couple of weeks, and that if any good came out of me being on the trip, it would be totally God, because I had nothing left to give—I needed to learn to let other people be there for me the way I loved to be there for them.
When the team returned from the park on Sunday, I had a sudden burst of energy. I ran upstairs, threw some regular clothes on, came back outside, and started playing with an adorable little four-year-old girl, picking her up and swinging her around. About ten minutes later, it started sinking in that I was feeling much better than I had been. I wasn't at 100% yet, but I was in a much better place than I was in when I woke up that morning.
Monday I was able to do some work painting and holding ladders for the girls who were painting the ceiling. I was doing well until about an hour before we stopped for the day—they needed people to haul rocks. It sounds crazy, but I wanted more than anything at that moment to be able to help. I knew that if I hadn't gotten sick, that would have been my job—that was what I did for most of the trip last year, and I had been waiting for the chance to do it again. Andy (wisely) wouldn't let me. At that point, my attitude was terrible. I knew that Satan was trying to turn a week that was hard but full of great (and necessary) lessons into something discouraging and negative . . . and it was working. I was determined not to let Satan ruin my week, however, so I did my best to give it over to God and to keep working where I could.
Tuesday was the day that we set aside to spoil the La Roca moms for a few hours. We had presents for each of them; we played games; we did their nails and hair . . . and we gave them backrubs. Some of the girls were doing laundry and cooking and cleaning while the rest of us worked on making the moms feel like princesses. They loved it. While there were some moments of frustration within the team, we were able to reach past that to make the day truly special for those women.
On Wednesday and Thursday, I was finally able to work again. I did everything from hauling bricks to bagging sand to doing detail painting on one of the animals on the wall. It felt wonderful to be able to work alongside my team again.
Leaving on Friday was hard. I had been able to have some great conversations with some of the moms and the kids while we were there, and I felt like I'd developed relationships with a lot of them. I didn't want to leave; several of the kids and moms told me to stay. I left clinging to the hope that I will go back someday . . . but it still hurt to say goodbye.
The night before we left, the question "if you could change one thing about the week, what would it be?" came up. Everyone was kind of laughing and joking that I'd say I wouldn't go to the hospital. The funny thing was . . . that wasn't what I would have changed. I needed to learn to be humble; sadly enough, that was what it took to bring me to my knees before God. He used the frustrations of the week to create something beautiful. I am still processing all of the changes that took place in my heart while I was in Tijuana. I am much more willing to let go of things. I'm finally starting to understand what it means to surrender everything to God and to be content wherever I am, in whatever circumstance—not complacent or apathetic, but content. It was a hard lesson, but it was so worth it. Because my ability to work was taken from me, forcing me to slow down, I was able to develop relationships with people that probably would not have occurred if I had been healthy. If I could have changed anything about the week, I wouldn't have made it easier.
I would have made it longer.
When our team arrived at La Roca on the evening of March 6th, I was so happy I almost cried. I couldn't wait to reconnect with the friends I had made the year before and to start on our work project. The following morning we found out what that work project was—repainting the one-room kindergarten building at La Roca. We got to work right away scraping paint and priming the ceiling and the walls. Our team of 14 women and one very patient man was excited about this chance to be creative—we were given free-rein to design the room however we wanted. We decided on a Noah's Ark theme and started digging through coloring books for animals we could use for the walls.
That night, I went to bed around 10:30 feeling a little bit dehydrated. Shortly after midnight, I woke up, felt a little queasy, rolled over onto my back, and proceeded to vomit all over myself. I ran to the bathroom where I apparently spent the next two hours—I don't remember that much time passing. At some point during that time, one of my leaders knelt down beside me and said, "Look, Lyss, I know you're stubborn and you're not going to want to have to say this, but if you're going to need to go to the hospital, you have to tell me, because I can't make that decision for you." She was absolutely right—I am stubborn and I hate admitting that I need help. By that time, however, I had more or less reached my breaking point. I was losing a lot of water really fast, and I couldn't swallow without gagging, so I was getting incredibly dehydrated. I finally turned to my leader and told her that if I didn't stop throwing up in the next twenty minutes, we would have to go to the emergency room—I needed to get an IV if I hoped to get rehydrated.
