This year has been a year of firsts.
This year, we bought our first house.
This year, we adopted our first puppy.
This year, we bought our first appliances.
This year, we bought our first pieces of grown-up furniture.
This year, we celebrated our first Thanksgiving with multiple families under one roof.
This year, we bought our first Christmas tree.
This year, we hung Christmas lights on our house for the first time.
This year, we began hosting Life Group at our house for the first time.
This year, I decided to try being friends with girls for the first time in years.
This year, I had my feelings hurt and my heart broken by girls. It hurt just like the first times.
This year, I asked God if it would be okay if I gave up trying to be friends with girls.
This year, just like every year, He didn’t say anything—He just held me while I cried salty tears all over my dog.
This year, after my friendship fiascos, God tasked a few women with the terribly difficult, often times exhausting job of loving me. For the first time in a long time, I felt safe and loved. By girls. (In case you’re not sure, this is a big deal.)
This year, I talked on the phone with my far-away friend for the first time. She called to speak truth, love, wisdom and encouragement over me. At the end of my life, when God and I are sifting through the highlights, her phone call will be one of them.
This year, my heart ached for my future-babies.
This year, and not for the first or last time, I cried when I found out I wouldn’t meet them yet.
This year, I realized that when people talk about “young people”, they’re no longer talking about me. *gasp*
This year, I began using all sorts of creams to make my eyes and neck-and-chest skin look young while the rest of me gets old.
This year, I learned (am still learning) how to love people without trying to “fix/help/rescue” them.
This year, I learned (am still learning) that growing up is hard but good--so so good.
What a year.
P.S. I would love to hear about some of your firsts.
P.S.S. No pressure or anything.
P.S.S.S. But seriously, I would love to know what your year has been like in a few (or a slew of) words.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Remembering Grandpa Singam
A lot of life has happened since I last wrote. Mike and I bought our first house. We adopted a puppy. I experienced a loss of trust and all the emotions associated with such a betrayal. I learned I’m not as patient as I think I am. I mastered a delicious new recipe. I’ve cried more than I’ve laughed. And most recently, my grandpa passed away. I typically feel pressured to write about events in order (if possible) but I’m going to start here because it feels right.
And because whenever I try to write about anything else, my thoughts always come back to this.
I.
[Monday, October 25, 2010. 5:00 p.m. PST]
“I’m sorry, Bean, but your grandpa just passed away.”
Mike pulled me into a hug but I remained rigid.
“What?” I asked, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. Or the second time. Or the third.
I thought, Why would you say that?
My grandpa was supposed to be recovering from a massive stroke. He wasn’t anywhere close to being released from sub-acute care but he was hanging on. But when Mike wouldn’t let go, I knew. Grandpa was no longer hanging on. He’d let go.
Then I thought of my mom.
And that’s when I really started to cry.
But I don’t think I really grasped the enormity of the situation yet.
It wasn’t until I watched my mom and her brothers and sisters say goodbye that I knew things would be different. They wept like I’d never seen before—unabashedly brokenhearted, each clutching tightly to memories worn thin from replaying over and over again, their mouths full of words they didn’t say. They clung to his small body, willing him to still be there, knowing he was already gone.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. So I just watched and lingered on the periphery. I didn’t want to intrude on their grief.
I heard my mom say, “You’re getting cold, Dad.” I watched my aunt cradle him gently and say, “I’m so sorry, Dad. Please forgive me.” And while the rest of us cried silently, she wept loudly. She was his youngest daughter.
As they took his body away, I watched my mom run after her dad. Crying.
II.
I didn’t know much about my grandpa. I didn’t know his favorite food, his favorite color or his favorite pastime. What I do remember about him I learned when I was four years old.
My grandpa was a quiet man. He lived with the woman I call my grandma in a small white house and a long concrete driveway in East Long Beach. There was a bean tree outside. My mom has always told me beans don’t grow on trees but I don’t know how else to describe this tree. It had long flat bean pods that turned mahogany brown when they were ripe. Grandpa used to pick them for me and show me how to peel the casing back to reveal the tiny beans inside, shiny and perfect and smelly. I didn’t really like the beans—they tasted the way they smelled—but I ate them because he offered them to me. I wonder if he picked them because I never refused.
I don’t remember much about the hours we spent with my grandparents while my parents were at work. I do know I tried my best to make sure my sister stayed as still and as quiet as possible. This was easy for me. I had perfected the art of being invisible, even at four years old. At church meetings, I could sit by my mom for hours without speaking or stirring. If I were a doll, my sister would be a baby bear—always getting into things. My grandpa didn’t seem to mind. My grandma did.
My grandpa smelled of Jasmine tea and seemed to have an endless supply of butterscotch disks. I can’t remember if I ever saw him eat one. I wonder if he just kept them for me.
I’m not sure which came first—me or the chair—but there was a tiny footstool my grandpa built that was always unquestionably mine. It was simple—just three pieces of wood nailed together to look like the symbol for pi—but in my little girl mind, it was grand. I’ve been told we passed the time sitting next to each other, grandpa in his chair, me on mine.
This is all I remember. This is all I know.
III.
[Thursday, October 28, 2010.]
I cried for my mom and my aunts and uncles on Monday.
I cried for myself on Thursday.
Before Thursday, I was too tired to cry. As is customary in Lao/Cambodian culture, we cooked and cleaned and served everyone—friends and family and strangers—who came to mourn with us while my grandpa remained unburied. “Mourn” can be translated loosely. Women came to help cook. The men mostly came to drink and gamble. While their presence (and wins or losses) didn’t help me wash dishes or create serving-sized portions of sticky rice for meal service, it was strangely comforting.
I didn’t cry until I watched the slide show my sister made for my grandpa’s service. There was a picture of Grandpa, Mike and me on my wedding day. He looked solemn but handsome in a gray suit. I’ve looked at my wedding pictures countless times but for the first time since I got married, I noticed that his paisley-print tie was a beautiful shade of eggplant. He’d picked a tie that matched my wedding colors.
How could I have missed that detail? How could I have grown up and missed seeing/knowing him?
IV.
[Friday, October 29, 2010.]
When they called us to the front of the funeral home, I remember looking at my grandpa in his casket and thinking, That’s not my grandpa. That man looks like George Takei.
We all cried like it was the first time. We all knew it wouldn’t be the last.
And because whenever I try to write about anything else, my thoughts always come back to this.
I.
[Monday, October 25, 2010. 5:00 p.m. PST]
“I’m sorry, Bean, but your grandpa just passed away.”
Mike pulled me into a hug but I remained rigid.
“What?” I asked, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. Or the second time. Or the third.
I thought, Why would you say that?
My grandpa was supposed to be recovering from a massive stroke. He wasn’t anywhere close to being released from sub-acute care but he was hanging on. But when Mike wouldn’t let go, I knew. Grandpa was no longer hanging on. He’d let go.
Then I thought of my mom.
And that’s when I really started to cry.
But I don’t think I really grasped the enormity of the situation yet.
