He ran as fast as his miniature legs would take him, the pint-sized boy dressed in a Seahawks jersey and blue jeans. His little hands grabbed the door handle and hurriedly opened it, so excited to enter he nearly tripped over his own feet. The door flew open and he rushed in shouting, "Papa! Papa!"
In the corner of the living room sat a rather important man. President of the National Council for American Indians and Native Alaskans (NCAI), he represented Native Americans across the United States. He regularly met with the United States president, had an office in Washington D.C., and was passionate about affirming the Native American cultural heritage and advocating for healthy environments where the young people could thrive.
Yet to the sandy-haired toddler, none of that was as important as one thing. Papa was home and he was going to see him. He ran up to his grandpa and scrambled into his lap. Soon he was regaling him with tales of his morning at preschool and the two of them laughed at a funny story. The tot held his grandpa's face between his baby hands, ensuring attention only on him, as Papa listened intently. Then a cousin called from the other room, the boy slid off his grandpa's lap to play cars, and the moment was seemingly forgotten.
Except by me.
How often, when I see the interaction between child and parent or grandparent, I think of the relationship my heavenly Father longs to have with me. Trusting young ones, like my little friend, are confident that their parent/grandparent is as excited to share life with them as they are to live it. They don't question their value or self-worth. They don't wonder if they need to have clean hands and freshly laundered clothes before they can sit on their parent's lap. They simply run into their grandparent's arms, knowing they are loved without question.
In the same way, the King of the Universe waits for me to run into His arms and experience His love. God's love is unfailing, abundant, great, a covenant, eternal, enduring, faithful, everlasting, good, rich, patient and kind. (Ex. 15:13, Ex. 34:6, Num 14:19, Deut. 7:9, 1 Kings 10:9, 1 Chron. 16:34, Ps. 89:24, Ps. 103:17, Ps. 109:21, Ps. 145:8, 1 Corinthians 13:4). Just as a little boy knew his Papa loved him, I can be assured that my heavenly Father loves me.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
The Reluctant Stayer
I am contemplating a move back to one of my home countries. It's a strange thought. They say you can never go home again but maybe that's not true. Oddly enough, just as I'm getting my life in order, I reach out for uncertainty once more. I have my master's degree, I have finally figured out how to have an orderly room, I'm steadily working my way through crafts/books/movies, and I know how life works. Except that is the curse of the TCK, isn't it? Or perhaps the global nomad, now that I am grown. Once life seems to settle, we become unsettled and search for change as a means of entering into the familiar. For us, change is life.
As I carefully dusted my bedroom/living space this evening, a sudden wave of sadness hit. I realized that if my plans came to fruition, I would soon take to the skies with just one suitcase in each hand; all my earthly belongings vacuum sealed into those oblong packages. I would not have the luxury of an ocean shipment, or perhaps shipments travel by air now, I'm not exactly sure. It's been 17 years since our last delivery of cardboard boxes, each carefully marked with a number such as 3/52 (52 being the total) and a brief description thick black inked on the side.
I would have to take the essentials, such as clothes, shoes, and perhaps a small photo album. I would not be able to jam in my fair trade elephant and giraffe set from California, my miniature wooden elephant with a rolling ball in its tummy from a street market in Ireland, my beautiful blue ceramic tea set from Taiwan, my handmade couple sitting on a log from my student in South Korea, my child-size porcelain tea cup from a boot sale in England, or my vintage decorative wooden clogs from the Netherlands. My most recent addition, an intricately hand carved wax candle from Holland, MI, would have to stay behind.
For a brief moment I asked myself, What is more important? Possessions or People? I caught myself reacting in pain as my instinctive answer was the first. I knew why I thought so. Even though the summer threat of wildfires had been of little concern, as I'd blithely said, Let it all burn, and simply packed a small bag with essentials and a childhood stuffed toy, now I found myself wanting to hold tightly to it all. The material was not what mattered. The memories they represented did.