I don't remember much of the trip to the hospital. I know that the road was bumpy, and that the guard at the border asked to see my face. Shortly after crossing the border into San Diego, we were at the emergency room. Several hours, some blood work, a CT scan, and one massive IV later, it was concluded that I had some sort of infection, but that it wasn't anything too serious. Once I got somewhat rehydrated, we left the hospital and headed back to La Roca, where I collapsed into bed and slept all but about two hours of the rest of the day.
The next day was Sunday. I felt significantly better when I woke up, but after walking down to breakfast, eating most of a pancake, and walking back to my room only to feel like I was going to crash again, I realized that I wasn't going to be able to spend the day with my team. The church everyone at La Roca was going to was 45 minutes away; the service was to be at least two hours long, and then they were planning to go to a park afterwards to have a picnic lunch and play soccer. I just didn't have the strength for a day like that. Andy, the incredibly patient leader who had taken me to the hospital, decided that she was going to stay with me so that I wouldn't spend the day alone. While it ended up being good for both of us (she needed the rest almost as much as I did), I felt terrible at the time. I felt like I was a burden to my team—a feeling that I loathed with every fiber of my being. In spite of that frustration, I knew that there wasn't much I could do about it, so I did my best to accept my temporary state of relative helplessness.
While Andy and I were alone at La Roca, I had to promise her that I would respect her decisions regarding what I could and could not do for the rest of the week as far as work was concerned. I promised that I would tell her if I needed to take a break, rather than being my usual stubborn self and just pushing through. It was not an easy promise to make. I love and respect Andy immensely, and I wanted to honor her as a leader, but I also wanted to keep believing that I could handle everything myself. I didn't want to admit that I needed help.
In the weeks before we left for Mexico, I was so excited to go back to La Roca. The week before the trip was one of the most anxiety-inducing weeks of my life. I was so ready to go down to Tijuana and be able to get my focus off of myself and just spend a week serving and caring for other people, and instead, within 36 hours of arriving, I was the one being served and cared for. The irony of it all was that just hours before I got sick I had shared my testimony with my team, deviating from what I was planning on saying to explain that God had been breaking me over the past couple of weeks, and that if any good came out of me being on the trip, it would be totally God, because I had nothing left to give—I needed to learn to let other people be there for me the way I loved to be there for them.
When the team returned from the park on Sunday, I had a sudden burst of energy. I ran upstairs, threw some regular clothes on, came back outside, and started playing with an adorable little four-year-old girl, picking her up and swinging her around. About ten minutes later, it started sinking in that I was feeling much better than I had been. I wasn't at 100% yet, but I was in a much better place than I was in when I woke up that morning.
Monday I was able to do some work painting and holding ladders for the girls who were painting the ceiling. I was doing well until about an hour before we stopped for the day—they needed people to haul rocks. It sounds crazy, but I wanted more than anything at that moment to be able to help. I knew that if I hadn't gotten sick, that would have been my job—that was what I did for most of the trip last year, and I had been waiting for the chance to do it again. Andy (wisely) wouldn't let me. At that point, my attitude was terrible. I knew that Satan was trying to turn a week that was hard but full of great (and necessary) lessons into something discouraging and negative . . . and it was working. I was determined not to let Satan ruin my week, however, so I did my best to give it over to God and to keep working where I could.
Tuesday was the day that we set aside to spoil the La Roca moms for a few hours. We had presents for each of them; we played games; we did their nails and hair . . . and we gave them backrubs. Some of the girls were doing laundry and cooking and cleaning while the rest of us worked on making the moms feel like princesses. They loved it. While there were some moments of frustration within the team, we were able to reach past that to make the day truly special for those women.
On Wednesday and Thursday, I was finally able to work again. I did everything from hauling bricks to bagging sand to doing detail painting on one of the animals on the wall. It felt wonderful to be able to work alongside my team again.
Leaving on Friday was hard. I had been able to have some great conversations with some of the moms and the kids while we were there, and I felt like I'd developed relationships with a lot of them. I didn't want to leave; several of the kids and moms told me to stay. I left clinging to the hope that I will go back someday . . . but it still hurt to say goodbye.