It wasn’t until I watched my mom and her brothers and sisters say goodbye that I knew things would be different. They wept like I’d never seen before—unabashedly brokenhearted, each clutching tightly to memories worn thin from replaying over and over again, their mouths full of words they didn’t say. They clung to his small body, willing him to still be there, knowing he was already gone.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. So I just watched and lingered on the periphery. I didn’t want to intrude on their grief.
I heard my mom say, “You’re getting cold, Dad.” I watched my aunt cradle him gently and say, “I’m so sorry, Dad. Please forgive me.” And while the rest of us cried silently, she wept loudly. She was his youngest daughter.
As they took his body away, I watched my mom run after her dad. Crying.
II.
I didn’t know much about my grandpa. I didn’t know his favorite food, his favorite color or his favorite pastime. What I do remember about him I learned when I was four years old.
My grandpa was a quiet man. He lived with the woman I call my grandma in a small white house and a long concrete driveway in East Long Beach. There was a bean tree outside. My mom has always told me beans don’t grow on trees but I don’t know how else to describe this tree. It had long flat bean pods that turned mahogany brown when they were ripe. Grandpa used to pick them for me and show me how to peel the casing back to reveal the tiny beans inside, shiny and perfect and smelly. I didn’t really like the beans—they tasted the way they smelled—but I ate them because he offered them to me. I wonder if he picked them because I never refused.
I don’t remember much about the hours we spent with my grandparents while my parents were at work. I do know I tried my best to make sure my sister stayed as still and as quiet as possible. This was easy for me. I had perfected the art of being invisible, even at four years old. At church meetings, I could sit by my mom for hours without speaking or stirring. If I were a doll, my sister would be a baby bear—always getting into things. My grandpa didn’t seem to mind. My grandma did.
My grandpa smelled of Jasmine tea and seemed to have an endless supply of butterscotch disks. I can’t remember if I ever saw him eat one. I wonder if he just kept them for me.
I’m not sure which came first—me or the chair—but there was a tiny footstool my grandpa built that was always unquestionably mine. It was simple—just three pieces of wood nailed together to look like the symbol for pi—but in my little girl mind, it was grand. I’ve been told we passed the time sitting next to each other, grandpa in his chair, me on mine.
This is all I remember. This is all I know.
III.
[Thursday, October 28, 2010.]
I cried for my mom and my aunts and uncles on Monday.
I cried for myself on Thursday.
Before Thursday, I was too tired to cry. As is customary in Lao/Cambodian culture, we cooked and cleaned and served everyone—friends and family and strangers—who came to mourn with us while my grandpa remained unburied. “Mourn” can be translated loosely. Women came to help cook. The men mostly came to drink and gamble. While their presence (and wins or losses) didn’t help me wash dishes or create serving-sized portions of sticky rice for meal service, it was strangely comforting.
I didn’t cry until I watched the slide show my sister made for my grandpa’s service. There was a picture of Grandpa, Mike and me on my wedding day. He looked solemn but handsome in a gray suit. I’ve looked at my wedding pictures countless times but for the first time since I got married, I noticed that his paisley-print tie was a beautiful shade of eggplant. He’d picked a tie that matched my wedding colors.
How could I have missed that detail? How could I have grown up and missed seeing/knowing him?
IV.
[Friday, October 29, 2010.]
When they called us to the front of the funeral home, I remember looking at my grandpa in his casket and thinking, That’s not my grandpa. That man looks like George Takei.
We all cried like it was the first time. We all knew it wouldn’t be the last.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5
Friday, June 25, 2010
Where God Hears Me
I.
When I was a little girl, I used to try and imagine what it would be like to meet God and Jesus at the end of all things. I imagined God reviewing my life on a larger-than-life screen—every joy and sadness magnified in great detail (and this was before HD)—as the rest of the world watched and waited for the special screening of their own lives. I used to get very anxious about sharing this movie with my parents and aunts and uncles. I didn’t want them to know everything. What would they think? I could almost feel my mom’s embarrassment over my mistakes burning into the back of my head. I thought she might want to interject and say, “God, I didn’t raise her to be like that.” And then I would feel even more shame and regret for making her look bad in front of God. You can probably see where this is going so I’ll just say I did not look forward to meeting God. I always felt engulfed by a sense of shame and anxiety and terror whenever I thought about it. My parents didn’t raise me to believe this. I didn’t hear it in church. I just have a wild imagination.
But I don’t think this is how it will happen.
(This is just my opinion.)
I think God will talk to me about my life over coffee or while He’s showing me around heaven. I think (and hope) it will take a long time.
II.
I get up a little bit earlier on the days I know I have special me-time scheduled with God. I shower (even going so far as to shampoo TWICE) and brush and floss my teeth. I know this doesn’t sound special but I floss maniacally when I am nervous, like right before a date or a job interview. Then I pick out a nice dress and fuss over which shoes to wear until God knocks on my door, at which point I feel pressured into wearing the cuter shoes instead of the comfier ones. God says,
“Oh Bean, it is so nice to see you,” as though He hasn’t seen me in ages and is genuinely delighted to see me. I imagine God makes everyone feel like that every time He sees them (even if it’s multiple times in the same day). We hug.
“I think you might want to bring a sweater. I know you get cold easily.” So I grab my favorite sweater before joining Him on my porch. He hands me a porcelain eco tumbler. (Because God is very eco-friendly.)
“I brought you coffee.”
“Thanks God.”
And then we watch the world wake up while sipping our coffees in comfortable silence. We wave at my neighbor stretching before his morning run and say “Good morning”. I re-think my shoe choice and run inside to change into the comfier shoes. As He steps off my porch, He says
“I want to show you something.”
He is a few steps ahead of me down the walkway so I run to catch up with Him.
“What? What is it?”
“Wait and see. I’ve wanted to show you for a long time.”
My head is spinning but I notice I’m lagging (this happens often because I get easily distracted) so I force myself to focus. We walk through the copse of old trees toward the city. It looks like we’re going to the Library of Dreams but He doesn’t stop as we walk past the big wooden doors. He smiles and waves at people we pass in the street but keeps walking walking walking—past the bakery and the florist and my favorite bookstore. We pass people walking their dogs and leopards and iguanas and wave at children flying brightly-colored kites at the park off the main road. God buys us Churros at the Churro cart and motions for me to sit beside Him underneath a big tree. The sun is warm on my legs. I kick my shoes off and wiggle my long, crooked toes.
“Aren’t these the best Churros?”
I nod, my mouth full of warm, crunchy, cinnamon-and-sugar goodness. It’s also all over my face.
It’s also all over His face.
“You have stuff in your beard again.” He brushes the crumbs out of His beard but there are still more.
“No, there’s still—right there, okay a little more.”
“Thanks Bean.”
“Your beard is good at catching things. I bet it would be useful.”
“Do you want one?”
I look at God to see if He’s joking. He is trying to hide His smile. It’s not working.
“Maybe just for an hour but not today, please.” God laughs. It is deep and hearty. It’s the kind of laugh that makes plants grow really fast, like the amount it would take to grow in three days.
“This park is nice,” I say. God nods before adding,
“But it’s not where we’re going. Come on.”
