Why I'm Struggling with the "Gratefulness" Concept

     Thanksgiving. It marks the beginning of a season of traditions, family, and food. It's the time of year when we're especially grateful for our blessings - even those extra-crazy family members. A time of reflection and warm fuzzies. Of celebration and contentment. Of sincere goodwill among all the great majority of random passers-by.

     In Sunday School yesterday, we considered gratefulness. We discussed how it is often the foil, in the Bible, to sin (Romans 1:21), and how its simple expression can completely change one's perspective and attitude. We listed several daily "taken-for-granted" aspects of our lives for which we ought to remember to give thanks (health, cleaning supplies, clothing). We touched on the fact that grief and thankfulness are not mutually exclusive.

     But what I didn't volunteer in the course of our discussion was that, for me lately, the emotion which follows gratefulness most closely is guilt. In the evenings, climbing shivering-ly into bed (we have heat, but I have a sis that sleeps with her window open), I whisper a quick thanks to God for thick, flannel sheets. Almost immediately, though, I'm ashamed of my opulent life in which I'm coddled by flannel sheets which I had ample money to buy, a quilt sewn by my mum because she's alive, healthy, and loves me, and the thick wool blanket I bought while visiting Scotland several years ago on pleasure. What am I doing with such luxuries? Is it right to live like this, with people around the world in such want? When my own brothers and sisters in Christ have had their possessions confiscated? While they cling to God, am I clinging to comfort?

     This past weekend, hurrying to my car after a concert, I passed a homeless man, arranging his belongings around him for the evening. Ice is in the air, and for a moment I wondered if I should give him my scarf, but I held back. "This isn't just a random scarf. Mum made it for me. It'd be different if it was one I'd bought for myself..." - my mind flurried with these comforts as I quickened my stride, but are they true? Thankful as I was for the warmth in which I was wrapped, I walked right past someone who probably would have benefited greatly from my "blessing". Is gratefulness genuine - God-honoring - if it results in hoarding? Do I really understand imitating Christ if I receive things and fail to turn around and give them away again?

     These questions are genuine; I don't know the answers. I know guilt is never from my Father, so of course that is misplaced, but what should my response be when inundated with all my belongings and reminded of the destitution of others? Is it right, as a Christian, to live in comfort, in excess of basic needs, while others do not? How can it not feel like a mockery, a callousness to suffering, to sit in our warm homes surrounded by comforts and thank God devoutly for all our "stuff"? Are we grateful, or glorying in gluttony?

     "[Giving] thanks in all circumstances", as the Scriptures instruct, is not the same as "giving thanks for all circumstances." I think this is how people can be grateful even in the face of the ravages of sin. Death, disease, devaluation of life - these realities are not how life was meant to be; they are not what God pronounced "good"; they are the results of sin, not the blessings of God. But the grateful person  gains a perspective beyond his immediate pain, grief, shame, or despair. He knows that "yet God sits enthroned," that because of His multitudinous grace, things will be brought together for good, whether the individual lives to see that good or not (somewhat like Hebrews 11:13).

     I'm not quite sure how, yet, but I feel the above thoughts are the beginning of my answers. That while I can give thanks for flannel sheets, or warm scarves, my habit of gratefulness should not actually be tied to physical comforts - or even necessities - but to an awareness of who I am in God's sight, and yet what He did for me. If my value is not in possessions, or health, or friends, and yet I am grateful, what changes in my lifestyle?

     This doesn't answer the persistent, discomforting feeling that it's wrong to live in such ease, to not be giving everything but the bare minimum away; I want to know how I should respond.

     How do you practice gratefulness? Do you feel guilty giving thanks for comforts and extras? How do you resolve your comforts with the great needs in the world - particularly those of our persecuted brothers and sisters?

Photo 1: LABabble. Fall Leaves. 18 October 2009. Flickr Creative Commons.
Photo 2: ryry17. Poverty. 28 December 2007. Flickr Creative Commons.

To Have a Broken Heart

     We're a world full of broken hearts. Tragic losses, disappointing relationships, unrealized dreams - poets and songwriters thrive upon words which express our human pain. Bookstores abound with how-tos for overcoming grief, realizing or recreating life goals, or moving on from the scarring end of a relationship. We gather strength from the sympathy of others, confidence in the steps of those who have gone before us. Because if we mortals share one thing, it is the disappointment of our expectations. We hope for more than we can achieve; we plan our lives, oblivious to our lack of control; we expect our loves to be returned in kind.

     I've been struck by how often I hear someone referring to being "brokenhearted". Exaggerations and forms of expression aside, heart-wrenching pain surrounds us, always. Children in sin, loved ones leaving this world, friendships being abandoned - these sorrows are not strangers to us, or those we walk beside each day.

     But are these heartbreaks the cracking of our being, or an exposure of the holes? What if our dreams were to fill in gaps that are intrinsically missing from our existence? What if our love has become a desperate search to find the perfect pieces for our gaping hearts? What if it is sin, not circumstances, which crushes us so?

 

   What if I am, in my very essence, broken?

     The pain of which we speak when we bemoan a broken heart is terribly real, but the repetition of this word - "heartbroken" - has challenged my definition. To be brokenhearted, I've realized, doesn't mean that I was whole and something - or someone - shattered me, because I'm already shattered. Incomplete. Sick. In need of repair. Rather, seasons of "brokenness" or heartache are poignant moments in which the scales fall from my eyes, and I realize who I am.

