Just a bunch of lists

Over the course of the past five years I've

• Held five different jobs
• Lived in four different places, including another country
• Read 182 books
• Lost two grandparents
• Learned so much.

Things I've loved about living in North Beacon Hill

• The sound of train horns in the night
• Growing tomatoes on the deck with western sun exposure
• View of Puget Sound, SoDo, the stadiums and downtown
• Hearing the cannons at CenturyLink Field go off with every Seahawks touchdown and field goal (which then broadcasts on my TV, delayed)
• Having two ovens
• Delite Bakery, Hair Skill Design, Red Apple
• Walking home from work
• Driving to church in eight minutes
• Reminders and memories of my Grandma Yvonne.

Reasons I love Twitter

• The memes
• Curated news and articles
• Black Twitter
• Subtweets
• Heartwarming viral videos.

Things I loved about working in Belltown

• Walking to the Pacific Science Center
• Getting lunch at Pike Place Market (Michou, DeLaurenti, Mexican Grocery)
• Concerts at Westlake Park
• Watching the biospheres construction
• Sitting/standing desk
• KEURIG
• My co-workers <3. 

"Peak Millennial"

• Thinkpieces
• Irony
• Instagram
• Pressed juice
• Sanctimony
• Binge-watching
• Mash-ups
• Complaining about millennial thinkpieces.

Things I loved about Los Angeles

• How it feels like one giant suburb
• Diaspora communities
• TV/Movie billboards that are six stories tall
• Sunshine, Santa Monica, the PCH
• Feeling like I could happen to run into my favorite screenwriter/director/actor at any time
• East L.A. and the mestizaje vibe
• The overall creative *atmosphere*
• The satisfaction that I was, if but momentarily, a part of the zeitgeist.

Favorite demographic data sources

• Gene Balk, "FYI Guy," The Seattle Times
• Nate Cohn, "The Upshot," The New York Times
• Pew Research Center.

2017 Podcast Roundup

• With Friends Like These, "The Help Is Coming From Inside the House"
  A deeply personal, brutally honest discussion between Ana Marie Cox and Joe Moe on depression, chemical dependency and suicide.  
• Another Round, "A Dude Named Hot Sauce"
  Tracy and Heben conduct a hilarious interview with writer-comedian Yassir Lester about his creative process, pop culture news and funny stories from his adolescence.
• Comedy Bang Bang, "120 Adam Scott, Harris Wittels, Chelsea Peretti"
  Throwback episode from 2011 featuring comedy writer Harris Wittels, actor Adam Scott (Parks and Recreation) and writer-comedian Chelsea Peretti (then-writer on Parks and Recreation). The improv in this episode had me laughing until I couldn't breathe.
• The Axe Files, "Ep. 128 - Sen. Kamala Harris"
  Substantive, immigration policy and prosecutorial law discussion between David Axelrod, former Chief Strategist to President Obama, and Kamala Harris, former California Attorney General serving her first term as U.S. Senator. Riveting.
• Pod Save America, "He'll run the country from jail like El Chapo"
  Endearing conversation between Jon Favreau (Head Speechwriter), Dan Pfieffer (Strategy and Communications Advisor) and Alyssa Mastromonaco (Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations), as they reminisce on their days in the Obama White House. I read Mastromonaco's book by the way; it was funny and great.
• The Axe Files, "Ep. 120 - J.D. Vance"
  Thoughtful, respectful and analytical discussion between David Axelrod and J.D. Vance, author of Hillbilly Elegy. Appreciate Vance's perspective on Appalachia, the future of labor and industry, and political conservatism in the Trump era.

Netspeak I find amusing

• mood
• sjw
• soft
• smol
• hbd
• petty
• receipts
• my aesthetic
• it's lit. 

Favorite parts of teaching Sunday school

• All the kids talking over each other because they want to tell me about their week
• Their elation at being able to drink Crystal Light
• Pretend marching around the walls of Jericho with paper plate "trumpets"
• Inadvertently predisposing them to libertarianism by giving them Hershey Nuggets then having tax collector Zacchaeus collect 2/3 of them back
• Yelling "NO SPOILERS!" when a student already knows the Bible story and tries to tell the whole thing to the class
• All tangents leading to Star Wars
• So many Teddy Grahams 
• Being asked, "Do you know what a gangster is?" 

This was fun and maybe I'll do it again. Have an idea for a list you'd like me to write? Request it in the comments.

Make-up was a dead end

Who knew beauty could be so complicated? For my birthday last year I decided to make my first serious foray into the world of makeup. I didn't know what I was getting into. In a naive way, I thought I would be able to show up at a makeup counter at a department store, buy an entire line of products, and be good to go. Looking back, I can't believe how absurd and laughable a notion that was.

The makeup artist at Nordstrom rattled off an overwhelming, large amount of steps meant to "prep, correct and conceal." I could barely keep up: face base, under eye cream, eye base, layering three eye shadows, gel eyeliner, mascara, foundation, sheer powder, bronzer, blush. When she was done, I looked in the mirror and felt conflicted. While I knew I now looked more conventionally "beautiful" I questioned if this was a step in the right direction.

My justification to wear makeup was tenuous at best. I was bored, I had recently gotten a new job with higher pay and I thought, "Why not?" Some irrational part of me believed that makeup was the one missing piece I needed to manage to attract a boyfriend. According to my then-logic, if cultivating my intellectual prowess and spiritual depth wasn't enough, if it hadn't managed to end the seven-year drought since my last romantic relationship, then maybe outer beauty paired with inner beauty would do the trick.

Well, it's almost a year later and I've spent a bunch of money, wrecked my skin and still don't have a boyfriend. What a bust.

T r a i t o r s (chronological use L to R)

Correctors, concealers, BB creams, foundations, cream and oil primers--brand after brand left me with dry, tight skin and pimples galore. Did I look great in pictures? Even glamorous? Sure! But at night, alone and makeup-less in front of the mirror with my own thoughts, I was unhappy, disappointed and doubting myself.

I know that for others, makeup isn't such an agonizing ordeal. Good on them. They are hashtag blessed.

My skin just won't abide make-up, but it's taken a while for me to finally give in to defeat. Each time a product wouldn't work for me, I'd return to Sephora, deflated, and an enthusiastic employee would suggest some new wonder product: a cleanser with a four star review, a serum, a foundation that's completely weightless and "totally buildable." I'd go home wanting badly for it to work for me; none of them did.

All this to say, I'm throwing in the towel when it comes to makeup. It's created more problems in my life than benefits.

On a deeper level, this is all about adequacy. It's about trust in God. I've spent so much time wondering why some women my age are dating, married and having kids, and I'm not. I know that God is not doling out rewards or punishments to women based on whether they "deserve" a boyfriend/husband/kids. On a bad day, though, I crumple in on myself in prayer or ignore God altogether in a passive-aggressive attempt to rebel against how he wants to order my life. Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret.

Look, no amount of navel-gazing or hand-wringing will get me a boyfriend any sooner. Makeup, new clothes, a better body, fancy haircut; it really doesn't make any difference. Perhaps this sounds bitter, but it's been my experience. Okay, okay, being single is not the end of the world; this much I know. It's painful, though.

I'm doing my level best to make the most of it. I'm reading a lot of books, joining rec leagues, going on fun outings with my other single friends. I have a lot of time to pray for others. I write short stories three paragraphs at a time. I talk to God about the things I'm thankful for. If I focus on other things maybe I won't feel so sad.

Until next time...

Reflections on 2016

Originally shared at my church's Christmas Eve service.


Good evening. For those who don't know me, my name is April, and I have been attending this church since I was born—I'm what you might call a "lifer." No, but really, I am proud to call Presby home and this year especially I am grateful to be a part of this community—because I could have gotten into some real trouble if not for the grace of God in my life.. I almost made a mistake that could have seriously harmed me and probably would have changed my life forever.

This year I had planned to move to South America to do what I thought would be missionary work: entering into full-time ministry with a local church in Bolivia evangelizing, interceding and teaching. I had a lot of hopes and dreams to glorify God there.