The fair trade elephant and giraffe set I found at a little stall in the Galleria Mall when it had newly opened. I picked them up, carefully examined them for nicks, then counted out my dollars. I was still in the frugal stage, saving up to complete graduate school debt-free, so spending money was a luxury. Yet I knew I had to buy these pieces for even though I'd never been to the parts of the African continent that they came from, they represented a piece of my African heritage that I cherished. I was born and raised on the African continent in three countries by the age of 15.
My miniature wooden elephant was sitting on a shelf in a small shop in the street market my best friend and I discovered on our journey through Europe last summer. We stepped in briefly to sample cheeses then realized we'd entered a place of delightful sensory experiences and wandered around slowly, touching, tasting, and smelling. The small shop with the elephant had an array of wooden curios but the little elephant was affordable and would travel well as we still had several countries to visit and limited space in our carry on bags.
I picked up the ceramic tea set in the airport in Taiwan. Somehow the night market was the only souvenir place I visited on my whirlwind 5-day trip to see my sister that spring so the airport was my last resort for Asian gifts. I spotted the tea set and instantly knew it belonged on my bookshelf. It reminded me of the time 10 years prior, on our first visit to Taiwan, when we'd sat on the floor in a kind person's house and he'd served tea to all the touring choir members. It was a cold night and the small cups filled with steaming herbal fragrance cheered our hearts.
That same year I left home for the first time, traveling halfway around the world to teach little ones how to speak English and adults about God. One of my students made little figurines as a hobby; fashioning them out of a feather-light substance and carefully painting each detail in bright colours. At our end-of-the-semester party, she presented me with a young couple on a log. I took it with high hopes that one day, it would be my story. I am still waiting. . .
The porcelain tea cup must have cost me 25 pence or maybe a pound at the most. I loved shopping at boot sales, looking for the bargains, handing over the British coins and relishing the fact that they had not yet adopted the euro as their currency. It was the last time I stayed at my grandmother's house, before life got difficult and I no longer visited the place and the people I'd called home. I climbed the stairs slowly, remembering how I'd sit on the bottom as a child and listen late at night through the door to the adults talking in the next room. I breathed in the damp English air as I burrowed deep into my borrowed jacket. I packed the porcelain cup carefully, stepped into my father's car, buckled my seat belt, and we drove down the street and turned the corner, passed the fish and chips shop, and then it was all gone.
I watched the man carving my miniature wooden clogs at the famous cheese market in the Netherlands one year. After the cheese selling demonstration and a sample of traditional Dutch cheese, I found a crowd gathered around the artisan as he engaged in his age-old trade. Though pricey, I willingly paid for the clogs that would take a place of prominence in my display of knick-knacks. That day I breathed deep of salt air and listened to my grandfather speak in his thick Dutch accent. My grandparents learned English so they could communicate with us and I was forever grateful we could share language and not just genetics.
This summer I visited the Dutch village in Holland, Michigan, where I was fascinated by the trademark carved candles in ornate rich designs. A candle purchased more than 30 years prior had traveled the world with our family and early that year had made one final trek from a previous overseas home where a friend had purchased it cheap at a leaving sale. The candle had returned to me in a full circle way. Yet it was battered and bruised from its travels so I chose a beautiful new candle to create my own tradition. Now I fear I will have to leave it behind before I've had a chance to create memories.
I read an article just today about Stayers and Goers. I have been a Stayer for 17 years. There have been brief periods of Going, a week here, a summer there. Yet each time I returned to the somewhat familiar. Now I consider becoming a Goer. It has been a long time coming, I sense it is the right time and yet I'm sad at what it means. To be a Goer means I am no longer a Stayer. It will take time for me to settle my roots, to purchase little mementos that capture a slice of precious memories, to know I can trust those in my life with my story. I am worried that I'll forget the stories from this life because my heart cannot hold much pain or sadness and will compartmentalize these 17 years as it did the years before. I can see myself going through the grieving process and I am sad that this is my reality now. I know I must leave because this place has never felt like home but I worry that the next place won't be home either.