The night before we left, the question "if you could change one thing about the week, what would it be?" came up. Everyone was kind of laughing and joking that I'd say I wouldn't go to the hospital. The funny thing was . . . that wasn't what I would have changed. I needed to learn to be humble; sadly enough, that was what it took to bring me to my knees before God. He used the frustrations of the week to create something beautiful. I am still processing all of the changes that took place in my heart while I was in Tijuana. I am much more willing to let go of things. I'm finally starting to understand what it means to surrender everything to God and to be content wherever I am, in whatever circumstance—not complacent or apathetic, but content. It was a hard lesson, but it was so worth it. Because my ability to work was taken from me, forcing me to slow down, I was able to develop relationships with people that probably would not have occurred if I had been healthy. If I could have changed anything about the week, I wouldn't have made it easier.
I would have made it longer.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Why?
That is the question I have been asking myself today.
Have you ever had one of those inexplicably lonely days, the days when you just can't shake that gnawing feeling that you're missing out on something, even though you have no good reason to feel that way? I had one of those days today. It was also the sort of day that had me frustrated with someone even though I know that I shouldn't be, because I know that the person I've been frustrated with didn't mean any harm, but I was still feeling hurt, and that just added to the general loneliness of the day.
And now that it's almost 2 o'clock in the morning, I find myself asking, "Why?" Why on earth am I feeling like this right now? Part of me wants to just blame it on the fact that I'm on a rather powerful prescription medication for the duration of the weekend—the sort of thing that tends to make one crabby. However, after living with myself for almost 20 years, I generally know when I'm looking for a cop-out.
I guess I've come to the conclusion that I hate feeling needy, and therefore when I do feel like I just need a friend to be there for awhile, I try to ignore the feeling, and then I end up being all hurt and emo when no one else notices that I'm down. I'm afraid of being a leech. I'm afraid of taking away someone else's time, energy . . . maybe even love. I've been leeched off of so much in the past that I tend to push myself to the other extreme, to the point that I won't ask for help when I need it, which generally means getting myself into a funk that I will almost inevitably be stuck in for a week or two, and that could have been avoided had I gotten over myself and just asked someone for a hug or something when the whole darn thing started. (I don't think I've ever written a blog with so many ridiculously long sentences.)
Perhaps the question I should be asking right now is, "Why on earth am I so darn stubborn?"
(I apologize for the overwhelming vagueness and general lack of content in this post.)
Have you ever had one of those inexplicably lonely days, the days when you just can't shake that gnawing feeling that you're missing out on something, even though you have no good reason to feel that way? I had one of those days today. It was also the sort of day that had me frustrated with someone even though I know that I shouldn't be, because I know that the person I've been frustrated with didn't mean any harm, but I was still feeling hurt, and that just added to the general loneliness of the day.
And now that it's almost 2 o'clock in the morning, I find myself asking, "Why?" Why on earth am I feeling like this right now? Part of me wants to just blame it on the fact that I'm on a rather powerful prescription medication for the duration of the weekend—the sort of thing that tends to make one crabby. However, after living with myself for almost 20 years, I generally know when I'm looking for a cop-out.
I guess I've come to the conclusion that I hate feeling needy, and therefore when I do feel like I just need a friend to be there for awhile, I try to ignore the feeling, and then I end up being all hurt and emo when no one else notices that I'm down. I'm afraid of being a leech. I'm afraid of taking away someone else's time, energy . . . maybe even love. I've been leeched off of so much in the past that I tend to push myself to the other extreme, to the point that I won't ask for help when I need it, which generally means getting myself into a funk that I will almost inevitably be stuck in for a week or two, and that could have been avoided had I gotten over myself and just asked someone for a hug or something when the whole darn thing started. (I don't think I've ever written a blog with so many ridiculously long sentences.)
Perhaps the question I should be asking right now is, "Why on earth am I so darn stubborn?"
(I apologize for the overwhelming vagueness and general lack of content in this post.)
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Misplaced Sorrow?
I have been rather astounded this week and how attached I can become to certain inanimate objects.
My car died this week. The power steering is, for all practical purposes, gone. It is technically fixable, but my family doesn't really want to put that much more money into a minivan with almost 140,000 miles on it.
