Five Loaves and Two Fish

John 6:1-14
"After these things Jesus went away to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. A large crowd followed Him, because they saw the signs which He was performing on those who were sick. Then Jesus went up on the mountain, and there He sat down with His disciples. Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was near. Therefore, Jesus, lifting up His eyes and seeing that a large crowd was coming to Him, said to Philip, 'Where are we to buy bread, so that these may eat?'

This He was saying to test him, for He Himself knew what He was intending to do. Philip answered Him, "Two hundred denarii worth of bread is not sufficient for them, for everyone to receive even just a little."

One of His disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter's brother, said to Him, 'There is a lad here who has five barely loaves and two fish, but what are these for so many people?'

Jesus said, 'Have the people sit down.' Now there was much grass in the place. So the men sat down, in number about five thousand.

Jesus then took the loaves, and having given thanks, He distributed to those who were seated; likewise also of the fish as much as the crowd wanted.

When they were filled, He said to His disciples, 'Gather up the leftover fragments so that nothing will be lost.'

So they gathered them up, and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves which were left over by those who had eaten. Therefore, when the people saw the sign which He had performed, they said 'This has truly been done by the Prophet who is to come into the world.'"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I have heard this story many, many times. And, each time, there is a sense of God's power and control even under seemingly impossible scenarios. God loves to surprise and astound. But, this morning I read it again, and I had a new thought.

In just a few weeks, I will be welcoming students into my classroom for the first time. I will be the teacher, and they will be the student. I will be the one responsible for teaching them, guiding them, and leading them. As a first year teacher, I feel as though I don't have much to offer them in terms of experience and knowledge. As much as student teaching taught me, I am overwhelmed with the truth that there is so much that I don't know. I am overwhelmed with the knowledge that my students will need so much more from me than I can possibly give.

When I read this story this morning, a new thought entered my mind.

I am the five loaves and two fish. My students are the crowd. I am not enough.

How can I possibly feed so many people with such little food? How can I possibly give my students what they need when I am so inadequate? What I have to offer won't fill them; they need more than what I can give.

As humbling as this is, it also brings me peace. Thank God it isn't all up to me. Thank God my God loves to use the poor of His world to bring glory to Him. Thank God He works miracles.

God can meet our needs. Where my abilities and experience lack, God provides in abundance.


I love that the account ends with the disciples filling baskets of leftovers. God is extreme, excessive. When He provides, He does so in abundance - more than I need. I have to trust that God will be excessive in my life this school year. He will multiply my meager abilities as a teacher to fill these kids to the brim, to go beyond just the basics of what they need.

John 10:10
"...I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

Feel encouraged, as I was this morning, that God works above and beyond our capabilities. Do not let the knowledge that you are the five loaves and two fish create in you a heart of trepidation, but let it encourage you, enliven you, that He multiplies our abilities to bring about miracles. Be at peace. Be at rest. You serve a God who is excessive in His provision!

Evolution

I love starting out my writing with a soft prickle of longing. That feeling you get when someone describes an experience in which you feel the soft, round head of a baby, see the slim shadow of a moonlit night that makes you do crazy things, or rise to the stinging kiss the sun smacks on your neck as you lie on the grass.
I can't always twirl my words into elaborate curly-q's of gorgeous verbosity. I can't always summon the inspiration I so desperately require to write. My life isn't brimming with the frothy decadence of leisure. It isn't always easy to turn a frown upside down and see the silver lining.

And sometimes. Sometimes it isn't easy to write from my heart, and so I leave a person silly cliche's and half-hearted attempts to explain myself. Verbal vomit to a writer.

I think that those particular sort of inspirations just won't always come naturally.

The idea of things being in their "natural" state is an interesting one. Whether one bends towards Darwinism or Creationism, or probably any other type of "ism", the theory of evolution would immediately agree with the fact that one's "natural" state is usually their weakest. It is the state in which you are seemingly not evolved, unacquainted with the requirements for survival or growth. Lion cubs must learn to hunt quietly for their prey or they will never eat. Birds must learn to fly in order to escape hunters. Children must learn what is safe and what is not safe (for quite obvious reasons).

Recently, I have been at odds with seeing myself in my natural state vs. seeing myself as God sees me.

I am learning that much of what I am called to do is trust that my God will show me the gospel more and more each day, and, in turn, train me towards obedience -evolve me into a woman who believes and lives out the gospel - every aspect of it.

Father that He is, he guides ever so gently and reminds me that who I am is not just me. Who I am is not what I do or think or feel or say. Who I am is not my reputation. Who I am is not what I can give.

Who I was is covered by Jesus and who I am is nothing short of beautiful to Him.

A friend recently told me "God can't possibly love you any more or less than He does right now. You could sit in a chair never doing anything for Him for the rest of your life and His love for you wouldn't change." If you are a child of God, He loves you WHILE you are sinning. This is not to say that a child of God can go and sin and not reap consequences, but the idea that God loves me even while I am sinning sort of rocks my world.

I am currently doing two completely different Bible studies that are seemingly unrelated, but are actually addressing common themes - the gospel. I challenge you, what are your misconceptions about the gospel and how God views you. One of the questions in the study is "suppose God were sitting across from you. What would His expression be or what would He say?"


I stammered a response that I didn't really feel but knew was right. I knew what the correct response should be "He loves me. He forgives me. He rejoices in me." But what is your immediate answer? Perhaps like me, you have unknowingly screwed up the point of the gospel.
The point is this: God knew we needed to be cleaned from all of our sin. His standards (like the 10 commandments) can never be kept. He considers thinking hateful thoughts about a person murder. He considers lustful ideas or glances adultery. Because of this, He gave us his son who died in our place so that we could live. God's perfect son died in my place so that I could live in His name.

God didn't leave me in my natural state of sin. He took it on Himself and gave me His perfect son to live in.