However, a couple months before I had planned to leave, I found out from a couple of friends who were serving that that "church" that the "church" was actually a pretty psychologically and emotionally abusive cult. My friends were not allowed to leave the "church" (where they lived) without supervision, were bullied aggressively by pastors whenever they questioned the way things were run, and my one friend was even locked into the kitchen alone without promise of release. It was a horrific time, and thankfully my two friends left the Bolivian "church" shortly thereafter, around the same time I decided not to go down and join them.

As you might imagine, I spent much of this year coming to terms with this whole fiasco. The main question I had for God was, of course, "Why?"--but also the immediate question of "What now?" I had quit my job! I had been hurtling toward what I had thought was an international ministry opportunity "from God" and now needed to, in many respects, turn on a dime and change course.

I was disappointed and hurt, and felt very confused about God's direction in my life. I didn't know what to do, and God wasn't giving me epiphanies on how he wanted me to "recalculate," as it were. I spent time in reflection and prayer to God, pouring out my heart to him as it's written in Psalm 62. To be fair, though, I also spent a lot of time trying to be numb and trying to survive, in an attempt to ignore my pain and anger towards God for how un-glamorous and stuttering my life had become.

One theme from this year is pretty clear: God has invited me again and again to trust him—to believe he is everything he says he is, taking into full account my painful past, my present shaky circumstances and even my own negative feelings, no matter how strong and all-encompassing they may be.

There were many days this year when my alarm went off in the morning and I just did not want to get out of bed. I didn't feel like I had the energy or the will to face another day. To get motivated, I would sometimes listen to my gospel playlist, which has a song by James Fortune called "I Trust You." The chorus deeply resonates with me and I wanted to share it with you tonight: "I'll trust you/ Lord it's not easy/ Sometimes the pain in my life/ Makes you seen far away/ I'll trust you/ I need to know you're here/ Through the tears and the pain/ Through the heartache and rain/ I'll trust you."

I still don't know a lot of the "whys" behind the whole Bolivia debacle. I'm not yet at a place where I can genuinely thank God for that trial which has tested my faith significantly this year, and brought a fair share of heartache and despair.

However, there are a few things I can say with certainty and conviction:

1. God warned me and protected me from going to Bolivia; he loves me.
2. It's not over; God is still writing my story.
3. Jesus Christ is Lord.

Jesus Christ is Lord. This truth has helped me a lot this year and comforts me greatly.

For me, no matter what happens, no matter how difficult things get, no matter how little things may make sense in the moment, no matter my own helplessness or God's seeming silence—

Jesus Christ is Lord.

In the midst of failure, embarrassment, mistakes and crippling self-doubt—

Jesus Christ is Lord.

When I am lost and don't know what to do—

Jesus Christ is Lord.

"In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" (John 1:4-5).

Yeah, I'm single

Yeah, I'm single.

In April I started working at an office where the median age is 55 years old. I am not sure what exactly causes my older female coworkers to be so concerned about my relationship status, but they have all asked me at one time or another (pretty out of the blue, I might add), "Do you have kids? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend?" When I respond in the negative, they inevitably follow-up with, "What do you think about _____ [insert name of one of the only men between 25-35 years old in our office]? Do you like him?" At this point in the conversation I become very uncomfortable so usually reply evasively, "I'm a ghost" or "I am not real." Then they get really confused.

Maybe they are simply trying to connect with me or maybe I remind them of their daughter who is also in their twenties. Nevertheless, it is difficult not to take these matchmaking efforts personally, because they more or less imply that my life is simply not good enough if I don't have a husband to share it with, or something like that.

This year two of my childhood friends are getting married. It's really exciting and I am happy for them. Even so, I kind of dread attending their weddings. Weddings are a glaring reminder that Yeah, I'm single. They bring up the unanswerable question of "If my friends are getting married, then why not me?"

Yes, I am familiar with the many platitudes meant to soothe a despondent single woman such as myself:

• God knows you want a boyfriend/husband, and he will answer your prayers.
• God has someone in mind for you and he will be perfect for you!
• God's timing is better than your timing.
• Being single is great! You have so much flexibility!
• I'm sure there are plenty of guys who like you and you don't even know it.

These kinds of comments make me both angry and want to say, "Well, f--- it then" and just be numb about it all. I know they come from a place of wanting me to feel better, but perhaps a more appropriate response is, "That sucks that you aren't in a relationship but want to be. How can I support you?" The agony of being a single Christian woman is having to live in this really vulnerable place of simply waiting on God.

Perhaps the public persona I project is one of independence, competence, intelligence and strength, but those close to me know that I am sensitive, sentimental and quite the romantic. I haven't dated since 2010 and have had my fair share of unrequited crushes since then. I am not single by choice. The painful reality of my singleness is at times quite acute.

That being said, I am doing what I can to resist wallowing for too terribly long. I know how to soldier on, even if it means having to crawl in the times that I cannot even bring myself to walk.

Yeah, I'm single today and maybe I am not fully okay with it. I might cry about it today but tomorrow could be better. Yeah, it may just be.

Reboot

So I'm back to blogging! Hooray! Shut down the site for a bit while I was job searching (prospective employers would probably have been understandably alarmed/concerned if they had perused my social media accounts), but now that I've been hired, I figure I'm more or less in the clear now (though, jury's always still out; I'm an at-will employee).

It's been quite an interesting journey, these past four months of unemployment followed by a month of temporary employment followed by what will (hopefully) be a year of term-limited temporary employment. There's been plenty of time for soul-searching and tears, but thankfully it appears that the worst of the crisis is over. I may not ever fully understand the "whats" and "whys" of the entire Bolivia debacle, but I'm just so glad that chapter is now more or less over. It was definitely scary, and I still cringe knowing that three of my friends are still in that "church," being psychologically and spiritually taken advantage of in a very icky way. Yet, in order to cope, I have had to face the fact that since they do not want to leave, and I have done my part to try and convince them otherwise, the situation must be left in God's hands. I have had to relinquish responsibility and trust that the eventual arc of their lives will bend towards wholeness, wellness and healing, though for the present it is not.

Adulthood can be disorienting at times. I've had so many folks give me well-meaning yet disparate advice of what I should do and how I should live my life, but when it came to Bolivia, and the choices I had to make afterwards, there came a point where I just had to decide to do something and live with the consequences. Bolivia eroded a lot of my self-confidence, especially in my intuition, judgment and discernment. However, living life at a standstill, paralyzed and afraid of making the "wrong" choice, I found, was simply impractical.

I am wary of religious perfectionism, which requires that each and every personal decision made must be tested and approved as the explicit "will of God." This requires much agonizing, weighing of options, and hours of prayer devoted to receiving "confirmation" or God's "blessing" on moving forward with something. Is life really that spiritual? Yes, there is absolutely Biblical precedent for asking God for guidance and direction for important decisions (2 Chronicles 20:12; Acts 13:1-3), but I just am highly skeptical that this level of intense scrying is altogether necessary. God obviously intervenes when there is, in fact, a "wrong" choice to be made (case in point: me returning to Bolivia). However, is every little choice and decision judged in a moral/spiritual scale, implying there are gradations of spiritualized choices, with God keeping score? I've decided this is a miserable way to live, full of regret for what could have been, and fear of what could be (see the psychic headache that is The Adjustment Bureau). Thus, I've nixed this approach to life.

I'm also wary of the other extreme, self-protective human secularism, i.e. taking matters into my own hands and barreling forward in life assuming God approves/I know his will absolutely. This would mean "running after" food, clothing and housing (a la Matthew 6:28-34) as ends in themselves and winding up a materialistic, "self-made" woman. It would also require a certain amount of hard-heartedness towards God (relationship with him is implied/assumed rather than deep/actual), which I'm not willing to stomach. Again, hard pass.

My latest strategy has mostly just been to not really take things so seriously or overthink them. I can be intense, perfectionistic and exacting; so in other words, I'm trying to "lighten up." I'm just trying to respond to situations as they occur and make peace with the fact that I won't always get things right the first time. I'm seeing that there's a lot of safety in knowing God and belonging to him. Sure, due to my own choices, I can get myself into a lot of trouble. That's always going to be a possibility. Yet, having made it out of a couple of pretty dramatic tough scrapes so far, God's care and faithfulness is undeniable.

