Oh, boy

The GRE is going to kick my butt.

That is all.

boats, and life

I read this, and look at the picture and I just want to sing that chorus to that Sara Groves song: I am nodding my head an emphatic yes to all that you have for me!!!

BUT, but, BUT, it's easier said than done. Ships are made to sail. But look at that picture. It's beautiful. But it is lying. Those waters are calm, and empty; they are still and serene and beautiful. Real waters are rarely that way.

My grandpa had a boat. He had wanted one for years and years, so when he was in his 60's he saved up $15K and bought a new custom pontoon boat. It was beautiful with its new white and navy leather seats. It had these waterproof covers that snapped on over the seats to protect them when they weren't in use. When I was in my early teens, we spent a lot of time out on that boat. Sometimes my dad would let me drive it, and I would feel like I was on top of the world. Then my grandpa got sick. And he never wanted to take the boat out anymore. He had completely lost his zest for life. When I remember my grandpa, I remember that he loved small, simple pleasures. Working in his rose garden. Restoring old furniture. Sitting on the boat for hours. Poking through antique stores. After he got sick, he just sat. He even stopped watching Letterman, and he loved Letterman.

The boat sat still. Untouched. Protected by its cover, yes. But the carpet, which was always slightly damp, got moldy, and the engine decayed from disuse. Boats [and ships] are not meant for disuse. But we get discouraged, and lazy, and sick, and there are a world of excuses and oceans filled with fear, and we don't want to take the boat out.

For crying out loud, I don't want to sit still anymore! For anyone who's ever driven a boat, you have learned that when you see a big wave coming toward you (for instance, if a boat passes you on the side, creating wake) you should turn toward the wave and hit it head on because if it hits you on the side, the boat will rock, and if it is a big enough wave, the boat could capsize. Well, the waves are out there and we have to face them head on! Here I come, world! Here's to not being safe, and doing what I'm meant to do.

{image source}

On not becoming insensitive

I meet people with horrific stories. In fact, most of the people I meet in any given week have a horrific story. It kind of comes with the job territory.

I can't let their stories overwhelm me. It would be easy to melt into a puddle of empathy anytime someone told me what they had been through. But being a puddle, I'd be no good to anyone.

I was working with a woman last night who came in with two kids, who were both being very vocal about the abuse that they had come from. Their mother was defending her husband, the abuser. It broke my heart. It's one tragedy for a woman to believe that she deserves abuse- it's an even graver tragedy when she believes that her abuser has a right to do the same to her kids.

But when I was driving home last night, I wasn't thinking about the tragedy of their abuse. I was thinking about how tragic it was that I almost missed hearing the story. I almost missed an opportunity to pour into her life. I was busy going through the motions of my job- paperwork, getting them clean and in bed, etc. And she was anxious, and I kept trying to calm her down without ever asking why she was anxious. I almost missed a chance to point her to Jesus.

While they were in the dining room eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, one of my coworkers stepped in to meet her, and came out a few minutes later to tell me that she had asked if I would come pray with her. I was both humbled and confused; how neglectful I had been to never mention the name of Jesus once in my interactions with her, and yet, something had told her that I would be willing to pray with her. When I walked in, I saw her crumbling at the table, and for the first time, I held her hand and asked her what was going on. And then I prayed with her. I prayed a real, pleading prayer, asking Jesus to heal her and give her peace about her decision to leave.

Sometimes I feel like I've heard it all, or seen it all. How presumptuous! How wrong I must be! I've worked here for less than a year! And I have to catch myself so that I don't forget why I do what I do. I have to remind myself that just because I've heard a hundred stories about injustice doesn't mean that the other million women in the world who experience it have any less of a story to tell.

The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because the Lord has anointed me
to bring good news to the poor;
he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and the opening of the prison to those who are bound....
² to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit;
that they may be called oaks of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.

Isaiah 61:1,3

Here we go again!

I’m overflowing with stories, but I can’t help thinking that they’re not mine to tell.

I’ve always loved those parts in books when the writer stops what he or she is writing about and tells a story about a human. In all the really good ones, the name is changed in order to preserve the privacy of that person, or some such nonsense. Let’s get real. The person is probably named Karen or something, and there are thousands of Karens in this country, so I doubt that calling her Karen would really jeopardize her safety, but I digress. I love those stories because they are human and painful and raw and interesting. I usually see pieces of myself in them, or of someone that I know. They’re the stuff that good non-fiction books are made of.

Yet, I never thought about how hard it must have been to write the stories until I started to write some. I have lots in my journal… but those are so that I can remember funny details years from now. No one else will read them.

I hear lots of stories. Many of them heartbreaking, some of them truly redeeming (though I think that for redemption to be true, it must come in the wake of heartbreak). I suppose I’ll probably tell some here (and in spite of my general desire to be a non-conformist whenever possible, I will probably change their names, for privacy). But mostly I think I’ll just ramble on about what it’s like to be a twenty something living in a city, working with homeless women, and trying to follow Jesus into the dark crevices of this world. It’s fun, that’s what it is!