For the global nomad, the TCK, the restless wanderer, there are many pieces that represent life. One of those pieces are the belongings that lend a sense of belonging in a frame of time. Perhaps I will one day be marking cardboard boxes with thick black ink, knowing that inside I've placed carefully wrapped stories of who I am and who I was. Perhaps some of those pieces will arrive fractured or shattered or be stolen along the way. I must learn to hold them lightly even as I learn to assign identity to my persona and not the possessions I can feel and see. Each piece is valuable and holds memories, but none of them can replace the people.
Should I ask myself that question again, Which is more valuable, possessions or people? I hope my heart will echo instinctively, the people. For it is the possessions that reflect the people, each reminding me that who I was and who I am is because of each person in my life. And that. . .is worth letting go.
As I carefully dusted my bedroom/living space this evening, a sudden wave of sadness hit. I realized that if my plans came to fruition, I would soon take to the skies with just one suitcase in each hand; all my earthly belongings vacuum sealed into those oblong packages. I would not have the luxury of an ocean shipment, or perhaps shipments travel by air now, I'm not exactly sure. It's been 17 years since our last delivery of cardboard boxes, each carefully marked with a number such as 3/52 (52 being the total) and a brief description thick black inked on the side.
I would have to take the essentials, such as clothes, shoes, and perhaps a small photo album. I would not be able to jam in my fair trade elephant and giraffe set from California, my miniature wooden elephant with a rolling ball in its tummy from a street market in Ireland, my beautiful blue ceramic tea set from Taiwan, my handmade couple sitting on a log from my student in South Korea, my child-size porcelain tea cup from a boot sale in England, or my vintage decorative wooden clogs from the Netherlands. My most recent addition, an intricately hand carved wax candle from Holland, MI, would have to stay behind.
For a brief moment I asked myself, What is more important? Possessions or People? I caught myself reacting in pain as my instinctive answer was the first. I knew why I thought so. Even though the summer threat of wildfires had been of little concern, as I'd blithely said, Let it all burn, and simply packed a small bag with essentials and a childhood stuffed toy, now I found myself wanting to hold tightly to it all. The material was not what mattered. The memories they represented did.
The fair trade elephant and giraffe set I found at a little stall in the Galleria Mall when it had newly opened. I picked them up, carefully examined them for nicks, then counted out my dollars. I was still in the frugal stage, saving up to complete graduate school debt-free, so spending money was a luxury. Yet I knew I had to buy these pieces for even though I'd never been to the parts of the African continent that they came from, they represented a piece of my African heritage that I cherished. I was born and raised on the African continent in three countries by the age of 15.
My miniature wooden elephant was sitting on a shelf in a small shop in the street market my best friend and I discovered on our journey through Europe last summer. We stepped in briefly to sample cheeses then realized we'd entered a place of delightful sensory experiences and wandered around slowly, touching, tasting, and smelling. The small shop with the elephant had an array of wooden curios but the little elephant was affordable and would travel well as we still had several countries to visit and limited space in our carry on bags.
I picked up the ceramic tea set in the airport in Taiwan. Somehow the night market was the only souvenir place I visited on my whirlwind 5-day trip to see my sister that spring so the airport was my last resort for Asian gifts. I spotted the tea set and instantly knew it belonged on my bookshelf. It reminded me of the time 10 years prior, on our first visit to Taiwan, when we'd sat on the floor in a kind person's house and he'd served tea to all the touring choir members. It was a cold night and the small cups filled with steaming herbal fragrance cheered our hearts.
That same year I left home for the first time, traveling halfway around the world to teach little ones how to speak English and adults about God. One of my students made little figurines as a hobby; fashioning them out of a feather-light substance and carefully painting each detail in bright colours. At our end-of-the-semester party, she presented me with a young couple on a log. I took it with high hopes that one day, it would be my story. I am still waiting. . .