Picture yourself volunteering at a men's jail. Your duty is to go to each room and refill their water bottles. Feeling compassionate, you open yourself to conversation with the prisoners. You stop by one cell and engage in conversation with a man who is on death row. He is dirty, lice-ridden, and smells. His teeth are yellow and saliva spills from his mouth when he speaks. Turns out, he was a murderer, He has molested women and children. He is a thief, a drug addict, an alcohol addict, a sex addict, and doesn't care about anyone but himself. This conversation with such an evil man brings back memories of your mother's molestation one night when your father wasn't home and it was just you, your siblings, and your mother. You watched as a man spit on each one of you, held a gun to your heads, and then made you and your siblings watch as he raped your mother. Shortly after, your mother died of aids. As you are talking with this man, you realize that he looks familiar and flashbacks to your childhood make you certain that this is the man who killed your mother. Despite the fact that you have lived a life of honesty, integrity, and love towards all people, you have never been able to erase that hurt. Moved with compassion and love, you slowly rise and put your hand on the man's shoulder. Your tender eyes rest on his and you ask him what love means to him. He answers that he has never experienced it or given it. You take off your coat and slide off your shoes. You give him all the money you have. You tell him his wrongdoings have been forgiven and that he should go in peace. He leaves with your name. He now owns your house, your possessions, and your perfect reputation. The next day, when his death sentence is read and the electric chair is waiting for him, you take your place and wait. From outside the jailhouse, the convicted man is living your successful happy life and living in new found love and freedom. You breathe your last in a steel, cold chair, and pay the price for this man's life of hatred.

All believability aside, this is what Jesus has done for me. In fact, the gospel is outrageous. No way would an innocent perfect man give up his life so that a twisted sinner could live a more abundant one.  I am the convicted felon. I am the murderer, the rapist, the thief. I am given new life because Jesus has taken my place because He wanted to show me what love is.

And so, this is the freedom and love I should live my life by. I am no longer in my natural state. This is what it means when I read "Christ's love compels me..." Because of what he has done, I can do.

I also like to end my writing with some sort of clincher that might cause a person to swoon. I slip in a dramatic tid-bit of information that transforms a perspective completely. I might end abruptly, asking a person to reconsider what they have read. I might end in a description or revisit the scene of the opening. I allow my reader to leave changed...if they want to.

But sometimes, it is 12:15 am and those things won't come. Clinchers don't surface. Pithy statements won't reveal. Precision won't come. And I start repeating the same words I have used over and over. A verbal merry-go-round.

I hit spell check. I resist a re-read. I hit shut down. And it ends.

A New Name

Ah, a new post!
Ah, a new name!
Ah...the same woman.

Lady in waiting. I liked it. I still do. But right now, I feel as though God is teaching me that He is my home and my resting place. Wherever He is, I am home. To Webster, a "vagabond" describes a person who doesn't have a home and lives as a wanderer without any direction. At times, I feel like this. But when I decided on the name Vagabond, I really mean it to describe what God is teaching me in respect to my home and my security. If I don't "store up" my treasures here on earth, and if I try my best live each day fully accepting whichever turn of events life brings, then that must mean that my aim isn't to find my security in what my physical world can offer.

I want my joy, my inspiration, my motivation, and my security to derive solely from Him and because of Him. Thus, Vagabond. I don't know what I am doing. I don't know where I will be going. I don't know why He has me here or there, or anywhere. But, I want to be willing to trust, follow, and not worry. I need not fear. He calls me to trust.

Also, Bethany Dillon's "Vagabond" is quite inspirational. It has been one of my long-time favorites.

I know of a man who lives on the other side
On the other side of this mountain
They say he's calling the weary home

I've been told of a man who lives on the other side
On the other side of this mountain
With a heart full of stories of hope

So run like a vagabond, carry the flame
Run for the children and run for the slaves
Hold it up high with a message of faith
Don't ever stop moving on
Just run like a vagabond

His book is a gun that he reads for the people
The words that he speaks have been colored illegal
But the law that he's under is bigger than paper and gowns

He stayed in the streets where the beggars are broken
He's risking is life, a bullseye in the open
But he won't stop to rest until he's reached every town

So run like a vagabond, carry the flame
Run for the children and run for the slaves
Hold it up high with a message of faith
Don't ever stop moving on
Just run like a vagabond

Beautiful Things

I was skirting along the fringe of Portland, Maine’s shore when I saw my first lighthouse. Buttressed against the shouldered cliff of the ocean, it poised at attention, fixated towards the water. As I stood in awe of the rounded structure before me, I noticed an old woman nestled in a cove some distance off shore. Her only companions were her easel and painting tools. She and I were the only people around. Like me, she seemed to be thankful for the tranquility, solitude. I could hear the cawing of the seagulls and the crashing of the waves in the distance, the salty residue of the sea blowing on my face. Naturally, I edged closer to the cove, vying for a glimpse of her canvas. I found a bench and settled to watch the old woman paint the lighthouse—a subject that seemed too monstrous to capture realistically. I gathered that she had been here a while, as her worn linen chair sunk with the weight of her body. She seemed private at first, seeing me eye her work. But I smiled and cast my gaze at the lighthouse, hoping to respect her privacy. Her shoulders relaxed and she continued. With each stroke of her brush, the artist recreated the lighthouse and the scene before us. Her delicate lines on the canvas captured the white-capped waves that crept near the coast, seduced by the tower. Back and forth, my eyes went from the lighthouse to the artist until the two forged in my mind. Erect and queenly, the tower manifested her power as her soft light pierced the pastel horizon, ready to guide the beasts who ride the sea. Humming to herself, the artist patiently turned her canvas of muddled acrylic dabs into a dazzling replica of the lighthouse. The gray and white strokes formed into the rounded brick exterior of the lighthouse; she even included the shadows cast by the descending sun, giving the bricks realistic depth. With every sweep of her brush, she became more focused, her brows furrowing in contemplation. Her eyes narrowed into concentrated slivers as she agonized over the tiniest detail. As she studied the lighthouse, the woman’s iridescent blue eyes reflected the golden crown suspended above the tower. As I glanced from her canvas to the lighthouse, I began to better understand why she chose the structure as her model. The artist seemed to pay careful attention to the cracks in the brick of the lighthouse, sweeping over again and again until the missing pieces became small black caves, offset by the creamy white whole bricks.