Is this what it feels like to "wing it"?

The past two months in hypothetical blog post titles, categorized.

Didn't see it coming

• I almost joined a cult. Whoops!!
• Escaped a cult and not sure how f---ed over my mind is?
• On being a neurotic Christian. 
• When good intentions don't preclude failure. 
• When a detour feels like a prison. 
• The harmful effects of shame. 
• Is it all just in my head? 

Coping

• Recovering from a punch to the heart. 
• TV bingeing: a recipe for general life dissatisfaction. 
• Falling down the Wikipedia rabbit hole. 

Metacognition and deconstruction

• Realizing I think in black and white. 
• R.I.P black and white thinking. 
• Paralyzed: don't know how to think. 
• Does anything mean anything? 
• Nuance and ambiguity is everything now, I guess. 

My emotional self

• On verbal dramatics and hysterical realism OR When every word that comes from my mouth is hyperbolic. 
• How my strong emotions make others uncomfortable. 
• To be or not to be: when contradictory advice makes me question my entire identity and very personhood. 

In sum

• The agony of agonizing. 
• Crying and I don't know why. 
• Jesus?

In-Between

Today marks the end of the fourth week (!) since I finished up work at University Presbyterian Church. I have been living in Beacon Hill at my grandma's two-bedroom condo, and have been spending much of my time cleaning up and cleaning out the place to get it ready for sale. My grandma has vascular dementia and for more than a year has been living in assisted care facilities while her old condo has remained vacant.

The kitchen and hallway closet which have since been significantly de-cluttered.

Systematically going through different sections of the condo boxing up items to donate to Goodwill, and cleaning (sweeping, mopping, dusting, vacuuming), has been a welcome challenge to tackle in this in-between time prior to my return to Bolivia in January 2016. I am amazed with the sheer amount of unopened items (platters, vases, clothes, pots, pans, mugs, tea pots) Grandma stored in her closets. I assume she intended to either use these things later, or give them to others as gifts.

My favorite things I have stumbled upon so far have been some precious old photos from my dad's childhood and even from grandma's childhood, her high school diploma from Franklin High School and her yearbook (1949). She also tended to save birthday, Mother's Day and Christmas cards from family. Those cards kind of make me sad when I realize she probably would have little to no interest in reading them in her current condition. I am saving them in a box anyway.

As I reflect and pray about my upcoming departure to Bolivia, I am overcome with gratitude and also hit with a considerable dose of sorrow thinking about the dear family and friends I will be leaving in order to serve with the Bolivian church and to engage in God's purposes there. So I am doing my best to be grateful for each day here in Seattle. It's not always comfortable to be in this in-between space between points A (UPC) and B (Bolivia) but I so am thankful for it! Working, resting, waiting, praying, preparing. It is all good!

Sunrise from Grandma's condo

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight" (Ephesians 1:3-4). 

Bolivia Is Not Mexico

This post is part of a continuing series about the School of Christ in Cochabamba, Bolivia. All posts will be tagged "Bolivia." Read all Bolivia posts here.

Many of my friends and family have asked me, "So how was the food [in Bolivia]?" To be honest, the answer is kind of complicated. Bolivian food is not particularly my fave, but it was okay. As my teammate DeAndrea would say, Here's the thing: Bolivian food is not Mexican food. Further, Bolivian culture is not Mexican culture. Throughout the 21-day school, I kept having to wake up to this reality.

I'm not sure if it was the same for others on the American team, but most of my cultural references to "Hispanic" or "Latino" culture* are Mexican. In the United States, Mexican culture, food and language are interwoven into mainstream American life--probably most likely because a huge chunk of the contiguous U.S. used to be Mexico (please see: Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, 1848). I mean, the average American probably has at least some baseline knowledge of some distinctly Mexican/Mexican-American cultural markers: pinatas, burritos, tacos, Cinco de Mayo (which is actually not really celebrated in Mexico, ironically enough), the word ándale**, etc. It's just part of the North American experience. I would say that Americans probably know Mexican culture better than any of the "Hispanic" cultures simply because of history and proximity.

Furthermore, for me personally, I am more familiar with Mexican culture just because Mexico is the only Spanish-speaking country I've ever lived in prior to going to Bolivia this summer. I lived in Mexico for 10 weeks in 2010, and then for six months from 2014-2015. Living in Mexico, I was able to observe the way of life, the daily rhythms/customs, and pick-up on the subtler cultural mores (e.g. communication style, social etiquette). I don't purport to really know fully the Mexican culture (which again, is not necessarily definable in monolithic, generalized terms) BUT it is the "Hispanic" culture with which I'm most familiar.

All this to say, it was, at times, disorienting to be in Bolivia because I kept expecting things to to be, well, Mexican. Comforting things that I got used to in Mexico just aren't the Bolivian way of doing things. They were small, but notable. For example, in Mexico, the common greeting each morning is buenos días, and is said to pretty much every individual you come across. In Bolivia, the greeting of choice is decidedly buen día. So I started saying that instead. Bolivia is not Mexico.

Or there are just some Mexican words that don't make sense in Bolivia. For example, the idiomatic phrase of "having a cough" is traer tos in Mexico. However, when I used this expression in Bolivia, I was met with blank stares. So I literally just had to say, Are you sick? in Spanish, after a few unsuccessful attempts of just repeating the same Mexican idiom. Or another common word used in Mexico is platicar which means to chat, shoot the breeze, etc. I guess that word isn't a thing in Bolivia, either. Bolivia is not Mexico.

Also, the food. There are so many things I appreciate and love about Mexican food. In Mexico it's common to have beans and eggs with tortillas for breakfast. While we were in the school we didn't once eat tortillas! Or another favorite breakfast of mine is tamales with canela (a kind of tea made with cinnamon sticks and sugar), again, both things which are not Bolivian. It was so hard to switch gears and realize that I wasn't going to be eating Mexican food in Bolivia! Mexican food, which is so ubiquitous in North America, is probably easily much more foreign to Bolivians than American food! Bolivia is not Mexico.

While we were in the school we had few traditional Bolivian dishes: pique macho, sopa de maní and majadito.

Pique Macho

Sopa de Mani

Majadito

Pique macho is a somewhat perplexing mix of protein, carbs, veggies and condiments. It's got it all: chopped beef, boiled eggs, some hot dog, fries, tomato slices, onion, (spicy) green pepper, mayo, mustard and ketchup. A truly unique dish. Sopa de maní, or "peanut soup," is also a very particular dish with a beef broth and ground peanuts, along with potatoes, peas, oregano and basil. It's quite distinct. Majadito is probably my favorite of the three, with well-seasoned fried eggs, fried plantains, rice and a salad of onion and tomato. In general I wasn't necessarily over the moon about Bolivian cuisine. Maybe it was because these dishes bear little to no resemblance to the Mexican dishes I am accustomed to and have grown to love. Bolivia is not Mexico.

I think the most disorienting thing about Bolivia was how similar it was to Mexico in some ways (which at first caused me to rely on my Mexican cultural heuristics) but then would totally catch me off guard by being, well, so decidedly and distinctly Bolivian. I don't know why I was so surprised. New information alert! my brain would signal to me.

For example, Bolivia is very similar to Mexico in its orientation to time (fluid rather than rigid), generosity (i.e. Don't tell a Bolivian you like anything of theirs otherwise they will literally give it to you), importance of the family, traditional gender roles (machismo) and mix of indigenous and Spanish culture (mestizaje). Yet there is an undeniably marked distinction between the two countries. Bolivia is not Mexico!

While at the school, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was going to encounter some Bolivian cultural markers that I was just not familiar with. The cultural things I learned while living in Mexico could only take me so far, and then I just had to "figure out" some new things, some new Bolivian things. It was a humbling experience. Learning about and adapting to a new culture can be an uncomfortable experience--sometimes it feels like trying to find my way around in the dark with groping hands--but I am grateful for the challenge it presented. It kept me on my toes and reliant on God rather than coasting on my prior knowledge and experiences.