So we get up and brush grass off our clothes before we continue walking. I am trying to be patient but I am restless so I scratch my arm even though it isn’t itchy. I am about to comment about how far we’ve walked but I can’t think of anything clever or witty to say. God says,
“I remember when you first learned to ride a bike. I watched you from here.”
I look around. We are walking toward a lake, blue-green and glassy and calm on this sunny day. There’s a long, sun-bleached dock that yawns from the shore into the distance. And beyond, I see an island, blurred and green against the horizon. I stop walking.
“From here? You watched me from here?” God stops mid-stride, turns to me and says,
“Well, here and there,” He says. He is pointing toward the island.
“That’s where we’re going?”
He is already on the dock so I run to catch up. When I reach Him, He has already climbed into the sail boat (it wasn’t there before—weird) and is patiently waiting for me. I take off my shoes and step cautiously into the boat, holding His hand to steady myself.
And all of a sudden, we’re off—sailing quietly across the lake. I lie on my stomach and peer over the edge. A sea monster, lithe and graceful and gray-green in the water, is keeping pace with our boat.
“Are you curious about where we’re going?” God asks. I sit up.
“Of course, but I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me now.” God smiles and shakes His head.
“I was out on this lake when you asked me for a baby brother.”
I look at Him but have to shade my eyes because He is radiant. And because the sun is blinding me.
“Yeah, and I got Sarah. But I’m glad You sent her. She worked out great.”
God smiles knowingly. He has a wonderful smile. It makes me feel loved. It almost feels like my body is having a physical reaction to His love, like my hair grows a little bit longer and teeth get whiter but I think that’s just my imagination (again). We pull up to the dock, a twin of its brother on the opposite shore. God gets out first and helps me out of the boat. I am still holding my shoes. I run down the dock, my feet pounding against the weathered wood, before jumping onto the sand. It is soft and warm beneath my toes. I bury my feet.
“You might want to put on your shoes. We’re not there yet.”
I reluctantly put on my shoes and follow God toward a path through the trees. It is cooler (cold, even) in the shadow of the tall trees so I finally put on my sweater.
“What is this place?” I ask. We are now in a clearing—lush and green and beautiful—that rolls into a hill. Atop that hill is a house.
“I guess you could say this is one of my offices,” He says.
We climb the hill toward the house. It is beautiful in its simplicity—a ranch-style home with a wrap-around porch and neatly painted shutters. A tawny lion is sprawled out on the landing. It gets up as we approach.
“Is that yours?” I ask. God pets the lion’s huge head. It licks and nuzzles His hands affectionately.
“He doesn’t belong to me. He just doesn’t leave.” The lion swaps its heavy paw at God’s leg. The lion turns its massive head to look at me but doesn’t come closer (but I think it’s close enough). I am terrified but cannot move; I am mesmerized by its eyes—clear pools of liquid amber.
“You can pet him. He’s friendly.”
Before I can muster up the courage to take a step forward, it licks my face. I scrunch up my nose and wipe the drool off.
“T-t-t-t-t-t-thank you. That’s enough,” I stammer. God laughs. He opens the door and waits for me to enter.
The house is a lot bigger than it looks. The walls are covered with framed pictures of all different shapes and sizes. There are books everywhere—beneath lamps, in stacks on tables, stuffed beneath couch cushions. I really want to explore but God says,
“Bean, follow me. There’s something I want to show you.”
I really want to check out His book collection and explore the rest of the house but I follow Him down a long corridor lined with doors. They are curious doors of different shapes and sizes and colors. There are different markers on each one—gold plaques, hand-written scribbles, antique signage—but we’re moving too quickly for me to study them. Of course, I still try, which is why I don’t notice that God has stopped in front of one of them. I walk straight into His back.
“Oops. Sorry.”
We are standing in front of a green door. There’s nothing fancy about it but it’s simple and sturdy. My name is engraved into the wood. I smile as I trace my fingers over each letter. God opens the door and what I see
Takes my breath away.
The door opens into a forest as old as time. As God leads me through the doorway, I sneak a look back at the hallway to make sure it’s real. My green door—embedded in a thick tree trunk—is still open. I can see the bright blue door that is across the hall from mine. The forest is noisy with the questions of curious birds and the whisper of the wind rushing through tall canopies. In the distance, I see a field of wildflowers—bright and bold and almost ridiculous. God beckons for me to follow Him. We are walking toward the field.
“What do you think?”
“I’m not sure where we are yet but it reminds me of Narnia, which makes me happy.” God laughs and says,
“Oh Bean—your imagination makes me happy.”
And that makes my heart really happy. As we walk toward the field, He says
“This is our place.”
There is such tenderness in His eyes as He says this.
“Our place? Like this is mine? I don’t get it…” I say. God picks a yellow flower and hands it to me.
“Look closely at it, Bean. Tell me what you see.”
It looks like a yellow wildflower at first glance. But as I peer closer, I see
My words
Faintly ingrained into its delicate petals. I can barely make out, “…heal my heart…” I pick more flowers—pinks and peaches and corals and golds—and see prayers I prayed a million years ago in the stems and leaves and petals and hearts of each flower.
“Please heal him, God, even though there’s no cure…”
“I am so lonely…”
“…I am tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of being hurt…”
“I don’t want to love you-know-who. Can I pass on this trial?”
“These are my prayers.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed at some of the prayers I see and drop those on the ground.
“Do you know where we are now?”
I hesitate.
“Are we still in your office?”
“Yes.”
“Is ‘heaven’ the right answer?”
God laughs. At least two dozen wildflower prayers bloom in response.
“Well, it’s an acceptable answer but it’s not the answer.”
“Oh. Are you grading on a curve?” I ask. We both laugh.
“You’re not being graded. This isn’t a pop quiz.”
“What a relief. I hate those.”
“So, do you give up?”
“Will you think less of me if I do?”
“No, of course not.”
“Thanks, God. You’re nice.”
I punch God softly in the arm. He punches me back very gently. I’m sure a real punch would’ve put a hole in my torso. God lays down in the grass and puts His hands behind His head. He is watching a purple dragon soar overhead. He points toward it and says,
“See that? That’s one of your prayers, too.”
I lay down beside Him and look up at the sky. I can only look at the dragon for a little while before my eyes begin to water, it’s so bright. I have to take off my sweater and use it to cover my face. I am in danger of dozing off—it’s just so warm and lovely, I can’t help it!—when I hear God speak.
“This is my favorite place to hear you.”
“I’d come here, too. It’s nice.”
“I think it is, too. Nice work.”
“What?”
“You made this place.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Whenever you talked to me about friends or boys or your family, I always came here. This place is made of your prayers, our conversations...”
“They’re all here? Every single one?”
“Yup.”
“Even the unanswered prayers?”
“Just because you thought I didn’t answer them doesn’t mean I didn’t.”
“What about the ones I didn’t pray? What about those times I didn’t talk to You?”
“Oh Bean. I was here, waiting for you, even when you didn’t want me around.”
“But why here?”
“I’ve wanted to bring you here for so long. But you weren’t ready.”
“Ready for what? Are you annoyed with all my questions?”
“No, but you sure ask a lot of questions. That’s fine.”