Though I am no artist, I have an eye for seeing beauty out of seemingly ordinary things. Perhaps it is because I love to write and appreciate the opportunity to capture life realistically. It is often the most ordinary of things that bring me inspiration. A lighthouse is only ordinary if you live near the sea. The woman, though, was of the ordinary type, not strikingly beautiful or unnaturally homely. She had thin white hair that bent with the tease of the wind. She had a dark mole near her right eye that, as a child, she probably had to come to terms with. Her hands were not even graceful or delicate, as one may assume a painter’s might be. As I examined her person, I noticed that she was missing a leg. The remaining portion of her leg was positioned upon a sturdy wooden stool. I suppose it would be easy to characterize her as disabled or not “whole.” But, to me, she was beautiful. I could see the reflection of her gaze in her blue eyes. She scrutinized the lighthouse not as a critic might, but as a mother examines her newborn’s face—lovingly. The cracks, the mold, and the discolored surface of the structure only quickened her hand to capture its realness. As I stood there, careful to not disturb her momentum, I realized that she understood the concept of beauty. Beauty can exist even where there are imperfections.

I have come to appreciate the uniqueness, the realness of people who are labeled as imperfect. Perhaps, my perspective was formed from having a close friend who is wheel-chair bound. Perhaps, it is because I have always loved the bright personality that children with Down syndrome so often have. Perhaps it is because I struggled with being self-conscious about my looks as a young girl. Either way, when I pass a person on the street with a missing limb or a damaged facial feature, I can’t help but see the work of God. The band Gungor sings a song with the line “You make beautiful things, You make beautiful things out of the dust.” Man’s life came from dust. Man’s beauty comes not from what he is made up of, but because of who made him.

I remember once seeing a young woman who had the majority of both her arms missing. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt. I assumed she lost her arms in an accident as evidenced by the burn scares on her shoulders. I was in a coffee shop and she was refilling her tea. Her stature was straight, confident. She ignored wayward eyes that tried to steal a glance of what was left of her arms. She walked quietly, precisely, towards the refill station and politely refused the waitress’s offer to refill her cup for her. Instead, she balanced her tea cup between the two nubs of her arms and slowly positioned it on the counter, scooting it close to the tea kettle. Then, she lifted the tea kettle the same way and slowly poured the hot liquid into her tea cup, all the while being careful to keep the kettle erect between her two nubs. She was capable. She need not be coddled or pitied for her deformity. She was whole, useful. “There is God,” I thought. He is as much a part of her missing arms as He is a part of my whole ones.

Like the woman in the coffee shop, and like the woman near the lighthouse, I too have my imperfections. I have a scar through one of my eyebrows. I have terrible vision without corrective lenses. I had bowed legs when I was young. Though I have no permanent or obvious deformities, I have imperfections, faults, oddities. Life is made up of imperfections. Mistakes often lead to revelation, quirks make a person unique, imperfections allow for grace so that beauty is able to shine through. The lighthouse was not perfect. Evidence of decades of neglect and flooding and chips in the white-bricked exterior spoke of the lighthouse’s tumultuous life. Still, its golden head shone through the darkness. Though it was no longer physically in pristine condition, it still served its purpose. Like her subject, the artist was not young, or without imperfection. She too had evidence of life’s storms—white hair, wrinkles, missing leg. But, her hands expertly captured whatever image her sapphire eyes reflected. Her purpose was not lost in her circumstances. Her beauty was not scathed by her appearance.
The once smoldering sun tiptoed away as I watched. An hour had passed. As I was getting up, the old woman leaned her head my direction and nodded towards the canvas, then the lighthouse. Saying without words, “what do you think?” Surprised at her gesture, I stepped forward and eyed her work. I uttered my approval, taken aback by my own voice filling the silence. I bid a silent goodbye to the rounded palace and made my way back down the rocky path. I don’t know why the artist asked me what I thought about her painting of the lighthouse; she was certainly more familiar with the shore and the aesthetics of painting than I. Maybe it was because she understood that I too appreciated the beauty in seemingly imperfect things. Perhaps, she thought I would see it right.

The Art of Dying

Stroking her hands and fingers, I rubbed the cool lotion on grandma’s thin skin. Her wedding ring slipped into my hands, no longer tight against plump fingers. Seated on the bench next to her cot, we talked in the alcove by the living room window. Outside, the Georgia Mountains rose atop the fog. The moonlight seeped through the fog and sneaked into the room like a child postponing its bedtime. Our hands clasped, my grandmother and I chatted about my school, my feelings about teaching, and the absence of a man in my life. Her voice was slow, not calculated, struggling. I did most of the talking. I reminded her of past Christmases where she would spend hours shopping, wrapping, baking, and decorating the house for her four children and twelve grandchildren. I told her she made Christmas magical for me, as a child. She smiled a smile unlike the one I had been used to. Her face sagged, no longer rounded by the indulgences she ate. Her skin and teeth were yellow, evidence of the barter between her and the chemo. It promised a healthy future if she gave up her quality of life now. I saw that tonight. Chemo was a cheat and my grandmother was losing her life and her future. I watched her tiny body rise and fall. Her limp arms and legs lacked muscle definition, much like an infant’s. The heavy blankets spread over her spoke of her constant body temperature—freezing. To everyone else, the cabin was like a vacuum, sucking the wood-be cool winter air out and replacing it with hot, rotten air that often smelled fermented. Or, maybe it was just her. It is true that cancer rots a person from the inside out, but people don’t tell you about the stench that results from the slow physical decomposition that cancer induces at the end of the person’s battle. Now, as I sat by her side, I felt guilty for thinking those thoughts. I still wanted out. I remember wondering if this was what seeing a person die was supposed to be like. I wondered if it was normal to grow tired of the waiting process, miserably slow and inevitable.

I would imagine that authors approach the subject of death timidly, having an idea in mind but not certain as to how to convey it. Authors grapple for the right words, pictures, symbols, or metaphors to unmask the guise death wears, often to no avail. It seems as though such representations of death is like the desire to describe the Gradn Canyon. It is like the chasm between seeing the Grand Canyon and reading about it. No matter how many times you read or look at pictures of the natural wonder, you can never fully appreciate its grandeur until you are at its precipice, blinking into its rugged abyss. Reading, seeing pictures of, and hearing about death are completely different from witnessing it. Perhaps we do not hold enough value of death. It is easy to gather that our society does not consider death as a part of life, but as the robber in the night that breaks in and steals our futures without warning.