Bolivia is not Mexico. And that's a good thing.

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

*I acknowledge first of all that it's problematic to lump all Spanish-speaking nations together like this, but that's a whole other story. 

**I'm not saying that any of these things sum up or define what it is to be Mexican/Mexican-American, but these kinds of "stereotypically" Mexican things are arguably embedded in the American psyche notwithstanding.

Taking Off in Prayer

This post is part of a continuing series about the School of Christ in Cochabamba, Bolivia. All posts will be tagged "Bolivia." Read all Bolivia posts here.

As you may already be aware, a part of the daily rhythm of the School of Christ is praying for two hours every day (from 6:00am-7:00am and 6:30pm-7:30pm, respectively), no exceptions (not even on Sunday!). I must say, this was actually one of my favorite parts of the school. But it wasn't at first.

I think many friends and family of mine can attest to the fact that I am not a morning person. In the evenings I lay out my clothes, pack my lunch and purse so that when I wake up, I can get dressed and go without having to "think." I've got it down to a science: once I get the wherewithal to actually get out of bed, I can be ready on 20 minutes (leaving maximum time to sleep).

So when on the first morning of the school we were woken up with a piercing siren not unlike a dormitory fire alarm, followed by a voice on a megaphone yelling, "Get up, get up, get up!"* I groaned and grumbled to myself, "It figures." It would still be dark outside at 6:00am when I would enter the classroom to pray and by the time we concluded the sun would be up, illuminating the high, snow-capped mountain peaks that surrounded us on every side.

The style of prayer at the school is very much different from the kind of "typical" prayer in an American Presbyterian church (which is the tradition I grew up in). Whereas in the States, most corporate prayer is led by one person praying over a microphone with everyone else agreeing silently until the "Amen," prayer at the school can, at the outset, appear to be a disorderly, cacophonous mess.

A strong memory I have of prayer is walking in at 6:00am (I was usually one of the last to arrive because I was herding in my fellow roommates to get there on time, see my older blog post for more info.), and the first thing I noticed is the low-grade sound of murmuring. You see, in the School of Christ, everyone prays out loud at the same time. For an hour.

Add to that baseline layer of whispered/spoken prayers (1) the oftentimes assertively loud worship music in Spanish being transmitted by large amplifier speakers (one at the front of the classroom and one at the back), and (2) the prayers of the pastor on the microphone up front and well, it's a party!!! I can't imagine what it was like for my teammates that didn't know Spanish; at least I could understand the lyrics of the songs (and even sang along with a few that were also popular at my church in Mexico) and could follow along and agree with the pastors' intercession up front.

     

In the School there were about three different options for physical postures of prayer: on your knees with your face to the ground, kneeling over a chair or standing. That first week I found myself standing quite a bit because, well, if I hadn't been standing, I would have straight up fallen asleep in those intensive morning sessions. One morning as I slowly got down onto my knees to pray, I sighed into the ground and said out loud to the Lord, "Okay... Here we go." Little did I realize that my teammate Heather was nearby, listening. She laughed out loud. I'll tell you this, prayer at 6:00am is not glamorous! At first I was seriously dragging to get there. But by week three I would walk into the room, that low-grade murmuring would hit my ears and I would be comforted. And then I'd get down on my knees and get to work.

Pastor Fernando, who taught for the first week, explained to us early on that praying in the Spirit is like a plane taking off. He even conceded that sometimes the first 45 minutes can seem utterly fruitless, and a struggle to concentrate and focus on God. "But when you take off..." he explained, with somewhat of a wistful look, "That is when you soar with God." He added further that prayer in the Spirit does not necessarily take on a certain "form" outwardly. Some students would yell out in prayer, cry, weep, groan. Yes, Pastor Fernando affirmed, this can be praying in the Spirit, but even someone who is completely still and silent, they too can be praying in the Spirit. "I can just look at people and know," he explained. There's no getting past him!! :)

For me, praying in the Spirit was like going underwater. It was immersive. I would just submerge myself in prayer, not opening my eyes once until the pastor said "Amén" an hour later. Sometimes I would have lots to say to God but other times I would run out of things to say and just worship him the rest of the time. I would wait before him in silence, thanking him. Sometimes the Holy Spirit would bring to mind a certain passage from scripture, or a picture, or a brief little phrase. Sometimes he would highlight a mindset or actions that I needed to repent of. Sometimes he would break my heart to pray for someone in particular. Other times I didn't really have a clue what God was doing in that hour other than sanctification in general terms. But I knew something was happening.

After most prayer sessions I would check-in with my teammate DeAndrea, trading notes on what God had been speaking to us. We were in total agreement that in that first week with Pastor Fernando, the presence of God filled that classroom in such a sweet and powerful way that it was undeniable. "It almost makes you sway," DeAndrea observed. I mean, it really did hit you when you entered the room.

One of my favorite memories from the school is when, one evening for prayer, Fernando asked those who had a special calling from God over their lives to come forward. "You know who you are," he said, with a serious look on his face, referring to those over whom he had prayed earlier in the week (during prayer he would usually set down the mic and then go to pray for people as the Holy Spirit led him). Of course, then just everyone in the school pretty much got up and stood in the front (I mean, who doesn't want to be chosen?) but he reiterated again, "I'm going to pray for those with a special calling in God, those on whom he will place his burden on and use in a significant way."

So everyone began to pray (that comforting thrum resuming again), and Pastor Fernando started "making the rounds." I realized, however, that many of the American team wouldn't be able to understand what he was praying because they haven't studied Spanish. So I started following him around, interpreting his prayers so they knew what he was saying. And man, I would just cry as I was translating because God was truly using Pastor Fernando to bless my American brothers and sisters! Through the Holy Spirit Pastor Fernando spoke such words of insight into folks' hearts, things that could only come through revelation--and they were such specific words of truth, love and encouragement that one after another would break down in tears as he prayed. God was healing them and building them up spiritually before my very eyes.

So like that airplane, praying was a struggle to start and get going (especially in the mornings)... But once I got into the rhythm of it, I grew to treasure it. It was, in fact, one of the only opportunities I had to "be alone" with God (albeit in a group of a bunch of people but trust me, I am and expert at blocking noises out). I would just get "in the zone." And afterwards I would frequently leave the room, remarking to DeAndrea, "That was just nuts..."

"And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints" (Ephesians 6:18).

-----------------
*Thankfully after the first morning they used the doorbell to wake us up from then on.

Bolivia Anecdote: Cinco minutos, hermanas...

Author's Note: So although I had planned on drafting blog posts while I was in Bolivia to post once I returned (because we didn't have internet at the School of Christ), I definitely didn't get around to doing that. Whoops. There wasn't really time. In lieu of that, I'll be periodically posting anecdotes, memories and revelations from God that I received in the school, as they come to mind. I hope to mix the humorous and absurd stories with the profound and serious. Buckle up!!

Cinco minutos, hermanas...

So one of the responsibilities I had during the three-week long school was to be "room warden" for a group of 20 or so of my classmates. There were two women's rooms; my friend Jessica was in charge of Room One and I was in charge of Room Two. We were chosen because of our bilingual skills, mostly (as Bolivians and Americans were split evenly between the two rooms). As you can imagine, each room had row upon row of bunk beds and our room had the special privilege of a wooden door that scraped nails-on-a-chalkboard-style against the floor every time it was open or shut. Good times.

One of the first days in the school we were instructed on the way that our bunk beds needed to be: signs with our names on our bunks (in case individuals needed to be punished for not following room regulations), towels ONLY hung onto the frames (not even jackets or coats were allowed), beds neatly made each morning (our Bolivian peers tended to bring legit bedding, like sheets and blankets, rather than sleeping bags), luggage/backpacks zipped and placed directly underneath the bed with two pairs (maximum) of shoes lined up meticulously in opposing corners.