God smiles. I scratch my elbow.
“Ready for what?” I sound like a broken record.
“I’ve been waiting for a long time to show you what I can do with your prayers—even the ones you thought I didn’t answer; even the ones you prayed in hurt and anger.”
And like no time has passed, I remember all the times I prayed prayers in anger and frustration. I remember all the times I talked at Him instead of to Him. I remember the things I said. Worse, I remember the things I didn’t say. I remember the things I did.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. That was a long time ago.”
“I still feel bad.”
“That’s not why I brought you here.”
God looks at me and says,
“Don’t you see, Little Bean? Don’t you see what I can do with your prayers?”
A curious hare is sniffing my toes, its whiskers tickling me relentlessly. It’s almost unbearable but I struggle to restrain my trembling feet. I don’t want to kick it in the face!
“You make things?”
“I turn them all into something beautiful. Now do you see?”
III.
So much life has happened lately that I feel like I haven’t been able to have really good conversations with God about everything. I’ll have snippets of conversations—I like to think of them as text messages—but no five-hour talks over three cups of tea. I am hungry for those. This post was born out of a longing for a good conversation with Him. Because a LOT has happened: relationships have changed; growing up keeps happening (even though I don't feel ready for it); my skin is losing its elasticity (which means I'm aging); everything in between. As I hurry to keep up with the pace of life these days, I think about Him, waiting to talk to me.
And that makes me miss Him.
Do you ever feel that way?
When I was a little girl, I used to try and imagine what it would be like to meet God and Jesus at the end of all things. I imagined God reviewing my life on a larger-than-life screen—every joy and sadness magnified in great detail (and this was before HD)—as the rest of the world watched and waited for the special screening of their own lives. I used to get very anxious about sharing this movie with my parents and aunts and uncles. I didn’t want them to know everything. What would they think? I could almost feel my mom’s embarrassment over my mistakes burning into the back of my head. I thought she might want to interject and say, “God, I didn’t raise her to be like that.” And then I would feel even more shame and regret for making her look bad in front of God. You can probably see where this is going so I’ll just say I did not look forward to meeting God. I always felt engulfed by a sense of shame and anxiety and terror whenever I thought about it. My parents didn’t raise me to believe this. I didn’t hear it in church. I just have a wild imagination.
But I don’t think this is how it will happen.
(This is just my opinion.)
I think God will talk to me about my life over coffee or while He’s showing me around heaven. I think (and hope) it will take a long time.
II.
I get up a little bit earlier on the days I know I have special me-time scheduled with God. I shower (even going so far as to shampoo TWICE) and brush and floss my teeth. I know this doesn’t sound special but I floss maniacally when I am nervous, like right before a date or a job interview. Then I pick out a nice dress and fuss over which shoes to wear until God knocks on my door, at which point I feel pressured into wearing the cuter shoes instead of the comfier ones. God says,
“Oh Bean, it is so nice to see you,” as though He hasn’t seen me in ages and is genuinely delighted to see me. I imagine God makes everyone feel like that every time He sees them (even if it’s multiple times in the same day). We hug.
“I think you might want to bring a sweater. I know you get cold easily.” So I grab my favorite sweater before joining Him on my porch. He hands me a porcelain eco tumbler. (Because God is very eco-friendly.)
“I brought you coffee.”
“Thanks God.”
And then we watch the world wake up while sipping our coffees in comfortable silence. We wave at my neighbor stretching before his morning run and say “Good morning”. I re-think my shoe choice and run inside to change into the comfier shoes. As He steps off my porch, He says
“I want to show you something.”
He is a few steps ahead of me down the walkway so I run to catch up with Him.
“What? What is it?”
“Wait and see. I’ve wanted to show you for a long time.”
My head is spinning but I notice I’m lagging (this happens often because I get easily distracted) so I force myself to focus. We walk through the copse of old trees toward the city. It looks like we’re going to the Library of Dreams but He doesn’t stop as we walk past the big wooden doors. He smiles and waves at people we pass in the street but keeps walking walking walking—past the bakery and the florist and my favorite bookstore. We pass people walking their dogs and leopards and iguanas and wave at children flying brightly-colored kites at the park off the main road. God buys us Churros at the Churro cart and motions for me to sit beside Him underneath a big tree. The sun is warm on my legs. I kick my shoes off and wiggle my long, crooked toes.
“Aren’t these the best Churros?”
I nod, my mouth full of warm, crunchy, cinnamon-and-sugar goodness. It’s also all over my face.
It’s also all over His face.
“You have stuff in your beard again.” He brushes the crumbs out of His beard but there are still more.
“No, there’s still—right there, okay a little more.”
“Thanks Bean.”
“Your beard is good at catching things. I bet it would be useful.”
“Do you want one?”
I look at God to see if He’s joking. He is trying to hide His smile. It’s not working.
“Maybe just for an hour but not today, please.” God laughs. It is deep and hearty. It’s the kind of laugh that makes plants grow really fast, like the amount it would take to grow in three days.
“This park is nice,” I say. God nods before adding,
“But it’s not where we’re going. Come on.”
So we get up and brush grass off our clothes before we continue walking. I am trying to be patient but I am restless so I scratch my arm even though it isn’t itchy. I am about to comment about how far we’ve walked but I can’t think of anything clever or witty to say. God says,
“I remember when you first learned to ride a bike. I watched you from here.”
I look around. We are walking toward a lake, blue-green and glassy and calm on this sunny day. There’s a long, sun-bleached dock that yawns from the shore into the distance. And beyond, I see an island, blurred and green against the horizon. I stop walking.
“From here? You watched me from here?” God stops mid-stride, turns to me and says,
“Well, here and there,” He says. He is pointing toward the island.
“That’s where we’re going?”
He is already on the dock so I run to catch up. When I reach Him, He has already climbed into the sail boat (it wasn’t there before—weird) and is patiently waiting for me. I take off my shoes and step cautiously into the boat, holding His hand to steady myself.
And all of a sudden, we’re off—sailing quietly across the lake. I lie on my stomach and peer over the edge. A sea monster, lithe and graceful and gray-green in the water, is keeping pace with our boat.
“Are you curious about where we’re going?” God asks. I sit up.
“Of course, but I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me now.” God smiles and shakes His head.
“I was out on this lake when you asked me for a baby brother.”
I look at Him but have to shade my eyes because He is radiant. And because the sun is blinding me.
“Yeah, and I got Sarah. But I’m glad You sent her. She worked out great.”
God smiles knowingly. He has a wonderful smile. It makes me feel loved. It almost feels like my body is having a physical reaction to His love, like my hair grows a little bit longer and teeth get whiter but I think that’s just my imagination (again). We pull up to the dock, a twin of its brother on the opposite shore. God gets out first and helps me out of the boat. I am still holding my shoes. I run down the dock, my feet pounding against the weathered wood, before jumping onto the sand. It is soft and warm beneath my toes. I bury my feet.
“You might want to put on your shoes. We’re not there yet.”
I reluctantly put on my shoes and follow God toward a path through the trees. It is cooler (cold, even) in the shadow of the tall trees so I finally put on my sweater.