Romeo and Juliet sacrificed their lives in romantic desperation to be reunited in death. Suicidal lovers make death look sentimental and sweet. Sylvia Plath wrote about death because she thought it a beautiful experience. She longed to die. Plath writes “…death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” Plath ended her life through suicide. For her, the process of dying and death itself was more intriguing than living life. Surely, Plath was disappointed in finding that there were no grasses waving above her head, or the ability to discern today from tomorrow. Death is a mystery sought to be explained through different lenses.

I have seen paintings of aged men or women sunk into a bed, looking lifeless, surrounded by loved ones whose cheeks glisten with tears. Paintings of Christ on the cross range from simple to gruesome representations. Some artist paint him as defeated, head bowed. Others arrange his features to show pain, blood coming from his body, and angry red skies. If one were to try and understand death simply by looking at art, conflicting images and ideas would result in confusion. Is it serene and peaceful or horrific? Most artwork and movies are content in showing only certain parts of the dying process, either focusing on the pain and suffering or saturating the audience with feelings of remorse and sadness through different images. Because of these conflicting images of death, I didn’t know what to expect to see or feel or hear when I saw a person die. Would I burst into tears? Would the skies darken? I wondered what a normal reaction and situation would look like. Like a taboo subject only appropriate behind closed doors, the truth of how witnessing death feels was left unmentioned.

While grandma lay there, the atmosphere in the living room was quiet and expectant, patient. Her attitude about death spoke volumes about who she was. In essence, her death was her last opportunity to show her personhood. At one time, grandma’s stubborn nature was a subject of aggravation for her family, but as she laid there, her children praised her strength and endurance. She hated that she was dying and verbalized it no matter who was in the room. Knowing she wasn’t ready to die made it difficult to sit by her side chatting about my future when I knew her thoughts were on how she wouldn’t be there. Her words would turn from angry and stubborn to sentimental. Whenever she drifted between the chasm of consciousness to the space between life and death, she would start to cry. She didn’t realize that we were with her, watching. Her body would grow still and the only sound was the ominous hum of the fluid moniter. Gently, we took turns wiping her wet face, wondering what she was seeing or thinking about that would cause her tears. In these moments, she was unreachable, trapped inside the alluring darkness.

Seeing a woman who once had more energy than a five year old slumped in a cot, waiting to die was neither solemn nor horrific. It was unusual and strange. I hadn’t expected it to be so anti-climactic. We knew that cancer would eventually take her life, so her dying wasn’t a surprise. Still, we envisioned her death as something of the future, not the present. As her family we were weary of wondering if she would die today or tomorrow, we were constantly waiting to hear a change in her breathing. Perhaps ironically, we would try and do things like cook, clean, or watch a movie in the living room. At one moment, we all played scrabble and words like “pain” “struggle” and “die” were avoided. Nobody wanted to be insensitive. But, more than that, we didn’t know how to behave. We weren’t trying to escape or disrespect my grandmother’s dying, but we didn’t know how to sit and wait for days. When my cousin’s young children came, their naivety about the situation felt harsh. The laughter that echoed in the quiet cabin juxtaposed my aunt’s and uncle’s hushed tones. Despite their ages, my parents were just as confused as I was about what to do, my grandfather perhaps the most confused of all. How to watch a person die while maintaining some sense of normalcy throughout our day had not been something that we were taught.

Three days before her death, I sat by my grandmother’s side, reading to her from the Bible, and giving her water out of a straw. It was only the two of us. The house was quiet and the glow of the lamp near her bed cast a shadow on her white face, outlining her hallow cheeks. Her dry, bald head rested against her fluffed pillows, occasionally dropping to one side because of her weakening muscles. Near her bed, red, green, and gold trimmed church baskets lay discarded on an unsteady card table, aching to be carried out to the trash. The only other sign of Christmas was the tiny nativity window cling placed on the picture window at the head of grandma’s hospital bed. When the sun hit it right, the Star of David suspended above the angel would illuminate and cast a rainbow of colors in a corner of the window seat. But, it was dark now, and the rainbow had faded away with the sun. As I sat there, rubbing her arms with her “dream angels” scented lotion and looking at the Star of David, I realized that I was experiencing death in reality, not the way it was shown in books or art. It was slow and the atmosphere in the room was wearily expectant of what was to come. It was lonely. I was very aware that time hadn’t stopped just for me and my family to be with my grandmother or grieve over her death. I knew that for my friends back home, this was a normal Christmas. It wasn’t going to be like I saw in movies, where the characters and scenery freeze during the climax. Voices weren’t amplified, there would be no doctors yelling “stat!” or nurses peeking sympathetically into the room, asking if we needed more time. We were in my grandparent’s cabin in their living room—the hospice cot set up in front of a window and her iPod turned on to her favorite gospel songs. It was expectant, as if we were waiting for a life to start, not end.

After grandma died and the funeral home came to get her body, the image of her being carried out would become a recurrent theme in my dreams. The funeral director bent down over her body, felt her neck for a pulse, and used his stethoscope at her chest. His eyes avoided hers as he confirmed she was gone. Her yellow form sagged as they rolled her onto a stretcher, her head lolled to the side, as if her neck weren’t attached to her body. She was wheeled out of the house, eyes still open, one last look at the life she had lived and the people she had loved. It was silent. Looking back, I think we were all stunned at how carnal it all seemed. Our mother, wife, and grandmother was flopped onto a stretcher and wheeled out like a piece of furniture. The door closed and we were one person less. We stood for a bit, waiting to see who would make the first suggestion to move from the room.