Part of my duties were to make sure folks were adhering to these regulations, but also make sure that everyone got up on time and went to bed on time. First off, this was a bit of a challenge seeing as I didn't have a watch... but that was soon remedied as my American teammates Matthew, then Jacob, graciously lent me theirs. You see, the tricky thing was that if anyone from my room was either late to 6:00am prayer or caught up past the 10:00pm lights-out hour, my butt would be on the line AND the entire room would be punished. So the stakes were *high*.

Each morning we would be woken up by a bell ringing at 5:30am. I would quickly albeit with a noted absolute lack of coordination, fumble my way down from my rickety top bunk and shuffle over to turn on the lights. The first week or so, people would get up as soon as the lights were turned on. By week three, though, there were a handful of regulars that continued to lie there, unmoving, perhaps attempting to squeeze in a few more minutes of precious rest. I mean, seriously, some girls knew how to take it down to the wire. I tried to be fair by giving folks multiple warnings, 20, 15, 10, 5, 2 minutes and then 30 seconds out from our 6:00am call time. The same would go for counting down to lights-out at 10:00pm. I would just say tersely, "__ minutes, sisters [__ minutos, hermanas]." It became such a regular thing that my American teammate DeAndrea (who knew very little Spanish) would repeat perfectly after me, "Cinco minutos, hermanas!"

The strange thing was that even with these (what I believed to be) ample warnings, some girls seemed absolutely shocked when I would give the final warning in the evening, "30 seconds and I'm turning out the lights!" I would hear cries of alarm, followed by pleading, "Hermana, por favor," or "Ay, no, hermana!" Hermana! Hermana! and a half-hearted scrambling to get ready for bed.Without fail, though, I would turn out the lights at 10:00pm, because if not, the guy in charge of discipline would have my head for it (he would regularly be patrolling the hall at this time).

One time when the pleading was especially numerous and insistent, and I abruptly turned out the lights anyway (to further cries of distress), one of our Peruvian classmates, Eina, said, "April is a good soldier of Christ Jesus! She cares more about pleasing God than pleasing man!"

There may have been some truth to that.

Mostly, though, I was just happy to finally go to bed.

"Hermana..."

Along unfamiliar paths

I've been putting off blogging because I thought I had to have something deep, profound and well thought-out to share that was 'worth' reading or whatever. To be honest, I haven't had gigantic epiphanies or revelations lately, and I guess that's okay.

I'm leaving for Bolivia on Friday morning. This will be my first international trip since returning from Mexico last year. I intentionally cleared out my calendar to leave room for rest, reflection and prayer in the days leading up to my departure.

The past few weeks have been a bit melancholy and angst-ridden to say the least. I've been wrestling with issues of spiritual and professional identity and therein have encountered my own weakness and vulnerability. Every third Sunday at our church, we have time in service for 'prayers of blessing and anointing with oil.' This past Sunday one of my dear mentors was tasked with praying for me. "Is there anything specific that I can be pray about for you?" I looked at her, pausing before I admitted (with a noticeable tremor in my voice), "I've just been pretty broken lately."

All this to say, I'm not quite sure what my prayer is for Bolivia. Initially I was hoping that God would throw me a bone and tell me about the next spiritual assignment he has for me. I still really desire this: direction and clarity. But the frustrating thing has been my own spiritual blindness--my inability to hear God, my inability to discern his will. It's been maddening and heart-rending. I can't "fix" my own spiritual condition. I can't "figure out" a solution. Only God can heal me.

"I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them" (Isaiah 42:16).

Yes, God is leading me along "unfamiliar paths." I'm literally(!) going somewhere I've never been before. But more than that I believe that God is taking me somewhere new and unknown spiritually. In a big way. Please pray for me. 26 June-19 July.

In it to win it. (1 Corinthians 9:24-25)

There Is One Body

"So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don't fall!" (1 Corinthians 10:12). 

This Wednesday will mark the conclusion of a four-week series on the subject of race and reconciliation at University Presbyterian Church. A co-worker and I have been planning it since last October. I must say, it has been a very intense experience. I knew that race was a sensitive subject, but I didn't quite anticipate the strong responses (both positive and negative) that we have received from participants and the enormous sense of responsibility I have felt in stewarding these weekly conversations.

Through this planning process I've become a bit upset about how divided the church is: particularly across race, denomination and socio-economic status. "There is one body and one Spirit--just as you were called to one hope when you were called--one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all" (Ephesians 4:4-6). The "church" does not appear to be "one" just yet.

In the past few weeks, we have heard from Christians of color share their painful experiences of racism in the church and in Christian settings. We have heard from White Christians who work in the criminal justice system and the ethical choices they make every day that affect communities throughout King County. We have heard in a small degree the pain and loss that the Black community experiences through systemic oppression and acts of violence that lead to the deaths of their loved ones.

The title of the series is "What Ferguson Means for Us." I learned early on that I had made a mistake in considering Ferguson to be symbolic in nature, a lesson for us in Seattle to learn about from a distance. It's impossible to look at photos of Michael Brown's uncovered dead body, desperate protests in the street and images from his funeral "from a distance." Things became very "real," very quickly when  I read a cover story article in TIME magazine, "Black Lives Matter." The published images of Walter Scott being shot to death shook me to my core. The article also lists incident after incident of young, unarmed black men being shot and killed by the police. I know for a fact that a similar situation of a white male police officer shooting and killing an unarmed young black boy has happened here in our very city. There is nothing distant about Ferguson.

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?...[N]ot to turn away from your own flesh and blood?" (Isaiah 58). 

I believe that now is a time for the church to pay attention. We're going to need to be alert. We're most likely going to need to repent.

"[W]hen the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?" (Luke 18:8). "He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches" (Revelation 2:7).


Do your work, O Lord, to form us into one Body--the Body of Christ!!

Taking a Second Glance at Evangelism

It seems to me that pretty much all of us have a 'gross' evangelization encounter story. By that I mean, a stranger walking up to you and "sharing the gospel," oftentimes with the help of some sort of pamphlet with a diagram that visually represents salvation in God and has Bible verses on the back.

So for me, I was at the HUB one day back in my college years, getting lunch. I was headed toward the cafeteria to return my dirty tray when I was unexpectedly steered to sit down with a woman on a ledge next to an overgrown indoor plant. Perhaps the word 'ambushed' may be too strong to describe this encounter, but that's kind of how it felt at the moment.

The woman who had stopped me then proceeded to flip through her pamphlet with the diagram and the Bible verses, asking me some questions about who I was and who I believed God to be. I pride myself on being a thoughtful person, so responded honestly and from the heart, but discovered quickly that this woman was not as interested in knowing me as she was in getting through that pamphlet!

She asked me if I had "received Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior," to which I replied in the affirmative. She looked at me suspiciously, squinting her eyes slightly, then proceeded to explain in great detail that many people may *think* they are saved but in actuality are not. It was obvious that she doubted my eternal salvation. At this point I started to get a bit ticked off by this woman's audacity and boldness to think she had me pegged as 'not really' a believer, that she had to 'save' from my own self-deceit and delusion.

"I have to go," I interjected firmly, and she looked a bit crestfallen not to have been able to 'seal the deal' with me by having me pray through the Sinner's Prayer (or so I assumed). I stewed on that interaction the rest of the day and still get riled up recounting it now. Who does she think she is? How dare she?

One thing is clear: that day I made a vow that I would never become an evangelist like that.

'Gross' Evangelism

A couple of people in my life have had even worse experiences. A classmate in high school told me that as a waitress at Johnny Rocket's a table of young men told her (as she was trying to take their order) that she was a sinner, was going to hell and then didn't leave a tip (but of course left a Bible)! Assholes! My dad was evangelized to in Mexico by a white guy who told my dad he was a sinner "didn't know anything" and heaped one verbal assault after another against him as his seven-year old daughter (I presume) looked on. Evangelical encounters like these are absolutely disgusting. The overt message is one of condemnation. There is no love. This kind of evangelism damages those it professes to 'save' and misrepresents the gospel of Jesus Christ (and Jesus Christ himself).

