rivers

"What I love most about rivers is:
You can't step in the same river twice
The water's always changing, always flowing"


Pocahontas got it right as she sang in her canoe. 

I wish I had a canoe. And a nearby river. That way, I could chill with my pet raccoon and hummingbird as I sort out my mind. So many decisions, opportunities, possibilities. As I've graduated and partly moved home, I've thought a lot about rivers. Because life is like a river. As much as you want things to stay the same, they don't. Life is always changing. People are always coming in and going out of your life. The scenery changes so quickly. And circumstances rarely remain the same forever. 


Sometimes it's hard to think about what's around the riverbend because I'm looking behind my canoe at the water I just crossed over. There's lots of water I've recently crossed over. 

I ran a 1/2 marathon with my bestie...

I graduated...

I planted an herb garden...

When I do look ahead, I see much more water. There's also rocks ahead that will make the canoe ride quite turbulent. These rocks I've named the "NCLEX". 

So, I've set up the most ideal study area...

coffee, chapstick, candle, lotion, jelly belly's, music, Hurst review...

This river of life is wide and long and winding. And sometimes it's scary. Sometimes it's exciting. Sometimes it's rough. Sometimes it's beautiful. And almost always, there's a big fat question mark in the middle of the river. You never know exactly what's around the riverbend.

Pocahontas' song ends in many questions. I love that. Because there isn't always a clear answer...more often than not, additional questions answer the first question. 

"Should I choose the smoothest curve
Steady as the beating drum?
Should I marry Kocoum?
Is all my dreaming at an end?
Or do you still wait for me, Dream Giver
Just around the riverbend?"

Despite all the questions, I give thanks for the river. I give thanks for life and breath. I give thanks for the journey. I give thanks for the companions that come alongside. And I give thanks for the Canoe that keeps me afloat. 

pinkalicious

There's a book my nieces like to read. It's about a little girl who refused to eat her vegetables and only ate pink cupcakes. When she woke up the next morning, her skin was pink. Appropriately entitled, "Pinkalicious," the book teaches the lessons of listening to your mother and eating your veggies.

I eat my veggies, and I usually listen to my mother. Except when she tells me to wear sunscreen. Today, I became pinkalicious.

When my 90 year old neighbor came over with the daily newspapers, she gasped at the sight of my bright pink skin.

"Do you know what will happen to you?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm gonna get skin cancer and die," I quickly replied.

Skin cancer is not funny. And I know all the risks of not wearing sunscreen. But this morning, when I had to squint at the sight of my albino skin, I chose to be irresponsible and stupid and not wear sunscreen.

And now it hurts.

As I watch Dan in Real Life, every little movement makes me wince. It's so uncomfortable. I'm half tempted to revert back to my 5 year old ways and lay topless on a towel on the floor sobbing in pain as I lather on more aloe vera. But I'm 21, so I'll sit in my pajamas, sip on ice-tea and watch my favorite movie as I blog about the pain of sunburns.

My sunburn reminds me of a chapter in "An Altar in the World," which is about the practice of feeling pain. As the author suggests, and I wholeheartedly agree, a person who has never been in real pain cannot give advice to someone in pain.

I feel like I shouldn't even be writing about pain. Because my sunburn does not even come close to real pain experienced by people dear to my heart. But when I'm inspired, I must write.

I believe feeling pain can be a spiritual practice. Pain is something that so quickly reveals the good, the bad, and the ugly of the person experiencing the pain. Pain strips us of our frills and illusions and demands we be real with God. Pain causes us to ask lots of questions. "Why me? Why this? How can I fix this?" We cannot decide whether or not we will feel the pain; pain is nonnegotiable. We can however, decide how we handle the pain. Am I going to deny the pain? Am I going to try to avoid it? Am I going to fight it, numb it, curse it?

Or will I engage in the pain and really feel it? Will I pay attention to the pain and to what I need to learn from it? Will I accept my circumstances and let it reshape the way I think and feel about God?

Barbara Brown Taylor, the author of the book, talked about the intense pain of a torn cornea and the prayers she prayed throughout the painful night. "I found myself turning away from the God in charge of pain removal toward the God who had stayed with me through the pain no matter what I said...The pain had not only changed the way I prayed. It had also changed my ideas about the One to whom I prayed." (pg 158)

I know many people who have experienced deep pain and much suffering. And they have wrestled with God and with questions that well up from deep within their souls. And I have come to understand Barbara Brown Taylor's statement, "I learned that it is often harder to sit with someone in pain than it is to feel pain yourself." (pg 160)

As I have spent time with friends in pain much more intense than my sunburn, I have asked many questions about divine justice. These questions have propelled me to Scripture as I have meditated on and shared Job chapters 38-39. The answers to my questions have only been more questions.

"Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?"

"Have you commanded the morning since your days began?"

"Have you entered the storehouses of snow?"

"Do you know the ordinances of the heavens?"

"Can you send forth lightnings, that they may go and say to you, 'Here we are.'?"

Pain reminds me that I am not God. God is still God. God is still good. And God is still in control.

But rarely do I want, nor do I need someone to tell me that. Sometimes, in the midst of real pain, all we need is someone to acknowledge the pain, to pay attention to the hurt and the confusion.

So if you're pinkalicious, sitting in agony, despair, or hopelessness, acknowledge it. Feel it. Ask the questions that draw you closer to God. May you find meaning in the hurt and hope in a God who may not be answering your questions but will continue to stay with you.

And if you're not sunburned, give your sunburned friend an aloe vera plant. Be generous. Pay attention. Be quiet. Pray diligently. And listen.

...

Today is beautiful. It feels like the sun finally decided it was time to appear and bring warmth to this tundra-like land. The rays beckon those inside studying for finals to come outside and enjoy. The sky proclaims the glory of God and today I'm rejoicing. 


Today, I went for a run, wrote thank-you cards, read a great book, and had coffee with the world's best DJ. Today, I packed  up more of my room, read another rejection letter, and tried to figure out loan stuff. 
The thing about today is that there are clouds amidst the beautiful sunshine. So I looked up at the clouds and watched them change shape. I watched the cute fluffy bunny morph into an airplane and then an elephant. So stinkin' cool. 


I have 2 days until I graduate and it's been so surreal. My room is a disaster as I pack up and my conversations with people have included very vague, 'see you later, have a good life' phrases. It's crazy really, that these four years are over. 


As I reminisce with friends, I laugh and cry with joy. God has been orchestrating these last four years to prepare me for that which is to come. As I read Psalm 8 and see the beauty of creation, I smile in awe that the Creator of the Universe doesn't just love me, but He actually likes me! I love the way He's been by my side, holding me throughout these last four years. I keep replaying this song and exalting our Most High God.

This song makes me want to drive a convertible down 6th St. with the wind blowing through my hair, praising God for His faithfulness. Through the midst of craziness and uncertainties this last semester, I've been held by the One who holds the world. All glory to God!

Now, if I can just walk across the stage to accept the diploma without tripping...

lunch box

When I was little, I always wanted a lunch box. A cool, bright yellow one, with Disney Princesses. But my mom made me eat school lunches. I'd watch those cool kids leave the lunch line to go get their lunch box. They didn't have to wait in line - no, they got to sit and begin eating right away. So I'd watch them slowly open the lid and smile with glee at what their mothers had packed: pudding, licorice, brownies, cold sandwiches, juiceboxes. If only I had a lunch box...then I wouldn't have to pretend to eat the nasty eggroll. I wouldn't have to sneak the gross food into my empty milk carton in an attempt to avoid the lunch room nazi, Nelly. When I was little, I really wanted a lunch box.

Today, I got to go to church and listen to one of my favorite people preach. And I walked out the sanctuary doors with tears running down my cheeks as I realized I do have a lunch box. And I'm holding so tightly to it, my knuckles have turned white.

There was this little boy who had a mother who packed his lunch: 5 loaves and 2 fish. And there was a huge group of hungry people. The disciples of the Rabbi saw this as a problem with no solution other than sending the people away to fend for themselves.
But the Rabbi says, "You feed them."
The disciples protest, "We can't."
"What do you have?" asks the Rabbi.
"Five loaves and two fish"
"Give them to me," says Rabbi Jesus.

We all have a lunch box. It might be our time, our money, our talents, etc. And usually, it's woefully inadequate. The little boy in the story didn't hold on to his meager lunch. Instead, he willingly gave it to Jesus...and Jesus took it, broke it, and multiplied it. Surely God didn't need the little boy or his pathetic lunch. But He chose to use it. And the little boy got to be part of a pretty sweet miracle.

I hold on to my lunch box. Mostly because I'm afraid. I'm afraid if I give it up, I'll lose control (as if I ever had control in the first place). I'm afraid if I'm not in control, it'll fall through.

Do I believe by giving Him my lunch box, the need will be met? Do I really believe God will pull through? Do I believe God can take my inadequacies and pathetic resources, and multiply them? Can I move past my growling stomach, and see there is something going on here that is much bigger than me?