The porcelain tea cup must have cost me 25 pence or maybe a pound at the most. I loved shopping at boot sales, looking for the bargains, handing over the British coins and relishing the fact that they had not yet adopted the euro as their currency. It was the last time I stayed at my grandmother's house, before life got difficult and I no longer visited the place and the people I'd called home. I climbed the stairs slowly, remembering how I'd sit on the bottom as a child and listen late at night through the door to the adults talking in the next room. I breathed in the damp English air as I burrowed deep into my borrowed jacket. I packed the porcelain cup carefully, stepped into my father's car, buckled my seat belt, and we drove down the street and turned the corner, passed the fish and chips shop, and then it was all gone.
I watched the man carving my miniature wooden clogs at the famous cheese market in the Netherlands one year. After the cheese selling demonstration and a sample of traditional Dutch cheese, I found a crowd gathered around the artisan as he engaged in his age-old trade. Though pricey, I willingly paid for the clogs that would take a place of prominence in my display of knick-knacks. That day I breathed deep of salt air and listened to my grandfather speak in his thick Dutch accent. My grandparents learned English so they could communicate with us and I was forever grateful we could share language and not just genetics.
This summer I visited the Dutch village in Holland, Michigan, where I was fascinated by the trademark carved candles in ornate rich designs. A candle purchased more than 30 years prior had traveled the world with our family and early that year had made one final trek from a previous overseas home where a friend had purchased it cheap at a leaving sale. The candle had returned to me in a full circle way. Yet it was battered and bruised from its travels so I chose a beautiful new candle to create my own tradition. Now I fear I will have to leave it behind before I've had a chance to create memories.
I read an article just today about Stayers and Goers. I have been a Stayer for 17 years. There have been brief periods of Going, a week here, a summer there. Yet each time I returned to the somewhat familiar. Now I consider becoming a Goer. It has been a long time coming, I sense it is the right time and yet I'm sad at what it means. To be a Goer means I am no longer a Stayer. It will take time for me to settle my roots, to purchase little mementos that capture a slice of precious memories, to know I can trust those in my life with my story. I am worried that I'll forget the stories from this life because my heart cannot hold much pain or sadness and will compartmentalize these 17 years as it did the years before. I can see myself going through the grieving process and I am sad that this is my reality now. I know I must leave because this place has never felt like home but I worry that the next place won't be home either.
For the global nomad, the TCK, the restless wanderer, there are many pieces that represent life. One of those pieces are the belongings that lend a sense of belonging in a frame of time. Perhaps I will one day be marking cardboard boxes with thick black ink, knowing that inside I've placed carefully wrapped stories of who I am and who I was. Perhaps some of those pieces will arrive fractured or shattered or be stolen along the way. I must learn to hold them lightly even as I learn to assign identity to my persona and not the possessions I can feel and see. Each piece is valuable and holds memories, but none of them can replace the people.
Should I ask myself that question again, Which is more valuable, possessions or people? I hope my heart will echo instinctively, the people. For it is the possessions that reflect the people, each reminding me that who I was and who I am is because of each person in my life. And that. . .is worth letting go.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
The Process
Perhaps it was a combination of late nights, gloomy weather, and a final meal with dear friends who were leaving, yet another page in the scrapbook of life. She wasn't sure. Yet when she locked the door after the little ones had left Cradle Roll for the morning, she found herself walking towards the church hall instead of her car. Usually she headed straight home and took a nap. Today was different. Perhaps she would find a friend to sit with, so she went.
She stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Several people stopped to greet her, exchange hugs, chat for a minute or two. The song leaders were singing, she joined in every now and then, as a feeling of nostalgia began to grow. This was unusual; she often came and left feeling empty, disconnected, and alone.