Shrinking Back

As a consequence of these hurtful experiences with heavy-handed evangelists, I became extra sensitive not to 'inflict' my beliefs on others, and did my best to keep my faith somewhat hidden out of courtesy. I definitely didn't share the gospel. In many ways I agreed with postmodern values of pluralism and relativism--that everyone was entitled to believe what they wanted. Who was I to convince them otherwise (i.e. tell them that they were 'wrong' and I was 'right'--GROSS)? So while people around me may have known that I went to church, or may have seen me reading my Bible in public, I was not interested in evangelizing (sharing the good news).

Gross Evangelism=Proclamation-Love
My 'Evangelism'=Love-Proclamation

For this reason I stayed clear of working in 'church ministries' to serve the poor, or faith-based organizations, preferring non-profits or government work as a means to be present to the oppressed. I wanted to steer clear of 'gross' charity work--only offering to help with physical needs (food, clothing, shelter) if those served go to chapel. That carrot and stick stuff seemed so disingenuous to me and even, perhaps, manipulative.

All this to say, I became a very passive evangelist, if I was one at all. I was all good with being friends with unbelievers, listening to them, praying for them (when alone in my room, of course, never WITH them). Again, I was not going to be that gross evangelist!

The Stigma of Evangelism

In academia I learned of the term proselytization ("to induce someone to convert one's faith"). It was always used with pejorative overtones. Proselytization was nearly synonymous with 'cultural imperialism' (i.e. the Crusades, Spanish colonial 'missions' to Latin America). Proselytization implied an intrusion, usually with a strong arm, against a population, forcing them into belief. It was oppressive. To proselytize was basically to be an asshole. My professor of 'The Political Economy of World Religion' would talk self-deprecatingly about his Christian faith in class but always made sure to assure us quickly, "but I'm not here to proselytize [i.e. impose]." Evangelicals and evangelism in general were presented in pretty dim light.

The gospel is good news, meant to be a gift, yet it seems that in these days, to some it's seen as only inflicting injury.

Reclaiming the Gospel

"I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes" (Romans 1:16).

To be honest, I still carry vestiges of shame about the gospel because it has been misused by so many of these gross evangelist types, and a part of me is super embarrassed to be associated with them by sharing the gospel with people in my life. Recently I was convicted of the need to pray forgiveness over the evangelists that have hurt me in the past, to renounce that vow to never be like them, and to bless, yes bless, gross evangelists in Jesus' name. It feels like a turning point.

A part of me really does believe in the power of the gospel, and that it really is good news! Nowadays I am willing to openly talk about Jesus Christ with people, simply because he has done so much for me--like, I have a lot to share, if people are interested in hearing my story.

What I'm trying to say is that, gross evangelization encounters notwithstanding, I am ready to live into being an evangelist, even if that means risking looking or sounding stupid when sharing the gospel. This is kind of big, guys!

My Old Evangelism=Love-Proclamation
My New Evangelism=Love+Proclamation

Here goes nothing!

On Not Being a Pretentious Shepherd

"The next session covered briefly the three types of relationships we need, if we are to be people growing. We need those who are further along the way, who give us hints of where we are and raise the question of where we are going--what the next step might be. They may be teachers or counselors, or, when we are without these, books. Then we need those who are our peers--fellow pilgrims with whom we share the day-by-day events of our life in Christ, the discoveries we make, the places where we are challenged, our discouragement, our hope; brothers who hold us accountable, who remind us of our covenant relationship; brothers who mediate forgiveness. And thirdly, we need those who are not so advanced as we--a little flock which is ours to tend and nourish. 'All these relationships,' said Gordon [Cosby], 'are utterly necessary to our spiritual development, but the one I want us to look at in this class is the one of being shepherds, because it is at this point most of us will feel the most hesitancy or timidity. We will feel that it is pretentious for us to be guides to others at the point of their life in Christ.'" (110).

-Elizabeth O'Connor, Journey Inward, Journey Outward

So I've been reading this book about a group of folks in D.C. who started a coffee house church before it was "cool," and am fascinated by this quote. According to O'Connor and her peers, there are three essential types of relationships that every believer needs. I'm going to rename them into my own vernacular:

1. Titans
2. Sisters
3. Little Sisters.

I had a bit of a contentious discussion the other day with a colleague of mine who was reluctant to consider anyone in his life to fit into category #3: "Little Sisters" (or "Brothers" in this case, whatever). In O'Connor's words, "We feel that it is pretentious..." I hear that. I feel that. I understand that there are hierarchical overtones to the notion of shepherds and the "little flock." Yes, the shepherd/flock "construction" creates a dichotomy that has implications of power and influence. Yet somewhere along the way, in our postmodern culture, hierarchy has become nearly synonymous with evil! I don't necessarily believe that to be true. I'm not saying that it's unwarranted. It seems that aversion to hierarchy is a reaction to countless misuses of power in the form of paternalism and dogmatism in the church. I mean, that and the fact that this country was founded on supposedly "egalitarian values." So it's in the American bones and psyche to defy hierarchy, so to say.

This being said, I am coming to a pretty strong conviction that there are varying stages of spiritual maturity (in the Greek it'd be nepios, teknon, paidion, and huios--see Cooke, Prophecy and Responsibility), and that any any point in time, any believer has people "ahead" of them (titans), "beside" them (sisters) and "behind" them (little sisters). I have also come to the strong conviction that it's high time that I start giving some attention to my lil' sis cohort and stop being a greedy asshole!

Titans

If you know me to any degree, you'll probably hear me at one point and time rant and rave about the 'titans' in my life. These are the folks that I just 'want to get in the room with' to soak up their words of wisdom, receive their prayers, encouragement and teaching for the journey. I also often describe these people as "nuts" (in the best way, duh). In the spirit of the now far outdated meme, here are my titans in somewhat chronological order:

Grandpa &
Susan &
Ann &
Ruby &
Joyce &
Celia &
Debbie.

These are people that have walked beside me, shared of their lives with me and listened to me. I pretty much just draft off of them. They are my coaches and consultants. I love them and thank God for them VERY frequently.

Sisters

My peers are also folks that I cherish deeply and love and want to hug constantly. They're the ones that I talk to on a regular basis, who are usually grappling with similar questions. They're less intimidating than my titans but they go hard spiritually:

Hillary &
Faith &
Laura &
Lisa &
Courtney &
Naomi &
Kim.

These are my peeps! They're the ones I can pray with throughout the week and who keep me accountable. I love them so much, too!

Little Sisters

Okay, so now I hit the dreaded "growing edge." It was a sobering realization that while I love to receive oodles of instruction and encouragement from my titans and my peers (who wouldn't?), I'm making little to no concerted effort to "pay it forward" by seeking out and staying loyal to any "little sisters." Do I actually have little sisters in my life? HAHAHA, maybe two, perhaps three, and those being very informal mentorship-esque relationships. My best friend has an older woman at her church to prays for her literally every day. I am not that dedicated.

It has recently emerged in prayer that the Lord is calling me to step into a new role of discipling some of the people he's brought into my life. Is it "pretentious" of me to start moving in obedience to that call? I'd like to believe not. Did I think it was pretentious of my grandpa to disciple me while I was in high school? Hell no! "This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers" (1 John 3:16). My grandpa would have laid down his life for me, so I could all the way trust him to be my shepherd. "The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep" (John 10:11b). I believe God is inviting me to shepherd others with this same heart of love. I mean, literally in prayer I heard, "Are you willing to lay down your life for these people?" My first thought was "Fuck," but, after some crying and stuff, I said, "Yes."

I've been thinking a bit about what it means to be a part of the "royal priesthood" (1 Peter 2:9). It's part of my priestly duty not to be a spiritual elitist, and to draw near to those who may be (relatively) immature spiritually (believe me, I have plenty of immaturity issues I am praying through). "Every high priest is selected from among men and is appointed to represent them in matters related to God... He is able to deal gently with those who are ignorant and are going astray, since he himself is subject to weakness" (Hebrews 5:1-2). This just makes me think of Pastor Kerry, of Japanese Presbyterian Church, who in my opinion is a shepherd of shepherds and lives this out daily. Rather than disdaining people around me, or getting overly frustrated with them for being fearful, hard-hearted, unbelieving, etc., God is inviting me to intercede on their behalf, love them and in humility consider them to be better than myself (Philippians 2:3). In many ways I sense the Lord reminding me to remember the condition I was in when he first found me, so as not to become blinded by my own self-righteousness and self-importance. I'm just learning loads!