After grandma died and I again encountered portions of literature describing death or saw art or movies depicting a death scene, I was dissatisfied with the portrayal. I analyzed the scenes or description and responded with reasons as to why it was wrong. My grandmother’s death wasn’t anything like I had seen or been warned about. However, just like I had experienced with literary and visual arts, her death was juxtaposed with conflicting images. It was unique and private but felt very wrong. It was peaceful and painful. It was beautiful and scary. Having only been removed from that experience for two years now, I have come to the slow conclusion that maybe literature, the arts, or people aren’t intentionally trying to mislead about the truth of death. Maybe the producers, like me, struggle to put into words or pictures what the experience is like. I too wrested with relaying the intimate details of seeing her die. I would describe one thing, but then decide that wasn’t quite right and end up starting over. My aim was to keep trying to write or create a masterpiece that represented death’s reality. For me, I found that perhaps the point of writing about my grandmother’s death wasn’t “to get it right, but simply to get it written” (Thurber). I am relieved that I am not supposed to get it right. Perhaps this is why authors write about life experiences, it is cathartic and helps them have a clearer understanding of the experience. If I keep producing things that though not quiet exact, have some truth in them, then one day I will have written it all. The account of my grandmother’s death may one day be fully and accurately written, but until then, I just keep writing.

Is God Really Good?

A couple of days ago, I was reading in Mark. Typically, my prayer has been that God would reveal to me scripture that speaks to my present season of life (student teaching, future plans, singleness, etc). Instead, He revealed to me a deeper issue that applies to every facet of my entire life, not just this current season. I had just finished reading the account of God feeding the five thousand men* and the account of Him walking on water. Mark 4:40

And He said to them, Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?

Then I read Mark 6: 50-52

...For they saw Him and were terrified. But immediately He spoke with them and said to them, 'Take courage, it is I, do not be afraid.' Then He got into the boat with them, and the wind stopped; and they were utterly astonished, for they had not gained any insight from the incident of the loaves, but their heart was hardened.

They had not gained any insight from witnessing God's miracle with the food or by His walking on water. They did not see God as the same good God that performed miracles. They had little faith, a small concept of God's goodness. They just wanted to feel secure and at peace. They forgot about God's miracles. They forgot about God's goodness to them.

I forget in the moment too. Sure, ask me over a cup of coffee how God has been good to me in my life and I can detail specific accounts of His goodness. I love to talk about what He has done in my life. I love to hear about what He has done in other people's lives. I remember specific prayers answered so clearly it makes me smile. God knew my heart and He answered my prayer. I remember circumstances that brought my spirit low until He reigned over the issue and smoothed out the problem. Sophomore year, I remember sitting with a friend and wishing I had the ability to make her see how great and present God was in our lives, but could only let my tears of happiness be the testimony.

But, ask me when my soul feels on fire and my heart beats with uncertaintity and I have trouble feeling sure of God's goodness. I may robotically answer back with examples. But, I gurantee my heart will not be as willing to remember. Because of this, I wonder if I have gained any insight? Am I like Jesus's disciples who let the fear of the moment overcome the ability to recognize God as the same one who performed previous miracles in my life?


God must have known that His disciples would be surprised at His ability to walk on water and calm the sea. He knew they had learned nothing from watching Him feed five thousand men on five loaves and two fish. Their present preoccupation blinded them to who God was. They were afraid of the storm. All they could think about was cap-sizing and losing their lives. They thought about their wives and children. They thought about their livelihood and all the money they had invested in their boat and nets. They had resolved to death before they recalled God's ability to save them - God's goodness.

Why don't I believe God is good when times are tough? Why, all of the sudden, is my present situation bigger than the God of the Old Testament, who performed miracle after miracle?

Maybe it is because I am narrow-minded and the only perspecitive I am able to see from is my own. Maybe it is because I think I know what is best for my life, and my drive for attaining that squelches the freedom I have to live each day in submission to His plan.

There have been lots of books written on the topic of God's goodness; there have been sermons, Bible studies, and late night chats about believing He is good even during tough times. But I want something more. I want to start at the beginning. What is "good?"

In human terms, good is something positive, helpful, rewarding, pleasant, and happy, right, proper, excellant. Examples:
That is a good movie. I feel good today. That was a good slice of pie. Charlie Sheen is not good.

To God, good seems to carry a weighter implication. First of all, He is described as the good Shepherd. Good is a result of moral uprightness. Also, good requires discipline, acction, consciously choosing it over evil.

Amos 5:14 "Seek good and not evil, that you may live; And thus may the Lord God of hosts be with you, just as you have said!"

Luke 18:"...No one is good except God alone."

Romans 2:7-8"...To those who by perseverance in doing good seek for glory and honor and immportality, eternal life; but to those who are selfishly ambitious and do not obey the truth, but obey unrighteousness, wrath, and indignation.

Romans 12:21 "Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good."

1 Timothy 6:12 "Fight the good fight of faith; take hold of the eternal life to which you were called, and you made the good confession in the presence of many witnesses."

From scripture, it seems as though God's concept of goodness has little to do with feeling secure, happy, or at peace. This is not to say that those things will not come if we follow Him. Of course, He promises us rewards if we seek after Him. What I am talking about is the actual definition of good. According to scripture, good requires action, a choice to refuse evil, a conscious decision to follow after Christ.

If, to God, good requires action, choice, and the ability to resist evil, then, as promised in His word, we will someday reap the benefits of choosing Him over evil. Someday we will be rewarded. Our hearts will be happy because we have chosen Him, our outlook on life will be positive because our reliance is on Him, not our circumstances.

All this has led me think about my desire for God to "reward" me before I have made the active choice to follow Him. I want the goodness of Him as proof that if I make the conscious decision to trust Him, that it will be worth it. I want the treasure before the hunt. I want the safety net before the jump.

Is God really good? Yes.
Is my concept of goodness aligned with His? I think this is the more important question. Is my idea of good founded on scripture, or is it impacted by man's concept of good?

And now I think I will re-read Mark 4 and 6 in light of God's goodness. No matter what my present situation, our present situation, we can bank on the fact that God is good and that if we desire to follow Him, we must actively choose to resist evil. God help us to fight the good fight in following you and believing you are good.




*interesting tid-bit! When Jesus fed the five thousand, it was actually more than five thousand. That number refers to the number of men who were there; it doesn't include the women and children. So, really, God is pretty much a baller at feeding a large crowd. Take that Paula Deen.

