English...?

Without making any statements about education, lack thereof, text-obsessing, not in touch with reality teenagers, or anything like that, I just want to share this with you

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If you took less than five minutes to figure out what that said, you're smarter than me. I think you might need Little Orphan Annie's decoder ring. The language it's written in is "facebook status" from one of my young friends. 18 years old. I understand you need to use your phone to update, but uh... lots of people do.

I won't be cynical. It's hilarious, really. Hilarious.

The Shack

Well, I finished reading William P Young's "The Shack" recently. I heard some raving reviews early on after its appearance, but hadn't felt really pulled to read it. In fact, whenever someone feels strongly about something, I tend to shy away and push my feelings in the other direction. But, around Christmastime, a friend gave me the book to read so we could discuss it. Then, through a series of events involving my weasly sister, I misplaced the book (by misplaced, I mean, my sister added it to her collection) so I didn't get around to it until this month. Then I started reading it. I don't want to be too opinionated and risk pissing someone off or the opposite, but I feel I should share my opinion because... I can. And because I found some aspects of the book quite troubling.

I must say, this is a really well-written book. I liked the words and the way it flowed, and the plot/conversations and things were very convincing. The plot itself is actualy troubling. It revolves around someone who's daughter was the victim of violent crime, and, while it doesn't share any gruesome details, being in the head of a father experiencing a kidnapping and murder is hard. Being the mother of two girls, it was just hard to read and feel like I was relating with the father character.

The book isn't really about that murder, but about how the main character, Mackinzie, deals with it and fights with God over it. Basically, he ends up encountering God at the place where they believed the crime took place. He goes back a few years later and has this experience with God, personified as three distinct personalities, representing the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. So, with that said, you know the plot. From the time he meets up with God to most of the end, the story is mostly conversation, while Mackinzie grapples with these questions about God and life and suffering that I think everyone who's experienced grief asks. The answers you get... well, it's a blend of truth, theology, comfort and heracy.

I really appreciated the fresh perspectives on things. I liked the theme that God is not who we think He is. Because He isn't. He's new and changing, yet old and predictable. He's so many things that we could never, ever explain it all or fit it into our minds even if we could explain it. We've tried and tried, and I believe that this book does a really good job explaining some things that are hard to put into words.

I liked a lot of the answers. Having struggled with questions about why God allows evil and how He works through it, I was glad to relate with Mackinzie. There were so many good answers given. So much theology laced in through the casual conversations and thoughts. It made me wonder at how little of God I know, and how much there is yet to understand. It made me love him more as I thought about what it would be like to meet up with Jesus and walk on the lake with him, or eat supper wtih God Himself. It made me long for closer fellowship with Him.

What I can't get over, and why I can't recommend the book, is the fallacies that are sprinkled in. I guess that's all I have to say about it. Amidst these solid truths, I found things that, no matter how much I tried, I could not reconsile with Scripture. So, if you read it, you have to really pray that God will show you the truth and help you discern. And you have to remember, just because the characters speaking are God, doesn't mean that the book was written by Him. :)

Brokenness

I wrote this after reflecting on my baby brother who died at 6 days old. His birthday was Monday and he would have been 26. Obviously it ended up being more of my personal thoughts. The phrases "you are yourself the answer" and "what other answer would suffice" were taken from C.S. Lewis' Till We have Faces, which has been and will forever be the best book I ever read.

Brokenness

Years go by but once in a while I still find myself asking why
Why, in the midst of so much sorrow, must you allow for more
why, when the joy so simple and pure is lost, does it ruin so many other things
why do you take these little ones home
Why do babies have to die?
and grace rolls down and mercy shows
as your hand guides us and your presence
guides our steps, causing the peace to flow
but even in your goodness, the doubt staggers in
touching and picking and pulling
making me face the questions I wish would die
and causing me to wonder why.
Why would you let it be this way
when the sorrow is almost too much to take
and the pain can never be erased
why do you take these little ones home
why do babies have to go?
and all the answers are trite when told to a burning, broken heart
All but one—you yourself are the Answer
in your love we find hope
in your light we find comfort
in your brokenness
we are healed
In your arms we find peace
and that will be enough for me
for what other answer would suffice?