Those of you who know me well can probably guess that I was pretty devastated when it happened. I love that car. It's an 1998 Ford Windstar Limited . . . a pretty nice looking minivan (though it only has one back door . . . a characteristic that made my car exceedingly ghetto in the eyes of the kids I nannied last summer). It's the car I've driven since I got my permit. I've driven very few other cars . . . I've avoided it as much as possible. The Beast, as I've affectionately called it for years now (Becky the Beast, actually), has a character all its own. There's a short in both turn signals that occasionally causes them to buzz before actually turning on. The engine was pretty powerful for a minivan, and because of its rather advanced age, it absolutely roars when accelerating even a little bit. There are a few scuffs on some of the corners (learning experiences that, thankfully, haven't been repeated), and there's rust around one of the rear wheel-wells and under the gas cap, and there are two holes in the back bumper (recent installments . . . the result of me getting rear-ended just after school started).
I know just about every dent in the car. I can tell you where about half of them came from. I can tell you that the car pulls to the left no matter how many times the tires are realigned. I can tell you that on a good day, until the power steering went out, the car could handle going 80 down the freeway without any trouble. The fastest I ever got the car to go was 90 . . . I slowed down when I smelled something burning, and never saw any other negative results of that 5-second rush. :)
I just loved driving the Beast. I'd go get myself lost out in the middle of nowhere and just drive, perfectly content.
My car's been with me to hell and back. It's always been my place of safety . . . whenever I've needed to get away from everything, whenever I've just needed somewhere to be alone to think or pray or cry, I've hidden in my car. Thinking back on how many accidents I've probably narrowly avoided (the whole driving and crying thing doesn't work very well), I'm beginning to think that the Beast has been my inanimate guardian angel for the past few years.
I had to say goodbye to the Beast this afternoon.
I cried.
The whole time I kept trying to tell myself that it was just a car . . . that I shouldn't be so upset. After all, God has been faithful and has provided a "new" minivan (new being very relative . . . this one has just over 117k miles on it), so I still have a car that I can feel comfortable driving. And yet . . . part of me still feels like I lost a close friend today.
And it's making me wonder how my life would be different if I cared about the fate of people as much as I cared about my car.
I mean, really . . . we're donating the Beast to Courage Center (since it will be perfectly drivable once the power steering is replaced), so it's not really dying. I'm just not going to be able to see it anymore. But I have friends who are spiritually dead . . . friends who, if they died tomorrow, I would lose for all eternity. However . . . I can't remember the last time that made me cry.
I'm thinking there's something wrong with this picture.
My car died this week. The power steering is, for all practical purposes, gone. It is technically fixable, but my family doesn't really want to put that much more money into a minivan with almost 140,000 miles on it.
Those of you who know me well can probably guess that I was pretty devastated when it happened. I love that car. It's an 1998 Ford Windstar Limited . . . a pretty nice looking minivan (though it only has one back door . . . a characteristic that made my car exceedingly ghetto in the eyes of the kids I nannied last summer). It's the car I've driven since I got my permit. I've driven very few other cars . . . I've avoided it as much as possible. The Beast, as I've affectionately called it for years now (Becky the Beast, actually), has a character all its own. There's a short in both turn signals that occasionally causes them to buzz before actually turning on. The engine was pretty powerful for a minivan, and because of its rather advanced age, it absolutely roars when accelerating even a little bit. There are a few scuffs on some of the corners (learning experiences that, thankfully, haven't been repeated), and there's rust around one of the rear wheel-wells and under the gas cap, and there are two holes in the back bumper (recent installments . . . the result of me getting rear-ended just after school started).
I know just about every dent in the car. I can tell you where about half of them came from. I can tell you that the car pulls to the left no matter how many times the tires are realigned. I can tell you that on a good day, until the power steering went out, the car could handle going 80 down the freeway without any trouble. The fastest I ever got the car to go was 90 . . . I slowed down when I smelled something burning, and never saw any other negative results of that 5-second rush. :)
I just loved driving the Beast. I'd go get myself lost out in the middle of nowhere and just drive, perfectly content.
My car's been with me to hell and back. It's always been my place of safety . . . whenever I've needed to get away from everything, whenever I've just needed somewhere to be alone to think or pray or cry, I've hidden in my car. Thinking back on how many accidents I've probably narrowly avoided (the whole driving and crying thing doesn't work very well), I'm beginning to think that the Beast has been my inanimate guardian angel for the past few years.