The grieving process was beginning. So this is what it feels like to leave, she thought. She had no clear direction yet, she was still searching for the pathway her Father wanted her to take, but she knew it would come soon. So many times over the past 17 years she'd wanted to leave, prayed to leave, hoped to leave, but leavings were always tempered by a return, the longest being 10 weeks. It was strange to live in a single community, a single country, a single continent for this long. Nearly half her life now had been spent anchored to the unfamiliar which somehow had never become home. She'd tried, oh how she'd tried, and the average American would say she'd succeeded in integrating, but she'd always known she was different. The heart of an African child beat inside her, the emotions of a Seychellois grandmother had become hers, the hospitality of a Middle Eastern heritage she claimed, the independence of a German grandmother was a definite part of her.
She finally turned and left. She recognized the desire to stay was that feeling she got when she was about to take off on another trip, whether across the state or across an ocean. It was a feeling of longing to stay. It came invariably as she packed her toothbrush and phone charger, double-checked her travel documents, and turned off the lights. When the feeling came, she knew it was time to go. She was ready.
The sadness blanketed her heart, wrapping close and pulling her in. The ghosts of yesterdays came out en masse, all the ones who had left in one way or another. For a few moments, the anger and the weariness dropped its veil and she saw the beauty of treasured memories created over a lifetime. For that was what it was. Each country birthed its own lifetime and as she left each one, she carefully placed it in its own cotton-soft-lined drawer in her heart and slid it shut.
It was time to go. The people now were not of the tribe of Joseph and life had changed from anticipation to existence. She knew it was not right and to thrive she would have to once again, hold change close and allow its sharp pain to change her. Perhaps this time she would breathe in deep and the senses would reassure her that she was home.
She was ready.
She stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Several people stopped to greet her, exchange hugs, chat for a minute or two. The song leaders were singing, she joined in every now and then, as a feeling of nostalgia began to grow. This was unusual; she often came and left feeling empty, disconnected, and alone.
The grieving process was beginning. So this is what it feels like to leave, she thought. She had no clear direction yet, she was still searching for the pathway her Father wanted her to take, but she knew it would come soon. So many times over the past 17 years she'd wanted to leave, prayed to leave, hoped to leave, but leavings were always tempered by a return, the longest being 10 weeks. It was strange to live in a single community, a single country, a single continent for this long. Nearly half her life now had been spent anchored to the unfamiliar which somehow had never become home. She'd tried, oh how she'd tried, and the average American would say she'd succeeded in integrating, but she'd always known she was different. The heart of an African child beat inside her, the emotions of a Seychellois grandmother had become hers, the hospitality of a Middle Eastern heritage she claimed, the independence of a German grandmother was a definite part of her.
She finally turned and left. She recognized the desire to stay was that feeling she got when she was about to take off on another trip, whether across the state or across an ocean. It was a feeling of longing to stay. It came invariably as she packed her toothbrush and phone charger, double-checked her travel documents, and turned off the lights. When the feeling came, she knew it was time to go. She was ready.
The sadness blanketed her heart, wrapping close and pulling her in. The ghosts of yesterdays came out en masse, all the ones who had left in one way or another. For a few moments, the anger and the weariness dropped its veil and she saw the beauty of treasured memories created over a lifetime. For that was what it was. Each country birthed its own lifetime and as she left each one, she carefully placed it in its own cotton-soft-lined drawer in her heart and slid it shut.
It was time to go. The people now were not of the tribe of Joseph and life had changed from anticipation to existence. She knew it was not right and to thrive she would have to once again, hold change close and allow its sharp pain to change her. Perhaps this time she would breathe in deep and the senses would reassure her that she was home.
She was ready.
Friday, October 23, 2015
Marks & Sparks
And this is for you, he said, opening a bag and pulling out a pale yellow short-sleeved cardigan. It's from our aunt. She took it carefully and left the room with the excuse that she was going to try it on. After closing the door, she buried her nose in its softness and breathed in deep. Ahhhhh, there it was. Faint, after having traveled thousands of miles to get to her, but still there. The familiar scent of home. One of many homes.