“What is this place?” I ask. We are now in a clearing—lush and green and beautiful—that rolls into a hill. Atop that hill is a house.
“I guess you could say this is one of my offices,” He says.
We climb the hill toward the house. It is beautiful in its simplicity—a ranch-style home with a wrap-around porch and neatly painted shutters. A tawny lion is sprawled out on the landing. It gets up as we approach.
“Is that yours?” I ask. God pets the lion’s huge head. It licks and nuzzles His hands affectionately.
“He doesn’t belong to me. He just doesn’t leave.” The lion swaps its heavy paw at God’s leg. The lion turns its massive head to look at me but doesn’t come closer (but I think it’s close enough). I am terrified but cannot move; I am mesmerized by its eyes—clear pools of liquid amber.
“You can pet him. He’s friendly.”
Before I can muster up the courage to take a step forward, it licks my face. I scrunch up my nose and wipe the drool off.
“T-t-t-t-t-t-thank you. That’s enough,” I stammer. God laughs. He opens the door and waits for me to enter.
The house is a lot bigger than it looks. The walls are covered with framed pictures of all different shapes and sizes. There are books everywhere—beneath lamps, in stacks on tables, stuffed beneath couch cushions. I really want to explore but God says,
“Bean, follow me. There’s something I want to show you.”
I really want to check out His book collection and explore the rest of the house but I follow Him down a long corridor lined with doors. They are curious doors of different shapes and sizes and colors. There are different markers on each one—gold plaques, hand-written scribbles, antique signage—but we’re moving too quickly for me to study them. Of course, I still try, which is why I don’t notice that God has stopped in front of one of them. I walk straight into His back.
“Oops. Sorry.”
We are standing in front of a green door. There’s nothing fancy about it but it’s simple and sturdy. My name is engraved into the wood. I smile as I trace my fingers over each letter. God opens the door and what I see
Takes my breath away.
The door opens into a forest as old as time. As God leads me through the doorway, I sneak a look back at the hallway to make sure it’s real. My green door—embedded in a thick tree trunk—is still open. I can see the bright blue door that is across the hall from mine. The forest is noisy with the questions of curious birds and the whisper of the wind rushing through tall canopies. In the distance, I see a field of wildflowers—bright and bold and almost ridiculous. God beckons for me to follow Him. We are walking toward the field.
“What do you think?”
“I’m not sure where we are yet but it reminds me of Narnia, which makes me happy.” God laughs and says,
“Oh Bean—your imagination makes me happy.”
And that makes my heart really happy. As we walk toward the field, He says
“This is our place.”
There is such tenderness in His eyes as He says this.
“Our place? Like this is mine? I don’t get it…” I say. God picks a yellow flower and hands it to me.
“Look closely at it, Bean. Tell me what you see.”
It looks like a yellow wildflower at first glance. But as I peer closer, I see
My words
Faintly ingrained into its delicate petals. I can barely make out, “…heal my heart…” I pick more flowers—pinks and peaches and corals and golds—and see prayers I prayed a million years ago in the stems and leaves and petals and hearts of each flower.
“Please heal him, God, even though there’s no cure…”
“I am so lonely…”
“…I am tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of being hurt…”
“I don’t want to love you-know-who. Can I pass on this trial?”
“These are my prayers.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed at some of the prayers I see and drop those on the ground.
“Do you know where we are now?”
I hesitate.
“Are we still in your office?”
“Yes.”
“Is ‘heaven’ the right answer?”
God laughs. At least two dozen wildflower prayers bloom in response.
“Well, it’s an acceptable answer but it’s not the answer.”
“Oh. Are you grading on a curve?” I ask. We both laugh.
“You’re not being graded. This isn’t a pop quiz.”
“What a relief. I hate those.”
“So, do you give up?”
“Will you think less of me if I do?”
“No, of course not.”
“Thanks, God. You’re nice.”
I punch God softly in the arm. He punches me back very gently. I’m sure a real punch would’ve put a hole in my torso. God lays down in the grass and puts His hands behind His head. He is watching a purple dragon soar overhead. He points toward it and says,
“See that? That’s one of your prayers, too.”
I lay down beside Him and look up at the sky. I can only look at the dragon for a little while before my eyes begin to water, it’s so bright. I have to take off my sweater and use it to cover my face. I am in danger of dozing off—it’s just so warm and lovely, I can’t help it!—when I hear God speak.
“This is my favorite place to hear you.”
“I’d come here, too. It’s nice.”
“I think it is, too. Nice work.”
“What?”
“You made this place.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Whenever you talked to me about friends or boys or your family, I always came here. This place is made of your prayers, our conversations...”
“They’re all here? Every single one?”
“Yup.”
“Even the unanswered prayers?”
“Just because you thought I didn’t answer them doesn’t mean I didn’t.”
“What about the ones I didn’t pray? What about those times I didn’t talk to You?”
“Oh Bean. I was here, waiting for you, even when you didn’t want me around.”
“But why here?”
“I’ve wanted to bring you here for so long. But you weren’t ready.”
“Ready for what? Are you annoyed with all my questions?”
“No, but you sure ask a lot of questions. That’s fine.”
God smiles. I scratch my elbow.
“Ready for what?” I sound like a broken record.
“I’ve been waiting for a long time to show you what I can do with your prayers—even the ones you thought I didn’t answer; even the ones you prayed in hurt and anger.”
And like no time has passed, I remember all the times I prayed prayers in anger and frustration. I remember all the times I talked at Him instead of to Him. I remember the things I said. Worse, I remember the things I didn’t say. I remember the things I did.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. That was a long time ago.”
“I still feel bad.”
“That’s not why I brought you here.”
God looks at me and says,
“Don’t you see, Little Bean? Don’t you see what I can do with your prayers?”
A curious hare is sniffing my toes, its whiskers tickling me relentlessly. It’s almost unbearable but I struggle to restrain my trembling feet. I don’t want to kick it in the face!
“You make things?”
“I turn them all into something beautiful. Now do you see?”
III.
So much life has happened lately that I feel like I haven’t been able to have really good conversations with God about everything. I’ll have snippets of conversations—I like to think of them as text messages—but no five-hour talks over three cups of tea. I am hungry for those. This post was born out of a longing for a good conversation with Him. Because a LOT has happened: relationships have changed; growing up keeps happening (even though I don't feel ready for it); my skin is losing its elasticity (which means I'm aging); everything in between. As I hurry to keep up with the pace of life these days, I think about Him, waiting to talk to me.
And that makes me miss Him.
Do you ever feel that way?
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Real Life (or something like it)
I.
"This is your real life, Bean. What are you going to do with it?"
When Mike asked me this question, I thought these were my options:
- Fly a kite.
- Buy a home. Have babies. Provide a nice life for them. Love Mike and our babies till my teeth fell out.
- Quit my job. Hole up and write feverishly for days/weeks/months/years. Write something memorable. Make my mom proud. Get interviewed by Ellen. Dance with Ellen, after which she will say, "Wow, you're a great dancer! I like you. Those are nice earrings!"
- All of the above. Yes, really—or something like it.