Papers

I remember starting in second grade, our teachers let us use our free time to "read write or draw". I loved all three activities a lot. But, if I had to choose, I'd usually choose to write. I'd get these notebooks at the student store for 25cents and sometimes these great markers that were like 50 cents. And then, whenever I had a chance, I'd write these little stories. I only have a few of the notebooks, since they were prone to fall apart once the glue wore off. It's funny to see the themes I chose for my free stories. Mostly detective stories and things about the teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles... at least in second grade. Detective stories happened all the way through fifth grade. (I had always planned to be a detective until seventh grade when I found out you had to be pretty physically fit, and then I gave up on the idea).

In Fifth grade, we'd go up to the computer lab and use the "new" Apples to type up our stories and print them out on dot matrix. Ahhh, beautiful. What I wouldn't give to hear that sound. I believe Strongbad refers to it as "pre-ow" Anyway, I digress. So, in fifth grade we typed up stories. I wrote really long stories back then. The two that are left behind are pretty darn involved for a fifth grader's brain. I have one that was 5 pages when I typed it, which was amazing compared to everyone else's who were mostly one or two pages. I remember my teacher saying, "This isn't a story! It's a novel!" It's a stupid story, really, about some kids who discover a whole bunch of nuclear weapons in their neighbor's basement. Headed to Iraq for Sadaam Hussein... lame, I know. I guess I had a lot to learn about terrorists. But the plot was pretty cohesive.
My mom gave me a portfolio with a lot of writing in it from those years. I remembered writing some of it, but a lot of it I'd completely forgotten about. I know I have a lot of free writing from sixth grade that I did during class, but I can't find most of my writing assignments. There was one from ffith grade, though, a midevil tale (oh, I forgot to mention that after the detective stories stopped, I started writing more about kids finding bombs and knights and castles. Much better). It was 14 pages hand-written with illustrations. Lots of details. I think I might actually post that one if I get enough requests, because it's hilarious.
Anyway, reading all of that old crap and remembering how imaginitive I used to be made me wish that I had more time to devote to making up stories. I don't do it as much anymore. Sure, I can spell better now, and I have much better technique but sometimes I almost wish for those days back when the idea tank was overflowing.
Then again, maybe if I started writing detective stories again, the ideas would start to flow again. Maybe I will... but probably not.

Furry friends from Days Gone By

I don't know about you, but I have a really hard time getting rid of stuffed animals. Daniel hates that little thing about me. Just this morning I was trying to convince him to fix this broken bear because I can't stand to throw it out even though it's missing both of its legs. but that's another story. The story I have
to tell today is about me as a little girl, collecting the best stuffed animals. We played a lot when I was a kid. I went through a phase where I really only played with my animals. I sort of had a whole world made up in my head with them. I loved those happy days. And I love my animal friends because they remind me of that time.

Today I cleaned up the patch of bears, dogs, cats and various other animals that have been living on top of my wardrobe. I might send a couple away to consignment, but the ones who made the cut... well, I'm sure you're all dying to know. So I went ahead and created a yearbook.

(Top Left) Bear 2. Yes, that was actually his name. He might actually be an Ewok. Some how, he managed to make it into my top four animals when I was a kid, but I don't know why. Mom was right. He's ugly. (Top Center) Baby hear. He got a hole and the plastic beads fell out, but I liked to chew on them so it was all good. (Top Right) Ape. (Creative names). My great uncle gave me that. all of the other kids got little birds that chirped when you bounced them on a string. The gorilla makes squeeking noises. He was always the bully when I played with the animals, but I'm sort of fond of him. He has a good face.
(Bottom right) Snoopy: Nuff said. Freaking awesome.
(Bottom center) Red Frog: I don't really know why I've kept him. Some girl I didn' really even like much gave him to me for my 8th birthday. He croaks when you roll him around. and he's red. Very red. I think he might end up in the goodwill box this time around. (Bottom Right) I think he's actually the snuggles bear from the downey commercials way back in the day. He has a baby rattle inside.