I had to say goodbye to the Beast this afternoon.
I cried.
The whole time I kept trying to tell myself that it was just a car . . . that I shouldn't be so upset. After all, God has been faithful and has provided a "new" minivan (new being very relative . . . this one has just over 117k miles on it), so I still have a car that I can feel comfortable driving. And yet . . . part of me still feels like I lost a close friend today.
And it's making me wonder how my life would be different if I cared about the fate of people as much as I cared about my car.
I mean, really . . . we're donating the Beast to Courage Center (since it will be perfectly drivable once the power steering is replaced), so it's not really dying. I'm just not going to be able to see it anymore. But I have friends who are spiritually dead . . . friends who, if they died tomorrow, I would lose for all eternity. However . . . I can't remember the last time that made me cry.
I'm thinking there's something wrong with this picture.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Thinking about the Future
I've been doing a lot of thinking lately . . . particularly about the semester after I graduate from Northwestern. I'm graduating a semester early, so the plan has been me working for that spring semester and then going off to grad school the next fall. At least . . . that's been the plan until recently.
Last spring break I went on a missions trip to Tijuana, Mexico. We worked at a mission called La Roca . . . it's basically a shelter for battered women and their children, a place where they can stay as long as they're willing to earn their keep helping with chores and such, where the children can go to school, where they can learn skills to help them make it on their own when they decide to leave, and most importantly, where their souls can be fed. In the week or so that I was there, I absolutely fell in love with the place. The ministry is one that is very dear to my heart—it shares my passion for battered women. While I was there, I felt for the first time in my life that I could possibly live and work quite happily outside of the country . . . or even outside of the Twin Cities.
That feeling hasn't left me in the almost 11 months since I returned from that trip. I could probably count on one hand how many days have gone by since then that I haven't thought about Mexico. Now, I'm gearing up to go back in less than 6 weeks for another spring break missions trip to the same location . . . and I've made a decision that could mean me taking the greatest step of faith of my life so far. When I go back to Tijuana, I'm going to ask the director of La Roca about the possibility of working there for the 6 months or so between graduation and grad school.
Even as I'm writing this, the idea sort of startles me. I've thought about the possibility off and on since I was there last, but not until the last couple of weeks has it seemed real to me. Never in my life had I considered going into missions, even short term. I simply didn't see that as my future. Even now, going to a Bible college, I'm not majoring or even minoring in missions. All that I know of missions is what I have seen and heard from friends and family who have served/are serving around the world. I cannot see myself as a missionary.
However . . . I can see myself working and serving others in another country, at least short term. I suppose they're really the same thing, but me being a missionary is just . . . such a foreign concept. I can love people, I can serve people, I can help people . . . but win people to Christ? I'm tempted to laugh out loud at the thought. I know very well how wretched of a sinner I am. I don't need a fire and brimstone sermon to convince me of that. I fail in so many ways every single day of my walk with God. Half the time I don't even really know what I believe beyond the very basics of Christianity, but I do know that I do NOT believe in shoving my beliefs down anyone's throat. I can engage someone in a philosophical and theological debate, but unless I feel a clear nudge from God, I won't push such a debate into a "you're going to hell unless you believe in Christ as your Savior" conversation.
It's ridiculous that such an image comes to my mind when I think of myself being a missionary. None of the missionaries I have ever had the privilege of knowing come across that way. Unfortunately, that seems to be the general impression that the rest of the world has of Christianity, and because of certain encounters that I've had with other "Christians," I'm afraid I often find myself agreeing with that impression.
Maybe that's why I feel like God might be calling me into . . . well, a missionary role of sorts. Maybe He's calling me because I could use the proof that even someone as confused and sinful (and often stupid) as I am can be used by Him.
The idea of going into missions (at least short term . . . after grad school, God alone knows what I'll be doing) scares me. A lot. But not nearly as much as I would have expected it to. I know that I can't possibly do it on my own . . . but if God is working in and through me, the possibilities are virtually endless. So whether I wind up in Mexico, somewhere else in Latin America, or on the other side of the globe . . . I think it's going to be ok. Challenging, yes . . . uncomfortable, yes . . . but good. Because no matter what happens, God will still be good, and He will still be God . . . so what in the world am I worrying about?