     This isn't something "God did to me", but an unveiling of myself: a broken, sin-smeared individual in desperate need to be fixed and filled-in by her Savior. Sometimes I try to help, thinking I understand how to make myself whole, thinking being sick means I know the cure, but this only results in flimsy life pillars which must in turn be demolished to allow for proper supports. These demolitions too, as I say, "break my heart," and since I've thus supported my hopes and affections, I suppose they do. But only in proportion to the expectations I've placed upon the work of my own hands.

     Don't misunderstand me, though. Our pain, what we call "brokenhearted-ness" is not because our loves, hopes or dreams were wrong - although we should be daily evaluating them. Nor are they because God ruined us, or delights in our pain - though He does make everything work for good. We are broken because we are full of failings in a sin-saturated world, and we feel the vacuum of this incompleteness most acutely in moments of barefaced loss. Sometimes our loss is caused by sin in the world - death, betrayal, need - and sometimes by sin in ourselves - idols, pride, misplaced affections, disobedience. But being forced to acknowledge these shattered pieces does not break my heart. It reminds me of my need to be made whole.

     So to those acutely aware of their broken hearts today: I am crying for you. My heart hurts for you. Let me pray for and with you. Yet, in this season, in this your time of seeing chips and shards and cracks, savor who God reveals Himself to be. As you throw yourself before His merciful throne, staggering under your burden, realize that this is an attitude we should cultivate: the lamenting of sin, of pain, of imperfection. It is only through this discipline that He can work to heal far more than our temporary woes; He will cure our thorough incompleteness. After all, He has come to "bind up the brokenhearted."

     And that means all of us.


Photo 1: Skley, Dennis. Broken Heart 294/366. 20 October 2012. Flickr Creative Commons.
Photo 2: Skley, Dennis. Pain of a broken heart. 21 August 2011. Flickr Creative Commons.
Photo 3: Vortexas32. IMG_2625. 29 March 2012. Flickr Creative Commons. 

The One {Not} About Singleness

     I feel the pressing need to preface this post with a disclaimer: there is great irony in my writing it at all. Why? Because on principle, I'm against the "for-singles" (especially single girls) genre; so allow me to begin with a couple clarifications of what this post is not:

• This post is not about "waiting for Prince Charming", because there is no place for a heaven-bound, Spirit-empowered, Christ-called girl to be twiddling her thumbs - literally or emotionally - waiting for "that special someone" to show up and give her life purpose. A special One already came and gave meaning. His name is Jesus, his purpose is the work of an evangelist and/or disciple-maker. These are not tasks to "bide your time"; this is your sacred calling.
• This post is not about "how to serve God as a single girl" - for so many reasons. Anyone reading those kinds of articles has probably spent far more time in her life single than married, anyway, so these "encouragements" inevitably contain the underlying vibe of "until Prince Charming..." even if they explicitly state that you shouldn't have the mindset of a "waiting room." No. Wrong. God has a calling, a mission, for you as you. You, my dear, have been specially created with gifts, abilities, and understanding to accomplish great things. Single, married (rich, poor, young, old, guy, girl...) - it's irrelevant, so stop stereotyping your service options based on your title in society. Yes, I'm sure marriage is wonderful. I'm also sure it has challenges of which we have no concept. And I know it doesn't hold water in heaven. So stop putting yourself in a box and go do whatever in the world God has laid on your heart.
• This post is not about "finding contentment as a single", because the last prepositional phrase is superfluous. If you struggle with contentment not being married, you'll probably struggle with it being married. You are probably currently struggling with it in more areas than mere marital status. Take a step back. Examine your life, your heart. In my experience, the "I just wish I was married" phrase can hide a whole lot more than discontentment. Laziness, bitterness, jealousy - these are only a few of the potential pitfalls that can be hiding under the surface of such a "longing". Why, then, should we be catered to or excused in them?

     So what is left in a "post to singles" if it's none of the above? Simply this: stop with the singleness already. Why box yourselves in, obsessively gorging on blog posts and podcasts and articles and books and motivational catchphrases and  promises of "God has someone for you" and lectures and testimonies all focused on one aspect of your life that is irrelevant in eternity? Why would you choose to be so defined by something so indifferent to your value as a Christian? Of course, as a girl, I know the answers from at least one perspective. For myself, this desire stems from a longing for someone to have my back, to always be there for me, to be committed to loving and challenging me. But will this be fulfilled in a marriage? Is my fictional husband never going to let me down? Always going to make me feel valuable? Always going to build me up, and point me in the right direction? In my head: absolutely! In reality: absolutely not.

     I forgot to add the last "not" in my list. This post is not about how evil it is to imagine or wish for marriage. It's not evil, but it is hardly beneficial, and rarely realistic. When we're tempted to discontentment with our societal state, we should call a hard stop and examine our hearts. What longing, desire, or need are we imagining will be filled by marriage? What has distracted us from our purpose, and how does God meet the need (or teach us through its lack) that we think should be filled by a boyfriend, a fiancee, a husband? Don't naively blame your struggles on singleness. Identify your deficiencies - perceived or real - and allow God to fill them. He made you; He knows how you can best be fulfilled. And He wants to fill your purpose, full to overflowing.