Poetry

Fuzzy

Morning brings my usual routine, routine.
Stretch and stuff my hand beneath the sheet,
Searching for socks my icy feet rubbed off.
Open eyes to a foggy world:
Books are blocks stacked high
With fuzzy titles
And furniture, brown masses—
Glasses.




I Don’t Want to Treat God Like My Toothbrush.

Morning visit, impassionate, routine—
Just get it done.
Scrub the teeth, scour the mouth, gurgle—
three minutes,
rinse and repeat.

Nightly habit
scrub and scour and gurgle—
Too tired to care much.
do better tomorrow.


Poetry

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
On a journal not made with paper or bound by leather string,
But stood, crammed between two old bookshelves that leaned to the right.
On its wooden top sat paper cups, empty or filled with percolated coffee.
And notebook paper, college-ruled, with notes from last week’s class.

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
His pen was black or white, depending on his choice,
And bent under his slightest touch,
Echoing the tempo of his thoughts
On a page of eighty-eight lines.

Tonight I saw a young man writing poetry without words.
He wrote in couplets, both hands at once,
Crafted to give momentum to his art.
The rhythm guiding his hands as he wrote with black and white
on the ivory spine of a paper-less journal,

crammed between two old bookshelves that leaned to the right.




Kay Ryan Inspiration
My inspiration for my poem “shackles” is a bit muddled. After reading through some of Ryan’s poems, I walked outside just as the sun was setting. The woods by my house were pink, as was the sky, except for the outlines of the clouds. Those were hazy silver. Of course, I thought of the phrase “silver lining.” I went back and re-read all the poems about the sky and clouds. Enter, “Shackles.”
I don’t know exactly what led me to the idea of clouds wearing the sort of crown that allows them to float, while I wear shackles that keep me bound to earth. The challenges of this semester, the brevity of my time at school, and my semi-frequent desire (is “semi-frequent” an oxymoron?) to escape the circumstances I find myself in could all be influencers. But, Ryan’s “Ledge” influenced me mostly due to the line “a gift denied the rest of us when our portion isn’t generous.” I think the idea of comparing our lives to that of the natural world is normal. The poem “The Edges of Time” sort of inspired me, solely because of the words “edges” and “thins.”

Shackles

I want to wear
the silver halos
that crown pink
clouds and keep
them from
drifting higher—
Metallic traces
that glint
against wisps
of layered hills,
waves in the sky.

But I
stare from below
refused coronation,
bound by nature’s shackles
that keep me
from flying.



Other Thoughts
I really, really like Ryan’s poem “Train-Track Figure.” Genius.

Train-Track Figure

Imagine a
train-track figure
made of sliver
over sliver of
between-car
vision, each
slice too brief
to add detail
or deepen: that
could be a hat
if it's a person
if it's a person
if it's a person.
Just the same
scant information
timed to supplant
the same scant
information.








Kay Ryan's "Ledge"

Birds that love
high trees
and winds
and riding
flailing branches
hate ledges
as gripless
and narrow,
so that a tail
is not just
no advantage
but ridiculous,
mashed vertical
against the wall.
You will have
seen the way
a brid who falls
on skimpy places
lifts into the air
again in seconds-
a gift denied
the rest of us
when our portion
isn't generous.

Recognizing the Romance

Lately, I have come to the conclusion that I am too romantic for my own good. It is bothersome at times. Picture me in the middle of a serious conversation with the friendliest of friends. They say ONE word that triggers an idea and I am off. Baking pie becomes a memory of  a Smuckers commercial and me wondering how long frozen berries keep their antioxidents in a freezer. Going for a run leaves me with a vision of a tall lovely woman gliding through a perfectly-paved sidewalk in a picturesque town. Some people call this ADD, I call it attention to possible idealic situations.
Friend: "so, I just wasn't sure. I mean, a honeymoon to NYC would be so awesome, but I was thinking somewhere more private, secluded. Like a beach or a country house."

Me: "Yeah, but can you imagine how beautiful it would be during the holidays?

My mind: Are you kidding?! NYC in the Fall would be the cat's pajamas! They could take bike rides or walks down to the local coffee shop and sit and read books, or they could walk around central park --they could roller blade!  They could dress up and go to the theatre and go out for wine after. They could buy flowers from a flower stand and put them in a cracked ceramic mug back at the apartment. They could go ice skating, they could explore the streets and pretend to be a newly engaged couple at Tiffany's just to gawk at the rings. They could go back to the apartment and watch old movies and order chinese and eat from those little white boxes. They would have to buz the delivery boy from the intercom thingy in the apartment- fun! I have always wanted to do that. He arrives. "A-woah. I hev a chineese foowd dewiverwy." excitedly jump up to push the button. act nonchalant. "Ahem. Uh, yeah, okay, come on up." Push hair back. Apply chapstick. Smooth clothing. He is your first delivery boy, after all.

I realize this is is more like a "girls weekend" than it is a honeymoon, but humor me.

I just really like to see the beauty and potential in things that I know nothing about.

Sometimes I like to imagine myself as a witty writer for a big time magazine. In my fantasy, I am the columnist who knows she could never compete with the sports journalist or the political reporter. Understated magic happens within the confines of my cubicle. I am just me. I sit at an old wooden desk with coffee rings tatooed along its surface. I wear a simple cream-colored button up with a high-wasited pencil skirt that allows me to breathe even after my lunch of a mushroom and goat cheese sandwhich. I am wearing my glasses (because staring at a screen just asks for dry eyes). My hair is in a messy bun. I only wear chapstick and mascera, as I know I could never compete with the red lips and apple-blush cheeks of the voluptuous blonde next to me. I am generally the underdog. I sneak wit and charisma into my columns like a mother does spinach into a child's smoothie. They taste it. They lick the bowl clean and smile. They ask for more. I give them a sideways smile and respond with "of course, if that is what you like." They offer me a cigar. They watch, expectantly, while I take a puff and dangle it between my fingers like a pro. I lazily keep it in my hand while I feign indifference. My lungs are screaming. I tell them to "shut it, you aren't in Anderson anymore." I continue with my work while the blonde next to me tells me I have crumbs on my blouse.