Last spring break I went on a missions trip to Tijuana, Mexico. We worked at a mission called La Roca . . . it's basically a shelter for battered women and their children, a place where they can stay as long as they're willing to earn their keep helping with chores and such, where the children can go to school, where they can learn skills to help them make it on their own when they decide to leave, and most importantly, where their souls can be fed. In the week or so that I was there, I absolutely fell in love with the place. The ministry is one that is very dear to my heart—it shares my passion for battered women. While I was there, I felt for the first time in my life that I could possibly live and work quite happily outside of the country . . . or even outside of the Twin Cities.
That feeling hasn't left me in the almost 11 months since I returned from that trip. I could probably count on one hand how many days have gone by since then that I haven't thought about Mexico. Now, I'm gearing up to go back in less than 6 weeks for another spring break missions trip to the same location . . . and I've made a decision that could mean me taking the greatest step of faith of my life so far. When I go back to Tijuana, I'm going to ask the director of La Roca about the possibility of working there for the 6 months or so between graduation and grad school.
Even as I'm writing this, the idea sort of startles me. I've thought about the possibility off and on since I was there last, but not until the last couple of weeks has it seemed real to me. Never in my life had I considered going into missions, even short term. I simply didn't see that as my future. Even now, going to a Bible college, I'm not majoring or even minoring in missions. All that I know of missions is what I have seen and heard from friends and family who have served/are serving around the world. I cannot see myself as a missionary.
However . . . I can see myself working and serving others in another country, at least short term. I suppose they're really the same thing, but me being a missionary is just . . . such a foreign concept. I can love people, I can serve people, I can help people . . . but win people to Christ? I'm tempted to laugh out loud at the thought. I know very well how wretched of a sinner I am. I don't need a fire and brimstone sermon to convince me of that. I fail in so many ways every single day of my walk with God. Half the time I don't even really know what I believe beyond the very basics of Christianity, but I do know that I do NOT believe in shoving my beliefs down anyone's throat. I can engage someone in a philosophical and theological debate, but unless I feel a clear nudge from God, I won't push such a debate into a "you're going to hell unless you believe in Christ as your Savior" conversation.
It's ridiculous that such an image comes to my mind when I think of myself being a missionary. None of the missionaries I have ever had the privilege of knowing come across that way. Unfortunately, that seems to be the general impression that the rest of the world has of Christianity, and because of certain encounters that I've had with other "Christians," I'm afraid I often find myself agreeing with that impression.
Maybe that's why I feel like God might be calling me into . . . well, a missionary role of sorts. Maybe He's calling me because I could use the proof that even someone as confused and sinful (and often stupid) as I am can be used by Him.
The idea of going into missions (at least short term . . . after grad school, God alone knows what I'll be doing) scares me. A lot. But not nearly as much as I would have expected it to. I know that I can't possibly do it on my own . . . but if God is working in and through me, the possibilities are virtually endless. So whether I wind up in Mexico, somewhere else in Latin America, or on the other side of the globe . . . I think it's going to be ok. Challenging, yes . . . uncomfortable, yes . . . but good. Because no matter what happens, God will still be good, and He will still be God . . . so what in the world am I worrying about?
Monday, December 17, 2007
Grace and Love
Some interesting questions came up when I was talking with some friends last weekend. The biggest of these questions was, "Why do people love each other?" While that's a good question, a better question was found in the thought that the big question sprang from: "I'm a terrible person . . . I have so many flaws, I fail so often . . . I'm just all-around inadequate. Knowing how horrid I actually am, why would anyone love me?"
It's a question we've probably all asked at one time or another . . . some of us with more frequency and a greater sense of self-doubt than others. It's a question that I've struggled with for years. I've done some pretty terrible things . . . heck, I DO some pretty terrible things on a fairly regular basis. There are days when I'm pretty convinced that if people had any idea how often and how far I fall, they would run as fast as they could in the opposite direction.
It's interesting how hearing someone else ask the question in your own heart can help you get a little bit closer to an answer.