I should rewind to explain how I got there (that place called stuck).
II.
Setting: The not-so-distant past.
When you're young, you feel invincible. You truly believe you can do anything you set your mind to. You dream lofty dreams and make plans to chase them. Some people actually do (and those people inspire me).
Me?
When I graduated, I needed a job that would pay for health insurance; that's what it boiled down to.
I was sick and needed to see several doctors so I had to find some way to make it happen. In college, I'd dreamt of chasing the poor-but-romantic "writerly" life. I wanted to see my name in print! I wanted to write stories about people and real life! I wanted to write about my mom's childhood in Cambodia, the war, her experiences in the refugee camp, coming to America. I felt I was born to write about her life! My last project in college was a screenplay that captured everything from skinning eels as a girl to watching Superman in black in white for the first time. I even imagined myself giving an acceptance speech for best new screenplay (or whatever), during which I would thank God, my parents, Mike Fox, and Laurie Weeks—my favorite writing professor.
I put those dreams on a shelf (for some day, I said) and got a big-girl job in a glass building with windows that didn't open. I got my own cubical, my own badge, my own stapler. I got the health insurance I so desperately needed and sought treatment to get well. I was financially independent. I was a responsible adult!
Every now and then, I would take my dreams off the shelf, dust them off, and hold them in my hands. I'd whisper softly to them, telling them I hadn't abandoned them—that I still loved them—before putting them back on the shelf for safe keeping.
Mike and I saved up our hard-earned money and paid for our wedding. Life was (still is) great. But living a "writerly" life looks different after you get married. I no longer wanted to spend all my time alone writing my break-out novel/screenplay/memoir. I wanted to spend all my time with Mike (and I did). We talked about our future home and future babies and what our life would look like; without realizing it, I spent more time entertaining those dreams while my own collected dust on the shelf. I took them out to breathe and stretch their legs on occasion but didn't spend much time playing with them like I used to. In truth, I felt guilty for trapping them, for keeping them tightly sealed in a jar on the highest shelf. I tried to explain it to them gently but I think it was more for my sake than theirs.
"Now is just not the right time. We're saving for a house and our future babies. But don't worry—I haven't forgotten about you. Your time will come, too. Just be patient."
But when those plans looked up at me with sad, puppy-dog eyes, I couldn't return the gaze. You know why?
I was afraid.
If I let them out and follow them wherever they may go, will I get lost? Will I lose them? What if I fail?
Instead of finding answers to my questions, I ignored them and focused on work.
Like most plans, ours required a steady income, so while I didn't find my job inspiring or fulfilling, I persevered. I told myself God had great plans for my life that looked different from the life I was living. I considered my time in the cubical farm a temporary stint.
But work was rough. I didn't understand corporate politics or "double-speak". (Why don't people just say what they mean?) I didn't understand why people didn't speak the truth. I didn't understand how or why people could want to "teach you a lesson" by sabotaging your projects. For the first time, I had to engage and interact with people who did not like me. It was all new and exciting in a bad way. At first, I screamed,
"GOD! GET ME OUT OF HERE!"
That didn't get the type of reaction I was looking for so I tried to change up my game plan by praying the "right" prayers, the kind that start with, "God, I'm thankful for my job…but—" I prayed for God to change my heart attitude toward my work and everything that ate me up inside. I manufactured a good attitude when I felt rotten, when the bitterness made my mouth taste bad, like when you drink orange juice after you've brushed your teeth. And when I was tired of praying the "right" prayer, when I was tired of crying, I allowed myself to indulge in (and roll around in) an attitude of entitlement.
"I'm better than this! (Aren't I?) Is this what You planned for me? This is the story You wrote for my life? Because I'm sorry—it's boring."
I know—I've got a lot of nerve. But I was frustrated with work! I felt like no matter how many hours I worked or how hard I tried, I couldn't stay on top of it. I struggled to stay afloat. I cried almost every week. I was physically exhausted. stressed out. emotionally drained. close to hopeless. It was stealing the best parts of me.
It left nothing for Mike.
It would leave nothing for my future-babies.
And if there was nothing left for my family, what was left for my dreams?
In my heart I said, this has to be a temporary thing. There has to be more to life than this. Aloud, I said the right things. I said I knew God had a plan for me. I said the purpose of my whole existence might be to work at my job for the rest of my life. I said the sum of my entire existence could be a conversation I might have with someone, a conversation that might introduce that person to Jesus. And I was okay with that.
But I wanted more, and sooner rather than later.
So I started to pray—fervently at first—and wait for an answer. I said I was waiting for any answer but my heart hoped for the answer I wanted.
I prayed. I waited. I worked. I cried. I shook my fist at my laptop and yelled expletives. I complained. I stopped praying. I apologized for complaining and for being ungrateful for God's gifts. Repeat.
It was exhausting.
I explored my options. I updated my resume. I thought of how much stuff I'd have to pack on my last day. I thought all the things I would be able to do for God once I'd left my current job.
It was after weeks of mind-numbing whining and discontent that Mike asked me the question I did not want to ask myself:
"This is [my] real life. What [am I] going to do with it?"
I didn't have an answer for him. Not then.
"What do you think would make you happy? What's your dream job?"
This is what I blurted out:
Something that involves writing. Something that allows me to be creative. I want to touch peoples' lives. I want to bring them joy. I want a job that will allow me to provide for our family. I want to be available for my children. I want to write meaningful stories. I want to do something that I can be proud of. At the end of our lives, I want God to be excited to talk to me about my life.
And as Mike explored my options and helped me see what I needed to do to make these things happen, I realized that in some way, I already had everything I wanted.
Most importantly, I saw that I had everything I needed at this point in my life.
I just had a bad attitude (also known as a "bat-titude"), too.
OH.
III.
Setting: Right now
My real life right now looks like a corporate job that allows me to save for our future home. And I can say that it is good for right now because Mike is right—this is my real life right now.
My job allows me to be friends with my co-workers. It allows me to send e-mails that are ridiculous, creative, and almost too silly for the work place. It allows me to come home and write words that remind me of life, and living, and living a life that pleases God, and what it looks like to make mistakes and still be loved by God. While the stuff I write here (in this blog) might never get me a spot on Ellen's couch, it helps me share stories and meet people and make new friends.
And I think God is pleased with that.
At least it's a step in the right direction. I know He is working on my heart and is writing my story. Since then—the not-so-distant-past—I have taken my dreams off that highest shelf and let them roam freely around our small apartment. Sure, I was upset they chewed through cables and peed in my favorite mustard-yellow flats, but I'm happy they're back where they belong: with Mike and me.
I now know that my real life right now includes my dreams. I just have to ask God to show me where they fit in.
He has done more than that: He has surrounded me with people who, in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, are chasing their dreams. Through these precious friends,
He shows me what it looks like to overcome financial "limitations" and frail, broken bodies in the pursuit of living a full, rich, joy-centered life.
He shows me what it looks like to have faith that moves mountains.
He shows me what it looks like to cast off doubt and ignore naysayers.
He shows me what it looks like to step forward in courage. And faith. And hope.