     Our culture is in a strange place of wanting each individual to be unique in his/her struggles and insights, while wanting to simultaneously relate to everyone else. We have communities (often virtual) for introverts, for writers, for Star Wars fans, for quilters, for gamers, for singles - you name it, it's out there. In them you find members operating off the presupposition that they "get" everyone, but they themselves  have some aspect no one else can "get". In the realm of unmarried, Christian girls, this results in a kajillion articles, written for and by them, on their unique "paths of singleness," along which they bandwagon together, unknowingly holding themselves back from potential as they center their identities around a label they have created and cultivated. 

     Can we stop? I don't want to walk through life as "Single Sarah" (although I admit the alliteration makes it tempting); I want to be known as "Sarah, daughter of the King, worker of His will." When talking to my married friends, I'm still occasionally [pleasantly] surprised to realize that we single and married girls do battle with the same challenges. Sure, they may be manifested differently, but my struggles would look different if I lived in a different state, a different country, or a different family, too. Location, physical or emotional, does not change my battles, but only a Christ-centered life can win them.

    So, to the singles out there: stop thinking of yourselves as singles. You are as you were created to be: glorious beings in the image of God, surrounded by opportunities to live to your fullest potential as you make His will your own, building up and being built up by the church, conquering your battles in the power of the Spirit, taking every thought captive.

   Let's go change the world.

Photo1 Credit: schabeadles. single?. 11 April 2010. Flickr Creative Commons.
Photo2 Credit: Roman, Luo. Alone. 31 May 2008. Flickr Creative Commons.
Photo3 Credit: きうこ. Overflow. 15 May 2008. Flickr Creative Commons.

Light-Steeped

     One of my favorite things about serving at a tea room was how the day began. After greeting my fellow tea lovers - boss and coworkers - I would work my way through the Florida, Cat's Meow and Bonbon rooms, turning on lights. Seven wall switches controlled the various lights overhead; stained-glass lamps in abundance were plugged into the wall or flipped at a master plug throughout the tea rooms and gift shop; twinkle lights, draped over floor screens and curtains, sparkled to life as I plugged in their cream or purple strands. There was an order, a rhythm. Methodically, I'd work my way around the walls in each room, brightening one corner and another with cheery, often colorful, light.

     The idea of preparing the tea room for use delighted - and still, when I sub in, delights - me. The concept that no business can be done in the day until darkness is dispelled resonates with me. The very ritual of walking through the shadowy, expectant tea rooms, watching the light sunrise across the floor, soothes me. Teacups and centerpieces wait, grey in the shadows, until all becomes shining chinaware and gleaming tabletops. Because before one can actually enjoy a proper tea time, she must be able to see her instruments of use, right?

     Just as the poetry of such a task gives me great pleasure, it also instills a desire to echo these preparations in my soul's morning. Before I can be about my business for the day, shouldn't I cultivate the discipline of dispelling shadows? To know the wall switches that give over-all perspective for my day's tasks; to search out the dark corners of moodiness, selfishness, or discontentment and brighten them with a light the color of my Savior's love; to sparkle the otherwise-unremarkable moments and mentalities with unexpected strands of hope - this is the way I want to prepare each morning, in the rooms of my soul, before my feet even hit the floor. Responses and attitudes lurk ambiguously, until the surrendering of my "rights" and priorities to the LORD sharpens them into brilliant clarity. Because before one can truly live a light-steeped life, she must plug into its source, right?

Photo Credit: Young, Megan. teacup. 4 March 2013. Flickr Creative Commons.

Waiting for Rain

Tuesday, 5 September 2017
     The air is so thick with acidic smoke that a couple deep breaths could make me sick to my stomach. A layer of ash covers my car; the sun is the ominous, radioactive-red glow I've imagined it to be in Ray Bradbury's "August 2026: There Shall Come Soft Rains". Our sky is obscured by thick, grey-yellow clouds which drift down with the ash as a haze. Even as all eyes are on Houston, and our hearts are with the displaced, homeless, and hurting in Texas, the West Coast is burning.

     If I drove toward our newest, earth-razing flames, it would take me less than an hour. I was supposed to go hiking this morning, but all my favorite spots are being turned to charcoal. When one steps outside, all is still; no birds sing.

     Suddenly, the utter destruction of fire is very real, as it begins to touch individuals on the fringe of my awareness. Coworkers of my brothers, extended family of friends, even unnamed faces with whom I've shared a smile when grabbing ice cream after a hike, or making a coffee stop en route to a friend's home.

Wednesday, 6 September 2017
     At night, the man in the moon cries, his cloudy, orange face burning tragically. Even as the starless world cools, the air remains thick, sticking to my skin like sunscreen. 

Thursday, 7 September 2017
     The smell of smoke is nearly gone, but the haze remains. Fires still burn. Rain - besides a few rallying droplets - has not come. Reports say the fire is 5% contained. 5% of 30,000 acres of one of my favorite pieces of land in the world. I don't mean to be dramatic, but this is my home being ravaged. 