Above: (From left to right): Goaty. By far my favorite stuffed animal. He usually went everywhere with me. Mom picked him up in North Dakota for me and she didn't get any of my other siblings any presents. I lost him twice. Once in a storage room at the house for several months. I thought he was gone forever until Mom went to organize, and there he was. The other time, I did leave him behind at a hotel in Colorado. Thankfully, MOm had to go back after a week for my grandpa's funeral and she got him out of the lost and found! It's a great story. Wilbur He was pretty much around from the time I was born. One house we lived in, Mom came in singing a song from the Charlotte's Web movie, and one of piggy's eyes popped right off and fell into a heat intake. He only had one eye for years and then one day MOm randomly just decided to sew new ones on. i love that pig. Lammy Another one who was around, I think since I was born. I carried him all over. most people say it's a bunny, but I don't think so. He was always my favorite toy. I used to lift up the little bib to find the soft fur underneath. And, the best of all, it plays Frere Jocha when you wind it up. Except my brother stepped on it and it never worked again.

From left to right again. Dog. I know it looks like a blob but it's really a dog. He used to have paper eyes glued on, but they fell off so all that's left is a mouth. I won him at an Awanas thing when I was probably four. I guess he's just evidence of mercy, because I can't bring myself to throw the darn thing away. He's hideous. He was even when he first showed up. Aslan. I was probably in middle school when I got him at a tag sale I went to with my mom. Some old person couldn't part with him, and neither can I. He looks very antique, and I've had to patch him up a few times, but I think he's really cute. So stately, yet so fierce. He likes to lead the other animals around, just like Aslan in Narnia. Hu-You. No idea why we named him that. No idea how we kept him around so long. He's sort of a family toy, but I ended up with him since I have a house and no one else does. He's actually the 1980 Olympic mascot, a Russian bear. He used to have an Olympic belt, but that disappeared a long time ago. I checked. He's worth about 5 bucks on ebay in good condition. That makes Hu-You worth about five cents. Aside from the great memories.




(Left) Masked Marada. He terrorizes the night, stopping crime in its tracks. My mom never liked him, but I think he's great. He thinks he's a super hero. (right) Josh. No idea how I picked that name. My grandma brought all three of us animals with jackets and scarves one year. my brothers got a panda and a dog, and I got this koala. I named him JOsh. He was Ape's friend, and they were always up to no good together. :)

Well, there you have it. Welcome to my crazy world. That was only half of the great things I could tell you. Only half of the animals that I need to go clean up before Daniel gets home.

"Under the Overpass"

Okay, I can't stay quiet about it anymore! I was going to wait til I'd read the whole book, but I'm not going to. (I must be tired or frazzled; I just had to go back and correct two grammar errors in one sentence!)

I've been reading this really good book called Under the Overpass, a journey of faith on America's streets. It's by Mike Yankoski. He undertook a strange mission when he was a sophomore in college. After hearing a sermon about being a real Christian, he felt led to become homeless for a time. He found a companion, Sam, to go with him, and a board of advisers to keep him in touch with reality and set out with 3 objectives:
1) To better understand the life of the homeless in America and to see firsthand how the church is responding to their needs.
2) To encourage others to "live out loud" for Christ in whatever ways God is asking them to.
3) To learn personally what it means to depend on Christ for daily physical needs and to experience contentment and confidence in Him. (page 19)