It fit perfectly, of course. Somehow, over her 35 years, most of them spent away from those who were tied to her biologically, they had known exactly what sizes of clothing to send. Her aunt and Granny were adept at picking out stylish yet fashionably durable items she would wear for years after and then hand down to her sister.
Even though yellow was her least favourite colour, she knew the cardigan was not going to the charity shop. This would become her favourite cardigan because it was more than just a cardigan. It was a symbol of someone's love and care for her.
She breathed in deep one more time. She wished she could vacuum seal the familiar scent for days when she missed the familiar. There were all too many of those.
It fit perfectly, of course. Somehow, over her 35 years, most of them spent away from those who were tied to her biologically, they had known exactly what sizes of clothing to send. Her aunt and Granny were adept at picking out stylish yet fashionably durable items she would wear for years after and then hand down to her sister.
Even though yellow was her least favourite colour, she knew the cardigan was not going to the charity shop. This would become her favourite cardigan because it was more than just a cardigan. It was a symbol of someone's love and care for her.
She breathed in deep one more time. She wished she could vacuum seal the familiar scent for days when she missed the familiar. There were all too many of those.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
92 To Go
I've been doing a joy challenge. A friend posted it on Facebook, www.100happydays.com, and curious, I went to see what it was all about. The challenge piqued my competitive nature, particularly since they claimed very few people were able to last the full 100 days. So challenge taken and I set off determined to post a picture every day for 100 days of what made me happy.
I thought it would be easy. It was at first, but today was particularly difficult. I laughed when friends made funny comments, but it was more of an instinctive reaction than a deep feeling of joy. I talked to God on the drive to and from a community mental health program I coordinate, but the emotion associated with our heart-to-heart time was expressed in tears. I came home, made a chocolate souffle in the microwave, and submitted it for day 8 of my 100 happy day challenge. 92 days to go. . .
I chose this challenge for a very specific reason. I've noticed that the past few months have been getting progressively darker and less joy-filled. I remember a time when I would anticipate life with excitement, when little things brought great joy, but now I tend to focus on the negative. This isn't how I want to live my life. I don't want to be known as the grumpy melancholy woman who can never think of a nice thing to say about anyone. I want that joy. I want joy which comes from the deepest part of my heart and is seen easily by others.
Interestingly, the challenge bases joy in circumstances or finds it in friends or tangible evidence. Yet at the same time, science has shown that joy is not found in possessions, per se, as much as it is experienced in the intangible such as spending time with people who love us. As a Christian, I am admonished to find my joy in God and to be joyful regardless of circumstances. I'm still figuring out the balance. I'm very curious, though, to see whether a deliberate attempt to see and seek the joy in my life will bring an awakened understanding of what it means to be joyful.
Henri Nouwen said, Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day. Today, and for the next 92 days, I shall determine to choose joy.
I thought it would be easy. It was at first, but today was particularly difficult. I laughed when friends made funny comments, but it was more of an instinctive reaction than a deep feeling of joy. I talked to God on the drive to and from a community mental health program I coordinate, but the emotion associated with our heart-to-heart time was expressed in tears. I came home, made a chocolate souffle in the microwave, and submitted it for day 8 of my 100 happy day challenge. 92 days to go. . .
I chose this challenge for a very specific reason. I've noticed that the past few months have been getting progressively darker and less joy-filled. I remember a time when I would anticipate life with excitement, when little things brought great joy, but now I tend to focus on the negative. This isn't how I want to live my life. I don't want to be known as the grumpy melancholy woman who can never think of a nice thing to say about anyone. I want that joy. I want joy which comes from the deepest part of my heart and is seen easily by others.