     And yet, even as I pray desperately for rain, for the lives of these brave firefighters, for the people displaced, the animals running - even as I pray for relief, I am keenly aware of how spoiled we are, because we have hope. This is the Northwest. Rain is most assuredly on the way - be it today, tomorrow, the next day. We wait for rain. We know it will come.

~~~~~~~

     Over a month ago, during Memorial Day weekend, a gigantic fire was started which would burn well over 40,000 acres within an hour's drive of my house. It is still burning, not projected to be put out until the end of next month. It's funny how the danger and ruin of a thing can be known yet unknown until one actually experiences it. We hear of California's fires, we smell hints of smoke from Canada's burnings, but I have never realized how hopeless one feels as fires grow, and multiply, despite man's greatest efforts. Even still, I have no idea of it's total potential: I have not had to worry about my friends, or what it would be like to be rendered homeless. 

     Still, as I wrote last month, I have been struck with the differences in the degree of helplessness we felt, compared to places like California, where rain is so much more rare. Washington isn't the Evergreen State for nothing (with, you know, Oregon as our twin) - rain is as much a given as sunshine. Or more so, depending on the time of year. We asked "When will it rain?" but it wasn't with a hopeless tone in our voice. We prayed for rain, holding in our hearts no doubt that it was well on the way.

     And the metaphor was not lost on me. It seemed last month as though each morning brought news of new disasters - hurricanes, fires, earthquakes, tsunamis. Lives lost, homes destroyed, families torn apart. Yet, as Christians, we know this chaos is not our end. Amidst wars, and rumors of wars, we have a sure and certain hope: the redemption and coming of Him who will set all things right. Like the weather in Washington, we have no doubt that this relief will soon flood our hearts. As our world burns ever toward condemnation, we reach hands to our King who "will come to us like the rain."

     May the fire end and our King come soon.

To Reach a Goal

It was my goal, beginning in mid-September, to start blogging consistently.

To exercise regularly.

To memorize Scripture habitually.

It was my goal, after this last school year ended, to start reading profusely.

To study my own determined subjects diligently.

To save thriftily.

Some of these goals have succeeded, others are a daily struggle. Why is it that as soon as we determine to do a thing, we suddenly lose the will to do it?

The other day, someone told me that "Your habits will always be stronger than your goals," and the truth of this statement overwhelmed me.

Is it my goal to save money? Frequent coffee stops will have to end. To read and study more? Time to cut Netflix and Instagram. To exercise more frequently? No more sleeping late. To memorize? Stop thinking "kinda" is good enough. 

Of course, one can never turn from one thing without turning toward another. In order to abandon or put aside poor habits, healthy ones must be built. With purpose, having the end goal in mind, a rhythm must be set to one's days and weeks. Set the tempo, know the songs, live the God-given melodies.

The perfectionist in me needs a daily reminder of G.K. Chesterton's quote in this endeavor: "If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly." 

Badly begun or not, action is requited. Paths must be laid. Habits, practiced. 

Average, every-day beginnings are rarely exemplary, but where they lead very well might be.

So here it is, my first blog post in a campaign to form a habit of writing weekly. Stay tuned, Fridays, we have a goal to reach.

Photo Credit: ADriel_m. Path. 7 January 2012. Flickr Creative Commons

{Almost}

My hand cramps, refusing

To open and accept the gift.

Instead I hold, stubborn, 

On what I know to be worthless,

And from my tight, clenched fist, 

The offering slips through my grasp

And leaves mere skeletons

Of pleasure between my fingers -

Bare bones sucked dry of life, 

Like guilt. Frantically, I open

My hands to remedy

The moment, but find I must wait

For another. 

Photo Credit: Shin, Crom. dandelion. 20 May 2016. Flickr Creative Commons.

What Today Could Be

     "Dreary," I muttered, as I rolled over in bed this morning. After a long weekend of sunshine, late nights, and memories, I awoke to my busiest, back-to-real-life day of the week with a sky full of grey. Rain trickled down in spurts - not the exhilarating, pouring, mega-drops, but halfhearted, puny drizzles: too pathetic to turn on the windshield wipers, but just wet enough to keep you flicking them on and off, on and off, on and off.

     "Pathetic," my heart whispered, as I worked through my morning routine and left for school. Time with God was abbreviated and peppered with yawns. Tardy to-dos descended in thick torrents: emails to write, phone calls to make, lessons to schedule, homework to finish, recital prep to tackle. My coffee tasted like water run through a filter which at one time may have looked at a picture of a coffee bean. I was late.

     "Bored," my soul slumped, flipping through radio stations in the car, trying to find something besides investment and jewelry ads to listen to as I trailed long lines of irrationally bad traffic. "What a Jonah day."

     "Just think," a radio preacher's words contradicted, leaping into my consciousness, "Today could be the day." 

     "Hope," the Holy Spirit boomed, as every dreary aspect of my morning melted into meaninglessness. Clouds or clear sky - what did it matter when both could be rolled away at any moment to reveal the Person for whom my heart aches? Drizzles or sunshine - either will look colorless and dull compared to the brilliance of what today we might see. This morning I could see my Savior? This afternoon I could go home? This evening could be my last earthly sunset? My window still says it's a cold, wet day in May, but my spirit is ready, waiting, expecting -

     Because, after all, today could be the day.

Photo Credit Maeda, Hiroaki. raindrops. 5 May 2009. Flickr Creative Commons.

It's awful how easily

A soul can slit the fragile veil

And slip from time-bound space

To all there is beyond

Unnoticed.

While families sit for dinner,

And women shop for evening gowns

And couples argue

And babies nap

Oblivious.

Full

 If it's better to carve and build lives for ourselves,

Than to build tir'lessly, just to share -

If it's better to win recognition than scorn -

If "one's duty" is just grasping air -

If it's better to soak in life's pleasures,

Than to live, martyr-like, full of cares -

Then of all men we're most to be pitied,

For they're needless, these burdens we bear.

If the wellspring of kindness is deep within self -
If the source of all mercy is "me" -
If the total compassion we bring to the world,
Is summ'd up in what our hearts can be -
If it's only from what we can gather within,
That we're able to give gen'rously -
Then of all men, those 'round us are ruined,
For we're riddled with depravity.