It's an easy-to-read narrative of his thoughts and experiences on this six-month journey. I have been impressed. It's made me think of things I never had, taught me new things about life, and about God, and it's challenged me.
I love reading and over the years I've read a lot of nonfiction, because I like it a lot. This may be my new favorite (aside from a handful of Lewis' books, which are in their own category). Buy it. I'll buy it for you if you ask me to. I've learned so many things. Tonight's reading has been the best yet, because they've been talking about their experience with churches. I can't explain what I'd like to, so I'm just going to put in an excerpt from the book which you can read if you'd like. I hope I'm not infringing on anyone's copyrights.
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After addressing a broken flip-flop and semi-serious injury to his foot, Mike talks about his visit to a church (p 147):
Conversations at the front door stopped as we walked up. I had to ask for a church bulletin from the girl who was handing them out. She looked at us as if we had just escaped from a wildlife preserve. but we headed inside for the service anyway and found an empty pew three feet from the front. Thewhole room couldn't hold more than a hundred, so our chances of going unnoticed were not good.
WE still had a few minutes before the service began, and Sam had an idea. "I'm going to ask the pastor if he can help us out with some food. My stomach is growling." he got up and walked away, but was back shortly, looking disgusted.
"You won't believe what just happened," he said. "So I went and asked for the pastor. He was standing in the back, getting some coffee. I asked him if he could help us out, if he could hook us up with someone who could feed us. I told him we didn't have any money, that the panhandling here was bad."
Same paused and shook his head. "You know what he said? He said, 'That's not what we do here. We're here to worship. We can't confuse our purpose.'"
"Wow...," I said, slowly.
... [after the service] While people filed out, Sam and I kept our seats, journaling and trying to capture the moment and our frustrations.
After a few minutes, three guys came through the pews to talk. "Hey guys, I'm Drew," one guy said, extending his hand. We introduced ourselves and told them we were living on the streets. after that, the talk rambled around general topics. When I could see the conversation was going nowhere, I decided to try an experiment. (I'll admit my reaction was a little harsh, and done out of frustration, but still...)
I set my backpack on the pew between us. Then I reached down and grabbed my broke flip-flop and set it atop the pack. some of the blood was still wet, but most of it had dried, caking the sandal in a dull brown.
"Man, look at all that blood," I said, looking to Sam and pointing to my sandal.
"Bro, does that hurt?" Sam asked, catching onto my experiment.
"A little," I said, reaching for my bag. "It's because my flip-flop is broken. You see?" I said, looking up at the guys and pulling on the broken tongue of the flip flop.
They nodded by said nothing. I pulled out the dwindling roll of duct tape and ripped off a long piece--a really long piece, stretching it loudly across in front of me the full length of my arms.
... When I finished [the long process of fixing my flip flop], I dropped the sandal and slipped my foot into it. "Well done!" Sam said.
Drew agreed. "Quite a process!" he said.
"Yep," I agreed and waited.
"Well," Drew said, looking around, "we've got to take off, but it was a pleasure talking with you." He squeezed my shoulder as he left. "I'm praying for you," he said. "You too," he said to Sam. And the three walked away.
Shocked, Sam and I carried our packs and guitars out into the bright, sunny Berkely day. As we walked toward People's Park, I broke our silence with a question.
"Why do we so often overlook obvious ways to show the love of God we so loudly proclaim?" Without waiting for an answer, I charged on. "If someone's thirsty, give them a drink! If someone's hungry, feed them! I mean, this is not complicated stuff."
Sam agreed. "Who is to show the world Christ's love if not the church?"
"No one," I said definitively. Then I stopped and looked directly at Sam, who had also stopped. "Do you feel loved?"
"Nope."
"Do you feel fed?"
"Nope. I'm starving. What about you?'
"I'm starving and my feet hurt, and that guy back there knows it. but hey, he's praying for us."