Here's the thing . . . I don't know that love needs to make sense. In fact, if love made sense, it probably wouldn't be love, because love is such a reflection of God's character, and God's character is not something we can ever hope to fully grasp. I can't exactly explain why I love anyone; I just do. Love isn't dependent upon merit. Love acknowledges flaws and emphasizes strengths. Unless it's love for God, love isn't something that's ever really deserved. It's just given.
When it comes down to it, rejecting the love of another person because you think you don't deserve it really amounts to 1) accusing that person of being an idiot and 2) throwing something wonderful that they're offering freely back in their face. It ultimately comes down to a question of whether you believe that God knew what He was doing when He saved you. If He did, then you must have a great deal of worth, regardless of your ability to see it.
Granted, it's a lot easier to say that than it is to take it to heart. I know it, I believe it . . . but can I accept it?
I believe that one of Satan's strongest lies is that beating ourselves up over our failures will somehow make up for them. It's ingrained in us as human beings—all across time and culture, sacrifice of some sort has been the common answer to the problem of human failure. I actually did a project about the concept in my AP Psych class my senior year of high school, which culminated in what may be my best (and certainly my most morbid) artistic endeavors:
Here's the thing. Yes, we need to acknowledge when we've messed up. We need to realize that we're flawed individuals in need of a Savior. But continually beating ourselves up over past mistakes is wrong. That Savior that we so desperately need already came in the form of Jesus Christ. He's already paid the price for our failures. Clinging to those failures is the moral equivalent of slapping Christ in the face and saying His sacrifice wasn't good enough.
Last week in one of my psych classes we talked about forgiveness. My professor told us that there are three kinds of forgiveness, and that all three are important: forgiveness of others, forgiveness of circumstance, and forgiveness of self. Forgiveness isn't forgetting. Forgiveness isn't pretending that what happened was right. Forgiveness is realizing that dwelling on what happened isn't going to make it go away. Forgiveness of self is realizing that the fact that you fail doesn't make you a failure—it makes you human. It's looking at failure as an opportunity for improvement rather than a reason to develop a self-depreciating attitude.
But thanks be to God that, though you used to be slaves to sin, you wholeheartedly obeyed the form of teaching to which you were entrusted. You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness.
Romans 6:17-18
If we have accepted Christ's gift of salvation, that means that we're not slaves to sin anymore. It doesn't mean that we never fail anymore, but it means that our failures don't own us any longer! Christ died on the cross so that sinful people like us could be free, not so that we could keep going around beating up on ourselves for what we've done wrong. He made the ultimate sacrifice so that we don't have to. Too often we try to complicate God's gift of grace. We try to make it all about us, when really, it isn't dependent on us at all. By saving us, God brings glory to Himself. Because really, what could be greater evidence of His glory than the gift of eternal life that He offers to us freely?
It's a question we've probably all asked at one time or another . . . some of us with more frequency and a greater sense of self-doubt than others. It's a question that I've struggled with for years. I've done some pretty terrible things . . . heck, I DO some pretty terrible things on a fairly regular basis. There are days when I'm pretty convinced that if people had any idea how often and how far I fall, they would run as fast as they could in the opposite direction.
It's interesting how hearing someone else ask the question in your own heart can help you get a little bit closer to an answer.
Here's the thing . . . I don't know that love needs to make sense. In fact, if love made sense, it probably wouldn't be love, because love is such a reflection of God's character, and God's character is not something we can ever hope to fully grasp. I can't exactly explain why I love anyone; I just do. Love isn't dependent upon merit. Love acknowledges flaws and emphasizes strengths. Unless it's love for God, love isn't something that's ever really deserved. It's just given.
When it comes down to it, rejecting the love of another person because you think you don't deserve it really amounts to 1) accusing that person of being an idiot and 2) throwing something wonderful that they're offering freely back in their face. It ultimately comes down to a question of whether you believe that God knew what He was doing when He saved you. If He did, then you must have a great deal of worth, regardless of your ability to see it.
Granted, it's a lot easier to say that than it is to take it to heart. I know it, I believe it . . . but can I accept it?