But if purpose and love are not measured from man -
If a source exists, far beyond "I"-
If we find grander meaning in losing ourselves,
Than in having a name we're known by - 
If, on earth, all deemed worthy is proved to be naught,
And those knowing their sin are proved right -
Then of all men we're most to be envied,
For eternity's lived in our sight.

Photo Credit. Sunter, Craig. Full Time !. 28 September 2014. Flickr Creative Commons

Live Out Loud

     Have you noticed? It's hip to be an introvert these days. Online quizzes, diagrams, stories, and personality tests have explained this enigmatic quality far too many times to be revolutionary, far too meticulously to be misunderstood, and far too popularly to be the profile of a minority. Everyone, it seems, is an introvert.

what is this, Monopoly?

     Why is introversion so popular? How is it that seemingly everyone relates? An introvert needs "alone time." Needs to recharge without the constant clamoring for attention from outsiders. Needs to have breaks from pouring herself into those around her. Needs to be able to focus on personal priorities.

     Or, to put it bluntly, an "introvert" needs to have moments of no accountability. Needs to be thought "special" instead of "selfish" in her insistence on being left alone. Needs to be pitied (instead of called out) when she is disgruntled from long-term interactions with others. Do these qualities - these needs - sound like descriptions of a misunderstood personality, or an egocentric individual, longing to be justified? 

     I'm not denying the legitimate differences between "introverts" and that mysterious, little-known mutant group dubbed "extroverts" (I love you guys!), but I do see a GREAT propensity - in my life and others' - to excuse everything short of murder in the name of, "but I'm an introvert!" After all, who doesn't love a get-out-of-jail-free card?*

I'd rather just keep quietly to myself

     All growing up, I was the bookworm in the corner. I remember, on multiple occasions, my mother pulling me aside and correcting me for reading while guests were present. I took books to parties, to dinners when I didn't know the family, to the store - they were my escape, and my parents had to work hard to keep me from disappearing into a self-satisfied loner at the ripe old age of 10.

     The most memorable time my father shoved me beyond my "I'm-shy-and-I-like-it-that-way" comfort zone was when he insisted I introduce myself to a fellow student (we attended a home school science class) to recite a memory verse assignment. I declined in no uncertain terms, claiming I wished to recite to him, but he was undeterred. Scooping up his tween daughter - who, despite her "shyness", had no qualms about kicking and arguing in front of the class as she was carried across the room - he deposited me before another student with the implacable declaration: "She would like to recite her verses to you!"

     When I look back on this winner of Mortifying Moments in Sarah's Life, I feel little (aside from amusement) beyond regret. I see now that what I then called "shyness", and later called "being an introvert", is nothing so noble, so glorious. It was, rather, a hearty blend of pride, selfishness, and the fearful sentiment that if I didn't know for sure that someone would like me, I'd rather not risk it. So I embraced the world's labels, and excused my recluse habits. It was safer, more comfortable, and happier to just keep quietly to myself. 

do I need a spotlight?

     There are those, on the other hand, who find the forefront of a group naturally. Whose personalities sparkle. Who have a quick wit, an open demeanor, and a magnetic charisma to which people flock. Those who carry within themselves the gift of making all around them feel loved, and important. These happy individuals (because, of course, they're always happy) are not necessarily seeking the spotlight; they simply live their lives there, unaware of the sentiments of the sideline shadows. But as a shadow who's struggling not to check out of the real world and into her own personal one, I feel the pressure. 

     If my tendency is to withdraw from life, to live focused only on those things necessary to me, to shrink from reaching out to others - if this is my natural, selfish preference, are the Ones in the Spotlight my models of complete death to self? Is that who I must become to live as God created me to be? Am I somehow broken, that it is so difficult for me to talk to the lady beside me in the grocery store, while my friend can entertain an entire room full of people she has never before met? Should I - horror of horrors - be in a spotlight?

not about the introverts

     My answer used to be yes - but I'm learning it's not true. As an introvert, I face specific challenges in reaching out to others, but identifying and overcoming "introvert" weaknesses,I've learned I'm learning, is not accomplished by pretending to be someone you're not. God has given each and every one of us - introverts and extroverts alike - specific gifts, talents, and strengths. As unbelievable as it may seem, these gifts are not tied to whether you'd rather spend your free time with a gang of friends at the mall, or with a solitary pot of tea in your room. These gifts are based on who God created you to be, and the tasks He has given you to do - and following His leading is not any easier for Spotlight-Dwellers than it is for Shadows. It requires stepping out boldly and running down the path He has laid for you, even when you can't see past the bend. That's the funny thing about following: it implies that someone is ahead of you; someone who partially obscures the way, but who you trust to know the directions.

Live Out Loud

     So, as a girl who'd much rather quietly read in her corner, I'm being taught to live loudly - but this doesn't mean I've magically become the sought-out one, or have found myself a spotlight. Building relationships with the two girls who sit next to me in class? It took a lot of determination to introduce myself and exchange phone numbers - but my Father loves them, so shouldn't I act like that? Paying for the coffee of the person behind me in the drive-through was nothing - but when, today, I wrote him a note to say I was praying for him, and encouraging him to look up a Bible verse, I was almost light-headed with panic just asking the barista to pass it on.

     The fabled extroverts would laugh. This is what it means to her, to live out-loud?

     Yes. Because to live loudly is to live beyond the bounds of my own, controlled little world. To reach out to those around me when I know they can offer me nothing, because I have something, Someone, they desperately need. To remember that grades at school, veggies at the grocery store, or coffees in the drive-through are not the purpose of my day, but a means to lead me toward the people - classmates and coffee addicts alike - who Christ asks me to love.

     And to love them, I must break my silence. Will you live out loud?

*Lauren wrote a beautiful article confronting the introvert mentality head-on, and I strongly encourage all you fellow-introverts to hop over and get a perspective shift