He shows me what it looks like to love LIFE—to pursue dreams because He gave them to us.
He has shown me much through these friends of mine. It has been eye-opening and humbling and awe-
inspiring. Because I thought our great big God didn't care about my dreams (silly me). I thought He was too busy saving the rest of our planet! I thought our great big God was not bigger than my fear and doubt and obstacles.
Seriously—silly me.
Some parts of this dream-chasing business are still very new to me. I'd be lying through my big teeth if I said I wasn't scared. I am terrified of failing. But this real life is so short! I think I've wasted enough time whining and complaining and entertaining doubts and making up (weak) excuses.
So here's to chasing dreams, because if I don't, they'll pee in all of my shoes.
IV.
This is what my options look like now:
- Muster up the courage to touch a sea anemone. (Gross.)
- Host another supper club meeting. Play board games with friends. Laugh till I get cramps in my cheeks. Make memories.
- Live adventurously!
- Hopefully buy a house soon. Create a home. Start a family. Make memories.
- Write down the stories that emerge along the way (and share them).
Thursday, February 18, 2010
some thoughts about life [for lack of a better title]
Disclaimer: The format of this post could cause eye strain, maybe even dizziness or vomiting. I apologize in advance for the eyeball work-out you will receive. Please forgive me for being so indulgent!
I.
When I finally meet my future-babies, I don't want to tell them about things I wanted to do but never did. I don't want to tell them about dreams deferred, about writing as a hobby--a foolish dream I entertained when I was young--and about the life I wish I had lived.
I want to tell them I lived.
And when I meet God, I want Him to be excited about the life I've lived. I want Him to ask me to retell certain parts over coffee and cupcakes [even though He knows all the details] as we sit on the porch of my house in heaven.
II.
God gives us this one life to do so many things: create.
inspire.
imagine.
dream [BIG!].
know Him.
play.
discover.
LOVE.
wonder.
I don't want to waste this precious [fleeting] opportunity to live.
I don't want to meet Him at the end of all things
for the first time.
This life of mine--what do I want it to look like? Now is the time to ask
I believe He wants me to be content
with His tremendous blessings
with circumstances beyond my control
[because He is at work even if I can't see/feel it.]
[Thanks, Don Miller, for putting it in perspective and in words I could understand].
[Will I ever truly understand the weight of these things?]
I would believe His promises,
His hope and unfathomable love for this broken little planet and its
I.
When I finally meet my future-babies, I don't want to tell them about things I wanted to do but never did. I don't want to tell them about dreams deferred, about writing as a hobby--a foolish dream I entertained when I was young--and about the life I wish I had lived.
I want to tell them I lived.
And when I meet God, I want Him to be excited about the life I've lived. I want Him to ask me to retell certain parts over coffee and cupcakes [even though He knows all the details] as we sit on the porch of my house in heaven.
II.
God gives us this one life to do so many things: create.
inspire.
imagine.
dream [BIG!].
know Him.
play.
discover.
LOVE.
wonder.
I don't want to waste this precious [fleeting] opportunity to live.
I don't want to meet Him at the end of all things
for the first time.
I don't want that for anyone in my life.
This life of mine--what do I want it to look like? Now is the time to ask
What does God want it to look like?
I believe He wants me to be content
with His tremendous blessings
with circumstances beyond my control
[because He is at work even if I can't see/feel it.]
I believe He wants me to learn to love
with no agenda [on His terms, not mine]
love people where they're at
[even if they're there for the rest of their lives]
[even if they're there for the rest of their lives]
with steadfast patience and diligence
like it's my job
[because it is]
like it's my job
[because it is]
I believe He wants me to know Him intimately
so I can know His heart.
I believe He wants me to CREATE
friendships and live a good story.
[Thanks, Don Miller, for putting it in perspective and in words I could understand].
I believe He wants me to INSPIRE
with LOVE and JOY and PEACE and
PATIENCE and KINDNESS and GOODNESS and
PATIENCE and KINDNESS and GOODNESS and
GENTLENESS and FAITH [Galatians 5: 22-23]
[Will I ever truly understand the weight of these things?]
I believe He wants me to BELIEVE in His true nature
because if I did,
I would trust myself and the [limited] things I learned
from school and Google and Wikipedia
from school and Google and Wikipedia
less;
because if I did,
I would believe that He is GOOD.
I would believe His promises,
His hope and unfathomable love for this broken little planet and its
lost, broken, beautiful people.
I believe He wants me to pray without ceasing,
which will take some work since the only thing I'm really good at doing
without ceasing is
without ceasing is
complaining about things that don't really matter.
and procrastinating.
I believe He wants me to pluck out my eyeballs and give them a rest
because my eyes still err on the side of judgment
instead of compassion.
instead of compassion.
I believe He has a plan for my life
that could amount to me becoming
a woman after His own heart.
a woman after His own heart.
Everything else would be details for the story.
I believe He wants me to worry less
about buying our first home
and having healthy babies
and regrets about the past because
HE. LOVES. ME.
I believe He can change people I thought never would or could change.
He just might not change them the way I think He should.
After all, He is changing me.
III.
And I believe that's what He's doing now because many people I talk to are having the same conversations. I take comfort knowing I'm not alone, knowing that it's not too late to get to know Jesus and God as a grown-up.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Jesus is my Facebook friend
I.
Dear Jesus,
Will You please accept my friend request?
Love,
Lina
II.
Dear Lina,
Will you please accept mine?
Love,
Jesus
III.
I have a(nother) confession:
I don’t love Jesus.
I don’t love Him the way I love Mike Fox.
I don’t love Him the way I love the sound of children’s laughter.
I don’t love Him the way I love (macaroni and) CHEESE.
I don’t love Him the way I love sunshine and green grass and a cloudless blue sky.
I don’t love Him the way I love America, especially during the Olympics.
I don’t love Him the way I love libraries.
I don’t love Him the way I love the idea of starting a family with Mike.
I could go on for days about all of the things I love (seriously—days) but when it comes to Jesus, I could talk about Him for an hour at most. And I wouldn’t even be talking about Him—I would be talking about things He has done for me and how He has changed my life, [insert most of the right things to say]; unfortunately, I usually spend more time talking about my experiences vs. Jesus. I am embarrassed to admit this but I know it’s true because I have friends who don’t know Him who ask me about Him. I stumble through the highlights of His life like I’m running through a mental outline of everything I’ve ever learned in Christian school or absorbed through osmosis as a pastor’s kid. I try to sound sincere about how much I love Him but I know it sounds
E m p t y
or sort of made-up and pieced together from books and blogs and journal entries and sometimes the bible (sans scripture references because I haven't memorized one in years). And afterwards I run through the conversation again and again and beat myself up about the talking points I should’ve included or how I should’ve mentioned that time Jesus saved me from the pervy old man because the story is so ridiculous it proves (without a doubt in my mind) that Jesus is real and that He cares; otherwise He wouldn’t have saved me.
I try to sell Jesus even though He doesn't need to be sold.
I’ve been thinking a lot about why I break into a cold sweat when I try to introduce my friends to Jesus. I can talk to you about gravity and photosynthesis (loosely, with some made-up words and a crude drawing) so why not Jesus?