Interestingly, the challenge bases joy in circumstances or finds it in friends or tangible evidence. Yet at the same time, science has shown that joy is not found in possessions, per se, as much as it is experienced in the intangible such as spending time with people who love us. As a Christian, I am admonished to find my joy in God and to be joyful regardless of circumstances. I'm still figuring out the balance. I'm very curious, though, to see whether a deliberate attempt to see and seek the joy in my life will bring an awakened understanding of what it means to be joyful.
Henri Nouwen said, Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day. Today, and for the next 92 days, I shall determine to choose joy.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Go and Tell All. . .or Just Some?
I've started reading The Great Controversy for myself, not because I feel guilty if I don't, not because it's required reading for class, but because I want to understand whether the hype in the conservative Seventh-day Adventist world is based in fact. Are we really in the end of time or is it the period where Jesus said we will see things happening but it still isn't the end. Are we in the pause before the storm?
Why is it important to me? If this is the end, then I need to be seriously preparing for it. If this is the pause, I need to be preparing others for the end. I believe that once we reach the end, everyone will have had the chance to make their own choice either for or against God. Until then, however, there are people who haven't heard from another Christian that there is a God. Which brings me to my next point. Do we evangelize the Christians or do we share the gospel with the unreached? I think my previous statement answered that question. Which may be leading me to my calling, not one just for me though, but for everyone.
The Great Commission in Matthew 28 tells us to go and make disciples of all nations. Does that mean convert everyone to be a Seventh-day Adventist or does it mean give everyone an opportunity to know who Jesus is and then leave it up to them to figure out how that looks in relation to the Bible? Ellen White says that the great sin of the Christian world would be their rejection of the law of God, the foundation of His government in heaven and earth. The precepts of Jehovah would be despised and set at nought (p. 24 in miniature Great Controversy). She goes on to describe how that looks, describing two classes of Christians, one who studies Jesus' example and looks to be more like Him and another who shuns truth exposing their error (p. 53).
As I consider what I should be doing next in life, I am struggling with reconciling life on this earth with life after it. Do I work hard so I can provide for my family or do I dedicate my life to mission work and trust that God will provide for them? Do I have savings in case of emergency so I can pay my bills or do I trust God to provide money from nowhere? The balance between Christian stewardship and faith is a tricky one. God does remind us not to build a tower without making sure we have the funds beforehand. How this translates to my life is a simple parallel yet it asks difficult questions. If my core value is responsibility, I will be a fiscally responsible giving Christian. If my core value is salvation, I will abandon retirement plans, savings, and a house to live in a hut in Africa and share the gospel with those who've never heard. Or maybe there is a place between?
This promise is one I shall carry with me when the excited crowds roar about running to the hills. Not one Christian perished in the destruction of Jerusalem. Christ had given His disciples warning, and all who believed His words watched for the promised sign (p. 35). I don't know if I will have to flee to the mountains. I wouldn't survive very well if I had to, as I don't know how to garden or forage or build a shelter out of leaves. In this I have to trust that God will take care of me, watch for the promised sign, and then follow His clear guiding.
Why is it important to me? If this is the end, then I need to be seriously preparing for it. If this is the pause, I need to be preparing others for the end. I believe that once we reach the end, everyone will have had the chance to make their own choice either for or against God. Until then, however, there are people who haven't heard from another Christian that there is a God. Which brings me to my next point. Do we evangelize the Christians or do we share the gospel with the unreached? I think my previous statement answered that question. Which may be leading me to my calling, not one just for me though, but for everyone.
The Great Commission in Matthew 28 tells us to go and make disciples of all nations. Does that mean convert everyone to be a Seventh-day Adventist or does it mean give everyone an opportunity to know who Jesus is and then leave it up to them to figure out how that looks in relation to the Bible? Ellen White says that the great sin of the Christian world would be their rejection of the law of God, the foundation of His government in heaven and earth. The precepts of Jehovah would be despised and set at nought (p. 24 in miniature Great Controversy). She goes on to describe how that looks, describing two classes of Christians, one who studies Jesus' example and looks to be more like Him and another who shuns truth exposing their error (p. 53).