I think this has been largly influenced by recent television shows such as Ugly Betty, which I promise I have never seen, just only envisioned as the type of show I would hate. Perhaps I should rethink my fantasy.

Potential -- it doesn't have to be recognized to be there.

Other times, I own a healthy bakery. My lifestyle is reflected in the whole grains and herby-ness of my breads and muffins. All the dishes are handmade pottery by my artistic friends whom I pay in baked goods and cast-off clothing. The walls are a deep red and dressed with old photos and original pieces of art. The bakery is right in the middle of the city, as far away as possible from China town. It is next to a florist and a tattoo parlor-- worlds collide. It smells eternally of coffee beans and flour. The floors are recycled wooden planks from an old dance studio. The ceilings have wood beams from which lanterns from all over the world hang. There are old black bookcases filled with books. I assembled the bookcases myself and so they lean to the right andI always have to make sure the weight of the books are evenly distributed in order to prevent a catastrophe. I make lattes and spike steamed milk with expresso and caramel. I drizzle honey on whole wheat bread and serve it with peanut butter to old ladies. I wear an apron that I purposely spilled flour on because black aprons look better with flour particles swiped across the front. People come to me asking if I have anything "gluten-free, diary free and vegan." I smile, and hand them a mug of tea. Poor souls. I refuse to make my food adapt to the fashions of society. Next week, they will be asking me if I have anything without fat. I will direct them to my skinny baker who is so sick of looking at bread all day that he has resorted to only eating salad and fruit. He will probably ask for their number and then I will have to hire a new baker.

Potential -- it doesn't have to adapt to expectations

So this is my mind. This is what I think about when I am not so overly swamped with my "to do's" of the day week month. I suppose, in a way, I am not only a romantic, but also a dreamer of posibilities. I will probably never live in NYC. I would love to be a columnist, but most likely won't. I for sure won't own a bakery...I don't think.
But, I can imagine, I can play, and I can, in some ways, sort through my desire for a future calling by thinking about what my wildest dreams all have in common with one another. I think there must be some creaky old wooden floors in my future. Either that, or blouses with crumbs on them.

days like today...

"God is here with me during days like today." Tonight I am reminding myself of this. Lady in waiting is what I named this blog because of how I have felt for such a while, now - expectant of great things, willing for anything. Simmering.

Days like today are really hard. Nothing terrible has happened and nobody I love has gotten hurt...nothing bad has been directed towards my or my family or the people I love. Because of this, I get frustrated and think "why, then, do I have days like this where I am discontent, stressed, or worried?" It aggrivates me when I have no excuse for the emotions I have. I am also ashamed writing that, because it hurts to admit it.

Tonight I settled down in my big comfy chair, thinking about why I was not currently happy about all that God has done for me. I started listing off things: healthy and happy family, friends who encourage and love me, relationships that God has given me to serve Him through, a home, senior year of college, a great cooperating teacher. I could go on. But as I thought of these things, I was ashamed in that my head acknowledged those blessings, but my heart just wasn't feeling it. Why couldn't I be more thankful for where He has me instead of wishing for whatever I thought I needed more? So, I started another list- things that I had been praying for, but not yet been given an answer to: plans for after college, moving, missions in another country sometime in my life, marriage, teaching, summer plans. All of these things, I realized, were heavy on my heart and in my mind. They were distracting me from what God is doing in my life now; I was focused on planning for my future and dreaming about the possibilities instead of thinking about what I can do for Him now, in the present.

This is a struggle that I have dealt with for such a time. As a Sophomore I felt a calling towards missions and was ready to give up on college and go move somewhere and begin. As a Junior I felt disoriented with where I was - loving my dorm life with a great group of girls, but eager to start "real life" and prepare for what He wanted me to do after college (unsure about teaching). Now, as a senior, I feel as though I get glimpses of what my life will look like post-college. Sometimes I like it, and sometimes I do not. As I have said before, I have never been at ease with the typical sort of American life. I don't have a drive for success. I don't really care about money or keeping up with the neighbors. I really just want a simple life that reflects a submissive heart towards God's direction. Oh, wait...that isn't simple :-)

I want my life to be one of surrender. I want to be willing to act on the Holy Spirit's leading, I want to be willing to fight for Him, to love for Him, and to obey Him even when it hurts. Stemming from this, I don't want to do this alone. I will, if that is His plan for me. But He has much work to do on my heart if singleness is my calling. He may test me and lead me towards singlness, seeing if I am willing to sacrifice for His sake. I hope my heart will be pliable and submissive if that must happen. But, right now, I want a buddy. I want a partner to lead me in following our God.

So, tonight, as my grip on my mug o' tea loosened, I wondered. I explored the proccesses of my mind and tried to discover the root of my discontent. Lately, my thoughts have been skewed from "Lord, why me?" to "Lord, why not me?" Such a dangerous question of me to ask, but it is true. I have seen friends and family experience changes, new joys, experiences, and adventures as I sat back and continued with my education, not even being sure that teaching is what I wanted to do. As I see my peers making plans for post-college I feel left behind in some ways. I picture myself sitting in a chair as my friends and family's lives are played in fast forward before me. I am the only thing that is moving slowly, everyone else is speeding by. That is how I feel...left behind. Waiting for the puzzle pieces to align so that I can start gathering and placing and planning. Waiting on God to fix the edges so that I can start creating the center.

How wrong.

This is not what it means to wait on the Lord. Waiting does not mean to sit and watch everyone else plan and assume that I need to sit back and wait for God's message. Can you imagine what would have happened if Jesus had sat back and waited till the day of His cruxifiction? His ministry on earth wouldn't have happened. People would not have been healed or brought to salvation.

I suppose the struggle for me comes mostly from the simple fact that since I am still in college, my time is very limited. Especially since I am a senior and beginning the requirements for student teaching. I just don't have a lot of time, and I hate that. But, I also need to recognize that my seventh graders are my ministry right now. My friends at school are my ministry, and my family is my ministry. Even though I can't make meals for people on a regular basis, offer to babysit for low-income familes, start a middle school girl's Bible study,or help out in my church more, I can't forget that for right now, God has given me opportunities with people that I won't have once I graduate. I need reminding that my time here at school is not being wasted. Oh, do I need reminding of that. I have loved college and I love my brothers and sisters, and I even love the challenges of school and learning, but I suppose I am feeling very keenly that there is so much more. And I can't wait. But there, is where my feelings of discontent arrive. "How long, Lord? When will you tell me what you want from me? I will go and I am willing...but where? And when?"