Taken from "Under the Overpass" copyright 2005 Mike Yankoski III Multnomah Books
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The rest of the chapter has an incredible story about some other people they met, but you'll just have to read it to get the good news part. the story convicted me, because I bet those guys who stopped and talked to them thought they were doing a good thing. I guess they were, but, at the same time, there was more that they could do. I don't want to be a person who says "I'll pray for you" when there are obvious needs that I could meet. I want to be generous and loving and genuinely care. That chapter, by the way, begins with a quote from A.W. Tozer in Of God and Men: "It is much easier to pray that a poor friend's needs may be supplied than to supply them."

Joshua and the Tent of Meeting

Exodus 33:11 The LORD would speak to Moses face to face, as a man speaks with his friend. Then Moses would return to the camp, but his young aide Joshua son of Nun did not leave the tent.

I ran across this verse while preparing devotionals for theatrical camp earlier this summer. It stuck out to me, amidst all of the strange tales of God's wrath and rules, and the wonders He preformed. People didn't know God back then like we know Him now. In fact, He'd been kind of quiet for a long time before Moses arrived on the scene. His people (the Israelite) had to rely on Moses to connect them to Him, and He often seemed unapproachable and uncaring. That's another topic. This verse I found is from a section where they talk about how Moses set up a tent to meet God in, and how the Israelites had to stay away because God's glory was too much for them to handle. And yet, there's this kid, Moses' young aide who couldn't get enough of it. He was privileged anyway, to be able to go into that tent with Moses. And then he just wanted to stay.

I remember a time when I felt I couldn't get enough of God's presence. I was young and impressionable. Maybe I was passionate, it's hard to say, because it seems so long ago and so misguided now. If you know my story, you might know how changing churches caused a crisis of belief, and, I think, in the end, a little bit of hardening in my heart. I love God so much, and I want to please Him and serve Him, and I do what I can to glorify Him, but alas, I do not linger in the tent. I rush through my prayers and Bible-reading, hoping for a quick answer, praying because I think I should and then hurrying off into my chaotic day.

We can speak with God face-to-face, unlike the Israelites, but often I just approach my relationship with Him as if I can't. I list off my concerns and do my duty, and hurry away, hoping that He'll tag along with me for the day. I read that verse and realized how much I want to savor His presence in my life again. How much I want to be like Joshua.

Old Friends

When Daniel and I first met, we realized how many mutual friends we had at church. I guess our compatible personalities made way for that (and the fact that all of his friends were girls). The connections went deeper than we knew, however. The people Daniel had hung out with in grade school had been in my Sunday school class all those years ago. A few of the connections got rekindled, since I was still in contact with a couple of the kids that we'd both known.
One person in particular, happened to be a pretty good friend to both of us. We called her Rory. Her family lived in the "missionary house" next to Daniel's parents house, so he'd known her for years. I'd known her since first grade. I think we became official friends at a sleepover/lock in in the forth grade when we stayed up "all night" watching McGee and Me and telling stupid jokes. Ahh, those were good times.
Rory usually lived in Africa, so she was only home every four years. But they were great years when she was home.
This week we got to see Rory again, after eight years. (She had attended our wedding and that was the last we saw of her). She was just as enjoyable now. Probably more so.
It's so refreshing to meet up with an old friend and discover that some things just don't change. Through the years, so many of my friends have changed drastically. They've grown up and thought through their opinions about things, and oftentimes, we've ended up not agreeing anymore, and not really having a lot in common. Some of my closes friends have parted ways with me, and I hate it. I don't hate them or their opinions. I just hate that we aren't as good of friends or friends at all.
A long time ago, Rory's dad told me that he loved living in Africa because you could get used to one way of living, and then it never changed. I would have liked that to be my life, but it hasn't. But at least some things haven't. Rory's great personality and sense of humor and ability to relate with me and Daniel hasn't changed.
[editor's note: I told Rory that I was going to find some old photos and post them, but lucky for her, I didn't feel like digging through old boxes and finding those photos, so... maybe next time].