As I consider what I should be doing next in life, I am struggling with reconciling life on this earth with life after it. Do I work hard so I can provide for my family or do I dedicate my life to mission work and trust that God will provide for them? Do I have savings in case of emergency so I can pay my bills or do I trust God to provide money from nowhere? The balance between Christian stewardship and faith is a tricky one. God does remind us not to build a tower without making sure we have the funds beforehand. How this translates to my life is a simple parallel yet it asks difficult questions. If my core value is responsibility, I will be a fiscally responsible giving Christian. If my core value is salvation, I will abandon retirement plans, savings, and a house to live in a hut in Africa and share the gospel with those who've never heard. Or maybe there is a place between?
This promise is one I shall carry with me when the excited crowds roar about running to the hills. Not one Christian perished in the destruction of Jerusalem. Christ had given His disciples warning, and all who believed His words watched for the promised sign (p. 35). I don't know if I will have to flee to the mountains. I wouldn't survive very well if I had to, as I don't know how to garden or forage or build a shelter out of leaves. In this I have to trust that God will take care of me, watch for the promised sign, and then follow His clear guiding.
Friday, September 4, 2015
A Protector
I asked for a guy to walk me out to my car the other night. Ordinarily I'm a strong woman, an independent woman. I carry heavy boxes, I drive home late at night, I carry a pepper spray, and I always park under the street light in the Walmart parking lot. But then times come when I'm tired of being strong and I just want to step into the role God created for me before liberation swung too far the other way. I want to be protected.
At first I felt embarrassed at my request. Ordinarily I wouldn't ask, I was used to managing. I would casually ask someone to help me lock up after the evening program so at least I wasn't alone. But the stranger had appeared yet again and I felt uncomfortable. I swallowed hard and asked if someone could stay with me til the end of the program.
As we walked out to my car, just a little after 9 pm, a truck drove by, young men hooting and hollering nonsense from the cab, and I was grateful for the person beside me. I started my car and headed home. A thought came unbidden to mind. Never be ashamed to ask for protection.
It's a difficult world to live in when you're a single woman. I know. Men are afraid to open doors, walk you to your car, carry heavy packages, or compliment you because they don't know if you'll assert your independence and make them feel small. In the same way, I hesitate to reach out and ask for someone to make sure I'm safe because I'll be interrogated and asked why I feel unsafe if I have nothing tangible to base it on.
It is not right, though. A woman should be able to expect careful courtesy from any man. And similarly, any man should be able to expect that a woman will graciously accept his courteous assistance. The next time I find myself waving away help, I must remember to be thankful and accept it. And I hope when next I am in need of protection, I will be able to ask for it without fear of humiliation.
At first I felt embarrassed at my request. Ordinarily I wouldn't ask, I was used to managing. I would casually ask someone to help me lock up after the evening program so at least I wasn't alone. But the stranger had appeared yet again and I felt uncomfortable. I swallowed hard and asked if someone could stay with me til the end of the program.
As we walked out to my car, just a little after 9 pm, a truck drove by, young men hooting and hollering nonsense from the cab, and I was grateful for the person beside me. I started my car and headed home. A thought came unbidden to mind. Never be ashamed to ask for protection.
It's a difficult world to live in when you're a single woman. I know. Men are afraid to open doors, walk you to your car, carry heavy packages, or compliment you because they don't know if you'll assert your independence and make them feel small. In the same way, I hesitate to reach out and ask for someone to make sure I'm safe because I'll be interrogated and asked why I feel unsafe if I have nothing tangible to base it on.
It is not right, though. A woman should be able to expect careful courtesy from any man. And similarly, any man should be able to expect that a woman will graciously accept his courteous assistance. The next time I find myself waving away help, I must remember to be thankful and accept it. And I hope when next I am in need of protection, I will be able to ask for it without fear of humiliation.
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