As you go, disciple

All this to say, I'm entering into a new season and stepping into a new role of discipling others. *Scary!* What I am writing about isn't especially revelatory and it isn't profound. It's just that I am discovering new levels of meaning to the words of the Great Commission, which used to make my skin crawl (I save that for another blog post), but now have a whole lot of operational meaning: "Therefore go and make disciples of all nations" (Matthew 28:19). A student who was doing Fuller extension once told me (and I never went back to fact-check, just trusted him blindly so... *shrug*) that a more accurate translation of the verse would be as you go, disciple, like it should just be part and parcel of the whole following Jesus thing. It doesn't necessarily feel natural to me now, but I am praying that one day it will.

Living Into My Calling

Earlier this year I mentioned that during a time of prayer I heard from the Lord, "It is time to live into your calling." Recently someone asked me, "So what does that mean, then? How have you been living into your calling?" These are good questions!

The Ever-Elusive "Call" 

It would be an understatement to say that from a pretty young age I've been more or less obsessed with the idea of "calling," that God has a particular *thing* in mind for me to do while I am here on earth. When I was in high school I read an anthology of Christian writings on "call" which ranged from 100 C.E. to 1967. I wanted to know so badly what specific "good works" God had "prepared in advance" for me to do (Ephesians 2:10), but just couldn't seem to figure it out.

I'm not going to lie; it's been a lot of "hit and miss" and "trial and error" when it comes to discerning my call, though I have been in conversation with God about this for awhile now. At first I thought I was going to be a social worker, but that proved to be far too emotionally intense and overwhelming. Then I thought I might try my hand at public administration and policy-making, but that turned out to be a pretty discouraging venture as well. Rather than discovering the one thing that I loved and felt passionate about, it’s been mostly a lot of closed doors, and realizing that there are many things which I simply cannot handle/do. Yes, this process of elimination may have been helpful for a time, but I definitely wondered to myself, “Am I ever going to find something that actually fits?” All the dead ends and red lights made me question if God had something specific in mind for my life after all, or if I was destined to be on an endless chase for a “call” that I would never fully lay ahold of in my lifetime. 

To me, “call” and vocation have been pretty much the same thing. I believed that my job had to be a fundamental way that I express my faith in the world. So no, a job never was "just" a job; I needed to know how it fit into the bigger picture of God's purposes. Imagine my surprise this year finding out that after all that, my job is actually not exactly as crucial I had thought to gauging how deeply I am involved in what God is doing around me and in my community.

Power≠God's Will/Favor (Necessarily)

I've learned a fair amount of things regarding God's call for my life this year. First of all, God has shown me that call doesn't necessarily have to do with professional achievements and status. God has not seemed to be especially concerned about me going to graduate school, or working my way up in a company. This has been a gigantic load off of my shoulders, because for awhile I was really feeling the pressure to "put my potential [read: intelligence] to good use [read: don't waste it]." I'm done feeling guilty about that.

I've also learned that God's call for me does not necessarily involve undue strain and striving. By this I mean, it seems to me that God is inviting me to begin to move deeper in the (spiritual) gifts that are already deeply ingrained in who I am. I don't have to force things and struggle a bunch, but can play to my strengths. I marvel that it's permissible, nay encouraged, to play to my strengths. "Each one should use whatever gifts he has been given to serve others, faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms" (1 Peter 4:10). This has meant moving deeper in the prophetic gift.

Prophecy-Spooky!

I had an inkling that God had gifted me prophetically somehow, but then heard this year that I definitely had a "prophetic anointing," which got me motivated to start digging deeper into what that meant. It was so mysterious to me because it's not like I grew up around people claiming to be prophetic. Actually, it was kind of implied to me that the gift of prophecy doesn't exist anymore (which is not true). What, then,  does it even mean to be prophetic? Here's what I've discovered.

Characteristics of the Prophetic Gift

1. Deep sensitivity to justice-see and perceive injustice and feel compelled to act. Anger is often a bi-product.
2. Deep sensitivity to the supernatural (good and evil)-can sense when things are "wrong," gut feelings may usually indicate an ability to discern between spirits.
3. Knowledge and revelation regarding the will of God-sense God's movements and what he would like to do in situations/individuals' lives. Connection with the mind/heart of God.
4. Hear from God-via dreams, audible words, visions in prayer, etc. These can be future or present-oriented.
5. Deliver truthful messages at the right time-may have extemporaneous words to share (from scripture or other revealed things) which speak specifically to what God is doing in a person/community. Often packs a powerful punch; may be received with long reflective silences.
6. Intercession-many with the prophetic gifting feel acutely the discrepancy between the way things are and the way that God intends things to be, and so may spend a significant amount of time praying for his kingdom to come on earth.

(If any of these are hitting home for you, first of all, I am so excited! Please contact me if you want to explore your giftings further. Meeting prophetically gifted people makes me really, really happy. For further reading I highly suggest Primal Fire by Neil Cole.)

I believe that calling is deeply tied to spiritual gifting, and that as I am moving more in my spiritual gifts, I am also moving into my calling! By moving in my spiritual gifts I mean: praying for others, sharing visions I get with people (WHEN APPROPRIATE), sharing words of encouragement, praying in the Spirit ("Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven." Matthew 18:18). I've got to tell you, it's been really, really good, and I'm only just starting! I make mistakes, of course, and at times find myself out of my depth, but life is making so much more sense now that I am doing what God has created me to do. It's awesome! I am still learning so much. 

Did I answer the question?

Okay, now it's time to tie everything together! This year, "living into my calling" has meant letting go of my own guesses to where the Lord was going to take me, and focusing more on being who he's already made me to be! Does that make sense? I'm not so preoccupied anymore with the specifics of what I do (vocation). I believe that God will bring the right thing for me at the right time, like he did with my current job and new community in Greenwood. When it's time for me to move onto the next thing, he'll let me know and will bring that new job/place before me. I am confident in his provision. Calling, what is it? It's being responsive to God and letting him do his work in me. Everything else will be taken care of.

You're gonna be IMPORTANT and you're gonna do a LOT, but it's not about what you do.
You, you're awesome. You're made that way! You're made from love to be love to SPREAD love!
For now, remember this: You're awake; you're awesome. Live like it.

-Kid President, Letter to a Person on Their First Day Here

Rise up; it's time.

Remember those earlier days after you had received the light, when you stood your ground in a great contest in the face of suffering. Sometimes you were publicly exposed to insult and persecution; at other times you stood side by side with those who were so treated. You sympathized with those in prison and joyfully accepted the confiscation of your property, because you knew that you yourselves had better and lasting possessions.

So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded. You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised. For in just a very little while,

'He who is coming will come and will not delay.
But my righteous one will live by faith.
And if he shrinks back, I will not be pleased with him.'

But we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who believe and are saved.

Hebrews 10:32-39

Up until now I haven't felt it was appropriate to write about Ferguson and the subsequent deaths of other black males at the hands of white police officers, because it was much more important to make space for black voices to be heard (some articles here: 1, 2, 3). However, as a person who is not black, I think it's time for me to write to speak to my fellow Christians who are also not black, but wondering what to do. What does it mean to stand "side by side" with our black brothers and sisters as they endure such aggravated trials and tribulation?

Before we begin to build a straw man, talking about whether Michael Brown or other men who have been killed were "innocent," I have to say up front that it's not about that. Michael Brown is dead. Eric Garner is dead. This notwithstanding at the hands of another fellow human being. This is not a time to be discussing the ethics and "necessity" of corporal punishment, and trying to "justify" police officers using physical violence against "criminals." These men are dead, and it's a big fucking deal. I'm not sure how I can emphasize this enough.