And then it clicked (loudly):
I don’t really know what I’m talking about.
And then it clicked for me again (just as loudly):
Jesus is my Facebook friend (and not much more).
I know all of the important details and check in often enough to stay in touch but I don’t make the effort to spend time with Him. [Sometimes I send Him flair to change up the routine.]
Saying it aloud hurts:
I don’t know Jesus.
I can barely whisper this but when I say it in my head, it echoes and echoes until it gets swallowed up by the damp stickiness of my head-space:
[I don’t love Him.]
I don’t know Him well enough to love Him.
IV.
I have decided that I want to be more than Facebook friends with Jesus. I want to meet Him and get to know Him because
I want to fall in love with Him.
I don't want to just get by on memories or the relationship I used to have with Him; I don't want to force Him to accept the shadow of the girl I once was.
I want to say
I love You
and mean it (for real).
I want to tell my future-babies, my co-workers, my neighbors, my family members, my friends who don’t know Him and anyone else God sends my way about my real friend, Jesus; the Jesus of my grown-up-life, beyond the flannel-board, lamb-carrying bearded Jesus of my childhood. I loved Him then.
I want to love Him—know Him—now.
Dear Jesus,
Will You please accept my friend request?
Love,
Lina
II.
Dear Lina,
Will you please accept mine?
Love,
Jesus
III.
I have a(nother) confession:
I don’t love Jesus.
I don’t love Him the way I love Mike Fox.
I don’t love Him the way I love the sound of children’s laughter.
I don’t love Him the way I love (macaroni and) CHEESE.
I don’t love Him the way I love sunshine and green grass and a cloudless blue sky.
I don’t love Him the way I love America, especially during the Olympics.
I don’t love Him the way I love libraries.
I don’t love Him the way I love the idea of starting a family with Mike.
I could go on for days about all of the things I love (seriously—days) but when it comes to Jesus, I could talk about Him for an hour at most. And I wouldn’t even be talking about Him—I would be talking about things He has done for me and how He has changed my life, [insert most of the right things to say]; unfortunately, I usually spend more time talking about my experiences vs. Jesus. I am embarrassed to admit this but I know it’s true because I have friends who don’t know Him who ask me about Him. I stumble through the highlights of His life like I’m running through a mental outline of everything I’ve ever learned in Christian school or absorbed through osmosis as a pastor’s kid. I try to sound sincere about how much I love Him but I know it sounds
E m p t y
or sort of made-up and pieced together from books and blogs and journal entries and sometimes the bible (sans scripture references because I haven't memorized one in years). And afterwards I run through the conversation again and again and beat myself up about the talking points I should’ve included or how I should’ve mentioned that time Jesus saved me from the pervy old man because the story is so ridiculous it proves (without a doubt in my mind) that Jesus is real and that He cares; otherwise He wouldn’t have saved me.
I try to sell Jesus even though He doesn't need to be sold.
I’ve been thinking a lot about why I break into a cold sweat when I try to introduce my friends to Jesus. I can talk to you about gravity and photosynthesis (loosely, with some made-up words and a crude drawing) so why not Jesus?
And then it clicked (loudly):
I don’t really know what I’m talking about.
And then it clicked for me again (just as loudly):
Jesus is my Facebook friend (and not much more).
I know all of the important details and check in often enough to stay in touch but I don’t make the effort to spend time with Him. [Sometimes I send Him flair to change up the routine.]
Saying it aloud hurts:
I don’t know Jesus.
I can barely whisper this but when I say it in my head, it echoes and echoes until it gets swallowed up by the damp stickiness of my head-space:
[I don’t love Him.]
I don’t know Him well enough to love Him.
IV.
I have decided that I want to be more than Facebook friends with Jesus. I want to meet Him and get to know Him because
I want to fall in love with Him.
I don't want to just get by on memories or the relationship I used to have with Him; I don't want to force Him to accept the shadow of the girl I once was.
I want to say
I love You
and mean it (for real).
I want to tell my future-babies, my co-workers, my neighbors, my family members, my friends who don’t know Him and anyone else God sends my way about my real friend, Jesus; the Jesus of my grown-up-life, beyond the flannel-board, lamb-carrying bearded Jesus of my childhood. I loved Him then.
I want to love Him—know Him—now.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
In Medias Res: In the middle of things
I am embarrassingly yet characteristically late at writing about the wonder of Christmastime, my hopes and dreams for the New Year and revelations experienced thus far. I had good intentions (I always do) to write more regularly this year and already I have failed. I don’t know how else to explain it but to say I was
In medias res,
which is Latin for,
“in(to) the middle of things.”
This is probably one of my favorite Latin phrases (and not just because it’s also a literary term). As a literary technique, the writer jumps right into the action (right into the thick of it!) and propels the story forward from that point instead of starting at the beginning with “Once Upon A Time”.
Tangent: In case you’re wondering, “Tinea Cruris” is a close second favorite; it means “ringworm of the groin". This is more commonly referred to as jock itch. End of tangent.
I digress.
2009 segued into 2010 without giving me time to do anything beyond brushing my teeth and rubbing away eye boogers. I needed a “zero week”—you know, that first week of school that doesn’t really count when your professors hand out syllabi, give you a reading assignment, and excuse you for the rest of the class. Since the real world doesn’t believe in such frivolities, I’ve kept going (on auto-pilot). I realize that if I wait for the "right" moment to share/unload/let go, I will be emotionally (and perhaps physically) constipated.
I'm not jumping in now but I will soon.
Because I have much to share/ask/talk about loving people where they’re at (which I’m learning is strangely similar to where I’m at, says Lina in retrospect ), LIFE-right-here-right-now, Jesus as my Facebook friend and everything in between.
Sorry I've been gone for so long. I hope you've been well.
Talk to you soon.
Love,
Bean
In medias res,
which is Latin for,
“in(
This is probably one of my favorite Latin phrases (and not just because it’s also a literary term). As a literary technique, the writer jumps right into the action (right into the thick of it!) and propels the story forward from that point instead of starting at the beginning with “Once Upon A Time”.
Tangent: In case you’re wondering, “Tinea Cruris” is a close second favorite; it means “ringworm of the groin". This is more commonly referred to as jock itch. End of tangent.
I digress.
2009 segued into 2010 without giving me time to do anything beyond brushing my teeth and rubbing away eye boogers. I needed a “zero week”—you know, that first week of school that doesn’t really count when your professors hand out syllabi, give you a reading assignment, and excuse you for the rest of the class. Since the real world doesn’t believe in such frivolities, I’ve kept going (on auto-pilot). I realize that if I wait for the "right" moment to share/unload/let go, I will be emotionally (and perhaps physically) constipated.
I'm not jumping in now but I will soon.
Because I have much to share/ask/talk about loving people where they’re at (which I’m learning is strangely similar to where I’m at, says Lina in retrospect ), LIFE-right-here-right-now, Jesus as my Facebook friend and everything in between.
Sorry I've been gone for so long. I hope you've been well.
Talk to you soon.
Love,
Bean
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