I believe that one of Satan's strongest lies is that beating ourselves up over our failures will somehow make up for them. It's ingrained in us as human beings—all across time and culture, sacrifice of some sort has been the common answer to the problem of human failure. I actually did a project about the concept in my AP Psych class my senior year of high school, which culminated in what may be my best (and certainly my most morbid) artistic endeavors:
Here's the thing. Yes, we need to acknowledge when we've messed up. We need to realize that we're flawed individuals in need of a Savior. But continually beating ourselves up over past mistakes is wrong. That Savior that we so desperately need already came in the form of Jesus Christ. He's already paid the price for our failures. Clinging to those failures is the moral equivalent of slapping Christ in the face and saying His sacrifice wasn't good enough.
Last week in one of my psych classes we talked about forgiveness. My professor told us that there are three kinds of forgiveness, and that all three are important: forgiveness of others, forgiveness of circumstance, and forgiveness of self. Forgiveness isn't forgetting. Forgiveness isn't pretending that what happened was right. Forgiveness is realizing that dwelling on what happened isn't going to make it go away. Forgiveness of self is realizing that the fact that you fail doesn't make you a failure—it makes you human. It's looking at failure as an opportunity for improvement rather than a reason to develop a self-depreciating attitude.
But thanks be to God that, though you used to be slaves to sin, you wholeheartedly obeyed the form of teaching to which you were entrusted. You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness.
Romans 6:17-18
If we have accepted Christ's gift of salvation, that means that we're not slaves to sin anymore. It doesn't mean that we never fail anymore, but it means that our failures don't own us any longer! Christ died on the cross so that sinful people like us could be free, not so that we could keep going around beating up on ourselves for what we've done wrong. He made the ultimate sacrifice so that we don't have to. Too often we try to complicate God's gift of grace. We try to make it all about us, when really, it isn't dependent on us at all. By saving us, God brings glory to Himself. Because really, what could be greater evidence of His glory than the gift of eternal life that He offers to us freely?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
"The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn . . . "
Those of you who have seen the movie Moulin Rouge (and many of you who haven't) know how to finish the title.
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."
There's also Ewan McGregor's repeated rant about love:
"Love is like oxygen. Love is a many-splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!"
Sappy, right? Especially within the context of the movie, where the focus is entirely about romantic love (and/or lust). But if we take those lines out of context and look at them in terms of life in general . . . there is so much truth in them!
I was talking with one of my roommates about Love last night. She was reading 1 Corinthians 13 before she went to bed. Just about everyone has heard this passage before:
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
I've been learning a lot about what it means to love this semester. I have been so weary, so utterly at the end of myself, that I have started to see more clearly what it means to let God love others through me. I haven't had anything of my own to give until this last week, really; and yet, I found that I was able to help some people through hard times better than I would ever have been able to on my own power. God is just awesome like that.
I've also been learning how to be loved. I discovered several years ago that I'm not very good at accepting love. I want to be self-sufficient. I'm stubborn, I'm independent, and I'm too smart for my own good. I don't want help from anyone. This semester, though . . . I have been forced to seek out help for the first time in ages. I've needed to rely on one friend in particular more than I've ever really relied on anyone. She's been absolutely amazing, and the best part of all of it is that she's been able to rely on me, too.
Over the past three months, I have been completely broken. I have had panic attacks, I've bawled my eyes out, I've spent large amounts of time hiding in my car or going for walks by myself because I didn't know where else to go or what else to do with myself. I've struggled to focus in my classes. I've barely felt human.
Things are finally looking up. I found out why I was struggling so much, and now I'm working to make it right. But part of that is asking for help . . . and for grace. I'm finding myself going to my professors to figure out how I'll end up with decent grades at the end of the semester.
God has been so faithful in all of this. He's blessed me with the most amazing friends I could possibly have asked for. I totally don't deserve them. He's given me the strength that I've needed to get through everything. He's humbled me. He's been gracious and patient with me. He's never left me for a moment.
When you think about it, the description of Love in 1 Corinthians 13 is, in many ways, a description of God's character. Think about it.
God is patient, God is kind. He does not envy, He does not boast, He is not proud. He is not rude, He is not self-seeking, He is not easily angered, He keeps no record of wrongs. God does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. God always protects, is always trustworthy, always gives us reason to hope, always gives us the strength to persevere. God never fails.
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