Photo 1 Credit Heigl, Michael. AKG K550 Loud. 12 June 2012. Flickr Creative Commons.
Photo 2 Credit Vanova, Photo. Untitled. 10 January 2015. Flickr Creative Commons.
Photo 3 Credit Barker, Kenneth. imagine what is over there. 6 June 2010. Flickr Creative Commons.

five minute friday: eat

     In his essay "Of Studies," Sir Francis Bacon writes that "Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested" - a sentiment I have always loved. Books are, perhaps, amongst the easiest sources of input that one can weigh and evaluate for their nutritional value to our spiritual life. When one has written words, he can easily return to verify their meanings, analyze their ramifications, and raise them for discussion amongst peers.

     But we are surrounded with a daily barrage of input that is not so easily identifiable.

     Songs on the radio, off-hand comments from professors, hidden assumptions under a veneer of compatibility with peers - every single interaction should be either tasted and spit out, considered and rejected, or chewed and swallowed, nourishing our souls.

     I daily have to slap sweets out of my hand, and reach instead for vegggies.

     Are you chewing on the Scriptures? Is it the largest part of your diet today?

five minute friday: Writing for five minutes on a theme. Skip the edits. Skip the considerations. Just write. And post.

Photo Credit
Denise P.S. Twenty-Three - 52. 8 June 2012. Flickr Creative Commons

Once Upon a Time: A Story of Cupcakes

Hello, Lovelies!

Or...Uglies, if you prefer. However, I'm sitting here with a British-flag-covered, steaming pot of tea, and methinks it affects my vocabulary at times. Besides, if you're sparing the time to read of my latest (and *ahem*, long ago) adventures in cupcakery, you are lovely! Shall we begin the tale?

    Once upon a time, when the colors of spring were just beginning to come into focus and warm the landscape, Sarah traveled to the far-off state of Maryland. This land was very merry indeed for the traveler, as it boasted the wonderful attraction of home to her life-long best friend, who had married another life-long friend, the two of whom had an exciting new friend to introduce to Sarah.

  Or, to be more precise, an honorary nephew for Auntie Sarah to meet!!

     Mr. Liam was full of smiles and conversation for Auntie Sarah, and she loved him dearly. Loved him when he napped, when he ate, and when he bounced. They played bump together, read books when Mama and Papa went on a date, and toured the art museum. One day, the adventures of Mr. Liam and Auntie Sarah contained-

What's that you say? You thought you were getting a cupcake recipe? What is this nonsense about cupcakes? Look at the post title. I'm sure I wrote "The Adventures of Mr. Liam and Auntie Sarah"...

Oh.

Cupcakes. Right. I will try again.

     One day, during Auntie Sarah's visit, Mr. Liam regrettably informed her that he had a busy day planned, and advised her to occupy herself as cheerily as she could with Mama while he attended to his duties (he promised to bounce in and out so they wouldn't be too devastated). Mama and Auntie wracked their brains, and finally decided that the best option for keeping happily busy would be the art of cupcakery. But not just any cupcakery. No - it would require a special kind, a kind of multiple colors and dancing flavors, to sufficiently brighten their time in which they could not be playing with Mr. Liam. And so the Sherbet Cupcake was born. Half grapefruit, half blueberry, topped with the fluffiest of So-Fluffy-I'm-Gonna-Die frostings, these cupcakes were masterpieces. Even Mr. Liam, who could not then enjoy their flavor, pronounced the aroma "heavenly" and "oohed" and "ahhed" at the colors. He thought Mama and Auntie were brilliant, and so, today, we share the recipe with the world.

     Because when life gives you no Mr. Liam playtime, you make cupcakes (and Skype him, and save to visit him again, and talk about him, and look at pictures that Mama sends you of him, and...well, you get the idea). So without further ado:

It was so fun to get make cupcakes with Mika as part of our Bloggy Cupcake Party - since we originally conceived the idea the first time Lauren and I got to visit her! For Part One of the recipe (Grapefruit Cupcakes!) and the Delectably Fluffy Frosting (a Mika-Sarah original), hop over to One Bright Corner. Below you'll find the Blueberry Cupcake side of this delicious-duo. Enjoy!

Blueberry Cupcakery
1 cup brown rice flour

1/2 cup coconut flour

1/3 cup tapioca starch

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/4 teaspoon xanthan gum

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup coconut oil

2 eggs

1/3 cup Berry Blend fruit juice

2 - 3 drops purple food coloring, optional

1/2 cup 2% milk

1 cup blueberries (we used frozen, but fresh would be even more delicious!)

1. Preheat the oven to 350. Line a 12-count muffin tin with adorable cupcake liners.

2. In a medium bowl, combine the rice flour, coconut four, tapioca starch, baking powder, xanthan gum, and salt. Whisk until well combined. Set aside.

3. In a larger bowl, beat the sugar and coconut oil together. Add eggs, one at a time, until texture is thick and smooth.

4. Combine the berry juice and food coloring with milk in a small bowl. Alternate adding milk and flour mixture by halves, beating until just combined.

5. Gently fold in blueberries, then fill papers with half Grapefruit half Blueberry batters!

6. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until cupcakes spring back when tops are pressed or until a toothpick comes out clean (but remember gluten-free cupcakes are done at a more moist consistency than wheat flour cupcakes). Remove and cool completely on wire racks.

7. Frost!

(Remember, for frosting and specific details in duo-flavored cupcake assembly, see Mika's blog!)

Review:

This was my favorite cupcake recipe so far and receives two thumbs up!! They were flavorful, moist, and delicious with or without the frosting (but if there were any doubters, I'm highly recommending the frosting)! We all thought they had a slightly gritty taste, so I would experiment with substituting sweet rice flour for the brown rice. Also, I have made them again as lemon cupcakes and found them a bit dry - a problem we did not have with the original Sherbet Cupcakes. My hypothesis is that the juicy blueberries kept them moist - so don't skip the fruit! :)

     And now you know how it came about that there were Sherbet Cupcakes in the adventures of Mr. Liam and Auntie Sarah. And I think I can promise you that everyone lives happily ever after.

     Everyone except the cupcakes.

five minute friday

Let go of your priorities

Ignoble, insolent "I".

Self, her needs, desires, and delights - can wait.

Today you must be living-

Enthralled by all the grace that's granted

Nothing lacking but to serve.

five minute friday: Writing for five minutes on a theme. Skip the edits. Skip the considerations. Just write. And post.

No Pictures, Please

     Today, we had an adventure. Not the I-just-single-handedly-stopped-a-gun-point-bank-robbery kind, but the let's-get-out-and-enjoy-our-corner-of-the-world kind. It was lovely, exciting, refreshing, delightful.