These questions have made a home in the cavities of my heart. They are so much a part of me now, that I need only whisper "when" and I know that He is nodding His head and saying "soon, child. Wait."

Lady in Waiting

Observation: I hate to love to blog because I am no good at it

Since it has been almost a year since I have updated this thing, I thought I may as well just copy and paste an assignment for poetry class that I had...God has been so faithful to me. And, honestly, I have things I want to share on here, but I just need to do some tweaking. Time is not something I have a lot of these days...

Content, though. Happy and content.

Birds: too many poems about them. Should I even try?

During my oatmeal and coffee this morning (I admit, it was afternoon, but I feel funny that I have oatmeal and coffee as snacks during the day) I decided to sit and watch the birds hop around my backyard. It started as an easy enough sort of venture, me sipping, her pecking, me thinking “hey…birds…poetry” her craning her neck around the bird feeder for those minuscule little seeds that inspired the term “bird food.” I watched her call her friends to the buffet, yet nudge and budge them with her wings when they go too close to her plate. Sighing, I get up to get my notebook because I knew that the thoughts I was having weren’t going to stick with me (though I promised myself I wouldn’t forget). I started jotting, paused, and wrote some more. I watched. I listened. Birds are much like people, but have the advantage of escape.

Journal #2
“…the pillars still bore traces of where wrought-iron gates once hung. But the gates themselves had vanished long before I appeared on the scene to read meaning into their absence. Like iron gates and railings all over Britain, they were removed during WWII to be melted down and reforged into armament.”
Chris Arthur “(En)trance”

I would really love to write a poem about the iron gates that were melted down during WWII. I think it would be fun and challenging to write.

Journal #3
Braces. Pimples. Early bloomers. Late bloomers. Pretty boys. Boys whose voices have already changed. Nice boys. Boys whose moms still pick their clothing. Funny boys. Silly girls. Giggly girls. Nice girls. Shy girls. Girls who don’t think they are beautiful. Girls who reach out to the "outsiders."

Middle School.

I love it. I love everything about middle school kids, the way their sense of humor is developing, but so often channeled at inappropriate moments or the wrong people. I love the awkwardness of it all, the first flutter of crushes and the tell-tale signs of heartbreak.

Student: (giggling) “I agree with Nathan-N-iel (strokes hair) because he is right about the character's perspective” (more giggling/gazing at Nathaniel)
Nathaniel: (flips hair)
Me: “Okay. But what did YOU think? I heard what Nathaniel thought, but I want to know your thoughts.”


But, these kids are more than these stereotypes. In my classes, all of them are asking “am I capable?” All of them are asking “am I important?”

Sometimes all people see are braces, pimples, and laziness. Sometimes its hard to see the beauty.

Most middle school age students have engaged in some kind of sexual behavior before they reach 9th grade. Often, these students are given up on long before they are no longer moldable.

I don’t really know where I am going with this. It isn’t philosophical, poetic, or beautiful. It is just life. And, sometimes, life reeks of a normalcy that drives us towards apathy. Sometimes people give up and it is difficult to look at that and transform it into an inspirational life lesson.

Life is a lot like middle school, I think.

Journal #4
Bird-Flu: I think I have it.
When they peck the ground, it almost looks like they are trying to suck the life out of the earth, penetrating its skin
Which leads me to the question: do birds have tongues?

Come one-come all-drink of life’s wine
Their secret call, connect the dots from the sky

A single noise can create havoc. A surge will arise as the vibrating hum of their wings closes in towards the sky
Unity. Arrive together, leave together when alarmed. No bird left behind.
They arrive and leave with the sun, their mother. She draws them from slumber and lulls them to sleep until their chirping turns to dreaming (unless, of course, they sleep-chirp)

Journal #5
I have tried too many times to write about my grandmother’s death.
And I really loathe every work I produced.
Why is it that the things which seem to shape you the most are the hardest to write about? It is one of the most intimate details of my life, yet I can never seem to get it right. Why can’t I express in full what I felt and still feel? Why is it never enough? Maybe I am not supposed to get it right. Maybe that it is the point of these sort of life experiences. If I I keep producing things that, though not quiet exact, have an ounce of truth in them, then maybe one day I will have written it all. It will just be in pieces. A little here, a little there. Then, at the end, I would gather those few lines and assemble them into a unified and accurate image of what it was like.
Maybe I am supposed to keep writing. Maybe, that is the point.

Journal #6 An interesting writing assignment
Dr. Jones assigned us to list five, and only five, experiences in our life that we would want to include in our memoir. “When I…”

1. When I realized that my older brother and his friends finally considered me an equal playmate, comrade, and adventure-hunter, instead of just Albert’s corny little sister who can never seem to reach that first branch. *

*I have since become an expert tree-climber

2. When I visited Maine and fell in love with its toe-curling winter chills, salty lobster chowder (chowdah), and cliffs penetrating the seashore.

3. When I realized that the only type of “love and marriage” that I am interested in is the type where God comes first for both of us, and we are each other's "second." I want him to love God more than me and put Him before me. I want to love God more than him and put Him before him. I want us both to know that we could live without each other, but, for some glorious reason, God gave us to each other. I just want a partner to do this Christian life with and to help along the way. I would also like to be friends and do things like go to books-a-million to read and drink coffee, go horseback riding/hiking/camping, play scrabble, and watch documentaries and go to bed early. Flannel is a must, for both of us.

4. When I realized that I don’t really care for the typical life of middle class comfort. I kind of just want a life where I am never too comfortable. Like, God could ask me to pick up and leave and move somewhere and I would just say “okay, God.” I would like a house, though, I just don’t want my sense of comfort and peace to be solely wrapped up in my surroundings and finances or belongings. I want to be taken out of my comfort zone; I want my heart to be willing to be surprised by God.