A week and a half ago I participated in a march organized by several local black pastors in partnership with the NAACP and Garfield High School. This was one day after the ruling on Darren Wilson (not to indict him for the shooting of Michael Brown). As we headed west along Union, a group of 200 people or so, I was ultra-aware of the fact that when we would chant "Hands up, Don't shoot," for the black males walking alongside me, this was a lived reality. And I started to cry. For these men, being in public, unarmed and vulnerable (literally with their hands raised in surrender) knowing their peers have been gunned down and choked to death by men wearing uniforms very similar to the ones donned by SPD officers 'escorting' and observing us along the way, was quite honestly, eerie.

When we arrived at the U.S. District Court, we stood on and around the steps of the building listening to several speakers from the black community who expressed extreme frustration, anger and at times, despondency. At one point, a pastor assumed the mic, saying, "I just want to first of all thank those of you who are not a part of the black community for showing up today and being a part of this." By this time our group had grown to probably 400 or more people, and I had noticed (with great relief) during the march that yes, there were indeed white hipsters and white older adults and mixed kids and male Latinos and young Asian Americans throughout the crowd. This is good, though I don't think the black community should necessarily have to thank us for being there.

It has been written of the Body of Christ: "If one part suffers, every part suffers with it" (1 Corinthians 12:26a). What does it mean to stand "side by side with those who were so treated"? Listen. Care. Pray. Show up. 

For it has also been written:

"Justice will dwell in the desert and righteousness live in the fertile field.

The fruit of righteousness will be peace;

     the effect of righteousness will be quietness and confidence forever. 

My people will live in peaceful dwelling places,

     in secure homes,

          in undisturbed places of rest" (Isaiah 32:16-17).

 May we cry out to God until this is fulfilled on earth for all his people.

Remembering Grandpa

"I miss that old guy."

-Grandpa's best friend

Sometimes grief robs me of words. I'm full of sorrow, and yet the ability to articulate that sorrow completely escapes me. It's not a constant sort of despair that I feel, but an intense sadness that will hit me at certain moments causing the tears to flow.

In his last days, Grandpa's only reservation about leaving Earth was his concern for the well-being of the family. "I just want to make sure that you will be okay," he kept repeating with labored breaths from his nursing home bed, as the oxygen machine nearby chugged along. "We're going to be okay, Grandpa," I would reply, even though tears were falling on my face. I held his hand. "Don't worry. We'll be okay."

I know that we all are going to be okay, but in the meantime, it's been tough. My major frustration is not being able to talk to Grandpa anymore. Talking with him was the best. "God, I just want to talk to Grandpa!" is a frequent prayer of late, even though I know praying these words will not magically bring Grandpa back in his bodily form like some sort fairy godmother. And yet, while he was alive, Grandpa was like a fairy godmother to me, always willing to listen and to love. Gosh, I miss him!

Mourning is an ache and a longing for that which I can't have. I just wish that I could simply hear his voice saying, "How's things?" as he was wont to do. I wish that I could correspond with him in letters, even... tie up an envelope to a string hanging from the sky that will be lifted into the heavenly realms for Grandpa to open up and then reply to in his methodical, slightly rightward leaning script. I wish that in my dreams I could go to a cafe that's halfway between heaven and earth, so I can have coffee with Grandpa. Oh, what I would give for just 10 minutes of conversation with him!

God has promised provision for those who grieve: to "bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair" (Isaiah 61:3). I eagerly await the fulfillment of these promises in my life as I experience all of the discomfort, ups and downs that come with loss. I know that it's a matter of "fix[ing] [my] eyes on Jesus Christ, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God" (Hebrews 12:2). In enduring this temporary pain of grief, I look forward to the day when I will be joyfully reunited with my dear Grandpa in heaven, when I can tell him everything and he won't ever go away.

"I want nothing but the best for you," he managed to say on that Friday night at Kline Galland. He needn't have verbalized it because he spoke this over all of us granddaughters with every act of love, service and sacrifice he did while he was with us on earth. I know that Grandpa would have laid down his very life for us (1 John 3:16b) if need be. And in many ways, he did.

 

Shirt reads: "Lifetime Achievement in Grandfathering"

I miss you, old guy. Can't wait to see you again someday.

Grandpa

I wanted to call you today
And maybe just sit and watch the game.
I wanna tell you about the books I'm reading
And pray with you.
Maybe if I open the door to your room
You'll be there waiting for me.
But all I see is your white leather armchair
And hate that you're not in it anymore.

Dumbledore can't live forever.

In July 2005 three of my friends and I camped out on the floor of our local Barnes & Noble for the midnight release of the novel Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. When the clock struck 12:00AM, we got our copies of the book, my mom drove me home, I sat down on the couch, opened the book and did not move from that place until I'd finished it. Thankfully my friends and I were not one of the many disappointed fans who (like us) had waited hours in line in anticipation for The Half-Blood Prince, only to have a mean-spirited spoilsport run by them screaming "Dumbledore dies!" before they'd even gotten their hands on a copy!

I remember that many Harry Potter fans were distraught that Dumbledore did, in fact, die in The Half-Blood Prince, because the headmaster was a loved and respected character, and especially dear to the protagonist, Harry Potter. However, J.K. Rowling issued a statement more or less deeming Dumbledore's death as necessary, because in the absence of his go-to mentors (Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore), Harry would have to learn to stand on his own.

I am currently in the process of losing my own Dumbledore, my grandpa Don. I've had a really special, dear connection to my grandpa since about high school when, seemingly out of the blue, he called me one summer to see if I'd be interested in doing Bible study with him once a week. Together we worked through the book of Matthew using questions he'd copy for me out of his study Bible. At first it was kind of awkward since up until that time me and my grandpa weren't especially "close." Yet I grew to love the one-on-one time with him and treasured hearing his thoughts and reflections on the ways God had been faithful to him in his life.

Grandpa seemed to really "get" me and became my go-to person in the event of crisis. I think because he shared so openly with me about his past pain and anguish, I felt safe telling him about mine. One year I asked my Grandpa to coffee to get his advice about a big decision regarding a romantic relationship. His younger brother, Ty, was visiting from San Mateo, CA, and remarked, "Gee, I wish my grandkids asked me out for coffee!" as we walked out the door.

I'd like to think that I "got" Grandpa pretty well, too. "You're able to put my thoughts into words," he said to me several times, when he would be stumbling to articulate his struggles with faith and doubt. Grandpa liked to grapple with hard questions (Who is Jesus? Are other religions valid? Why did Jesus have to die on the cross?). It was fun to talk to him about theological and political issues because he was never one to put-down your ideas or opinions, just dialogue about them so that everyone participating in the conversation might arrive a little closer to the truth by the end of it, including himself.

Grandpa had a brilliant mind. He was very sensitive to others and reached out when he could tell that people were in the midst of great turmoil. I remember that during one of the darkest seasons of my life he called me on the phone. "How are you doing?" he stated simply, and I began to sob because I knew that he really did want to know. He said, "You know, your grandma and I love you very much, and I think God does, too."

Lately Grandpa's mounting health issues have sapped him of his brilliant mind and sensitive heart. He has trouble staying awake, can't carry on a continuous conversation and sometimes says deluded or irrational things. I pray to God wondering how much of Grandpa is still in there, in that frail body.

I can't just sit with him and shoot the breeze about global politics, his past work at Boeing and the great unanswered cosmic questions of our time anymore. It's simply not an option. My grandpa is still alive but a huge part of who he was to me (sage, counselor and guide) has been lost.

How do I move forward when someone so important in my life has vacated that position? How do I pray for someone whose mind is clearly not all there anymore? And where is all of this headed?

Mostly, when I think about my grandpa as he is today I just get pretty sad. My whole family is grieving. I don't presume to claim that I've unlocked all the mysteries of life and death and mourning. I'm right in the thick of it, so I don't have easy answers to vacuum up the pain of losing who my grandpa once was to me.

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to lose a best friend like this. I'm mostly feeling and praying my way along, trusting God to lead me and comfort me through this season of grief.

Dumbledore can't live forever.