     But I was unable to take a single picture! I couldn't post anything on Instagram: #eventhougheveryoneelsedid. There were no stop-by-stop updates for me to put on Facebook: that-moment-when-you-wonder-if-social-media-knows-how-awesome-your-life-is. I wasn't the one sending pictures back to mum and dad at home.

     I'm currently phone-less which means picture-less, but you know what? That's ok. Better, even. Because it means my Sunday afternoon was spent driving and talking and swimming in the river - not checking facts on my phone or trying to snap pictures. It means the day was closed with a fast-paced, steep hike to watch the sun set over rolling hills of evergreen trees, their reflections quivering in the winding river and its tributaries, the very glory of God seeming to burst forth in purple, red, and glowing gold - and all I could do was sit and wonder at its brilliance. Singing praises with my brothers and sisters, grasping to put words to the feeling of worship that throbbed my heart so vehemently I felt I may explode before I could voice it - this was all I could do. And it taught me.

 phones can't capture memories 

     Yet I know, ridiculously, if I had a phone, I would try. I would pull it out, and attempt to portray in pixels the breathtaking event of a Master Painter brushing the sky with broad, colorful strokes. I would set it up, adjust the angle, and try to save in a small electronic device the marvelous event of a massive heavenly body slipping beyond the edge of my mortal sight. I would try, and fail, and try again. I would become distracted, seeking that perfect shot. I would decide to put myself in the picture - probably with a friend - and would push a button over and over again to make sure we saved the most flattering pic possible. The sun would slip below the tree line, the colors would fade, the wind would die down, and I would have missed my chance.

Missed my chance to sing.

To worship.

To glory.

Missed my chance to marvel.

To be in awe.

To lift my hands high, stretching them toward heaven and the One who dwells therein.

     I love taking pictures because, as incomparable as they are to actual events, they have the ability to time-capsule moments. To help you recall, to go back, to say, "Oh! remember singing hymns together as the sun set on Angel's Rest? Remember that fellow-hiker who sat a bit away from us on the outcropping and clapped along, asking us to keep singing? Remember what it felt like just as that last sliver of burning rose-gold dissipated on the horizon?"

I want to remember

     But today I was reminded: it's saving the moments, and praising our King for them, that are the principle things. If pictures help - lovely. Take a couple. But if you're lucky enough to lose your phone and have no camera, drink it in. Cling to that colorful swirl of brilliance in the sky, hold tight to the shivering moments as the wind tries to blow you off the cliffs and the sun is no longer there to warm you, treasure the hours spent in praise and conversation with your brothers and sisters in Christ.

For me, God had to say loud and clear, "No pictures, please."

And it was glorious.

five minute friday: build

When I was young I used to build

Great castles in the sky.

And no expense did I e'er spare - 

In pleasing my mind's eye.

When I grew some I tried to build

A lauded life for me.

But the foundation that I poured

I found vain and empty.

And now I've grown a little more

And start to understand

That building blocks of clouds and praise

Evade my feeble hand.

Instead I find life's building blocks

From humbler origins come -

They're hewn from giving up my life

And kept in place by love.

five minute friday: Writing for five minutes on a theme. Skip the edits. Skip the considerations. Just write. And post.

five minute friday: Pass

I remember the encounter well.

A friend and I were on the verge of missing the opening notes of a concert. As new drivers, we had survived the stress of Portland evening traffic, one-way-roads, and whereintheworldistheparkinggarage moments with surprisingly minimal befrazzlement. Dashing up the streets to the concert hall, however, we were suddenly accosted by a group of girls, nearly the same ages as ourselves, with baskets and signs in support of a cause our minds hardly registered.

"Can we talk to you for a moment?" they asked.

We barely gave a coherent answer; our eyes were shining for an evening of piano music, our feet sped us onward to the tempo of anticipated tunes.

"Well, here, take these - for your protection," they insisted, shoving miscellaneous somethings into our hands as we hurried past.

It wasn't until we were seated in the concert hall - having deposited our "gifts" in a trash bin without so much as a glance - that my friend turned to me and asked, "Were those girls representing Planned Parenthood?"

And I knew they had been. I had felt a flicker of conscience as we'd ignored them, a begging of my spirit to stop and talk with them. And I had hurried past.

There the details of our evening fade. I can't recollect who played, or which pieces we heard. I don't know if my friend and I stopped for coffee on the way back, or drove straight home to meet a curfew.

But I do remember how I felt once I was home, sitting in the quiet dark of my room.

I felt ashamed.

Ashamed to have rushed by, missing the opportunity to speak with those girls on the street corner. To learn why they were representing Planned Parenthood. To hear their stories. To show them love. To tell them of my Savior.

I felt ashamed for treating an evening of personal enjoyment as more important than the spiritual state of girls who actually tried to talk to me. For valuing the sparkle of an "evening out" above the terribly too-real lives of dozens of little ones.

Jesus once told a parable of a poor man, Lazarus, who sat outside a rich man's dwelling, hoping, begging, for food from his table. Daily, the rich man walked past, without so much as an inkling of sympathy for the sore-ridden, needy one at his feet. His life, his priorities, his comforts - these were of far greater concern to a man of the world than the life flickering on his doorstep.

In America today - indeed, throughout the whole world - we too have have lives to save on our doorsteps: the lives of the unborn, the future of women and girls facing unplanned pregnancies. Daily, lives flicker between being taken or saved, crushed or nurtured, thrown away or valued. Do you hurry past? Do you bemoan the deeds in word without a pause to help? Do you have a hurried, hardly-coherent answer for girls on the street corner?

I have written before on why I am pro-life, and others have written far more eloquently than I - but what I want to ask today is, What are you doing about it? There are countless options: volunteer at a pregnancy clinic, support your local CPC, or even simply take the time to reach out and talk to the women "on your doorstep". Don't hurry past the mission field with which God has surrounded you. These lives may not be dying on our front porches, but they are suffering in secret, just down the street.

~~~~~~~

I've recently signed up (rather last-minute) to run in a fundraiser race for a local Crisis Pregnancy Center. I'd love it if you felt led to support me! The link is here.

However, even if you are unable to financially support Pathways, please cover them - and all other centers devoted to showing Christ's love to women and mothers in need - in your prayers. 

Confession: it took me a bit longer than 5 minutes to write this, in between teaching today. Still, it was written, minimally edited, and posted all in the same day - which is an accomplishment for me!

Photo Credit:
szdl. Passing. 10 Oct. 2013. Flickr Creative Commons

I Wish I May

Sometimes you wish for something. Wish until you can hardly hold it in. Until it's all you can think about. Until the day comes when you realize: God's either going to grant your wish, or take it away.

And He asks you to let it go.

To give up the sparkle of each thought you've had about it. To give up the moments when you've grinned for "no reason" because the very wish made you skip. To give up the anticipation; the expectant, bubbly feeling - like a kid in a candy shop - that is part and parcel with waiting on a wish.

And so you do. You let it go.

It takes time. But finally, your thoughts don't live there anymore. You don't feel the desire to talk about it anymore. When you hear of someone else's wish, your heart doesn't race with excitement anymore. 

Because you've let it go.

Then something happens. Maybe it's a picture from the time you were wishing hardest. Maybe it's the book that first whispered to you of the dream. Maybe you watch someone else live your wish. Dream your dream. 

And God lets her. 

Blesses her.

Suddenly, you're in pieces again. Not the shattered, dramatic, sobbing-on-the-floor kind of pieces, but the subtle kind. The kind that makes you wonder if that dull ache is just a destined part of your life now. The kind that's not even sure you want the wish anymore, but can't figure out why it's suddenly so hard.

You hadn't realized how tightly you'd woven your wish into thoughts most special to you. Hadn't realized how very long it takes to extract all the traces from deep inside. Hadn't realized that letting go never happens just once.

"But this is what God asks of me! I can do nothing if not trust Him. If I doubt Him now, what purpose is there in anything?"

So, shakily, you reach your hands toward Him. This is harder than hanging onto hope: to let it die. Again.

Again, you struggle against the memory.

Again, you yearn to understand.

Again, you beg, "Not my will, but Yours!"

Again, you cannot stop the whisper, "but if only this wish could be..."

Again, you wait upon Him.

Hands outstretched.

Ears straining.

Eyes searching.

Heart clinging.

You wait.

And then, one day, you realize - 
"To receive from Him
To hear His voice
To see His glory
To know His love -
This is my wish."

And gradually, once again, your heart begins to beat to a wish that will forever come true.

"One thing I have desired of the LORD,
That will I seek:
That I may dwell in the house of the LORD
All the days of my life,
To behold the beauty of the LORD,
And to inquire in His temple." - Psalm 27

Photo Credit:

jessicahtam. Wish. 22 Nov. 2009. Flickr Creative Commons.