Our God is a God who saves; from the Sovereign LORD comes escape from death. Psalm 68:20
--
I present this blog as a comfort to my friends who are discouraged. May God grant you hope and peace during this time of transition. Hang in there, chicas.
--
Hope, next to Redemption, is my favorite theme in the Bible. I love that though things seem impossible, when people cry to God, He hears them. He saves. He rescues.
I love that in the midst of God's judgment in the Hebrew Scriptures there's still a promise of hope. Hosea's adulterous wife is forgiven. Ezekiel sees dead bones come alive. The weeping prophet promises us a hope and a future.
Zechariah calls us prisoners of hope -- no escaping.
And then Jesus Christ promises full life in him. He offers a "new way to be human," as the band Switchfoot sings. He gives us a new purpose: to be fishers of men, instead of fish. He flips culture upside down, telling us to give Caesar what is Caesar's, to turn the other cheek and give all our money to the poor. He invites us in on an adventure with Him and His Father; he lets us in on a perfect, triune relationship -- He gives us His Spirit.
Christ heals us; he forgives us. When the woman poured the perfume over Jesus' feet and wept, cleaning His feet with her tears and hair, He told her that her sins are forgiven.
Your faith has saved you; go in peace. Luke 7:50b
I remember Pastor Paul's sermon on this verse. He said that as Christians we tend to get "caught up in the semicolon" -- we forget the verse continues after our pardon.
We tend to dwell on the bad we've done, or the bad we're witnessing or the bad we think is around the corner.
But Jesus says, "Go in peace."
There's hope there.
He's saying that though things were rough,
though we needed saving,
everything's going to be okay.
No really, I hear Jesus pleading, IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY.
I get that things are hard. I get that change, even positive or mediocre change, can be hard. I get it. But Jesus asks us to go in peace. He wants us to have hope that He has things under control.
Because he does.
--
Try not to feel good when thou art not good, but cry to Him who is good.
Prisoner of Hope, it won’t be long now
Prisoner of Hope, you can be strong now
--
The Armstrongs -- I thank you so much for all that you've done for me and for Northeast. If I tried to name specifically all the lessons you've taught me, this blog would go on for thousands upon thousands of words. (So I'll keep this generic!) But I really do thank you; my faith has grown on account of you.
Please stay in touch, and enjoy California.
Oh, and Paul, good luck with the Marines.
In Him with Love,
Lauren Deidra
Ezekiel
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Sunday, July 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
forget the plowshare.
I was watching ONE TREE HILL with my sister this afternoon - which is a mistake therein itself - when I finally began understand what really is going on with me.
I mean, with my fields dying.
Recap: I blogged about this earlier in the month, about how God has on three separate occasions told me to let die my dream of working for RELEVANT. But, two of those three times God has revived it. My dream has lived on. But now this third time I think it's finally dead. I mean, really dead.
Will I intern with them still? Who knows. Will I ever get to shake hands with Cameron Strang? Uh, maybe not.
Turns out RELEVANT is not a magical place to work. Turns out they are a business with a profit motive. (I know Prof. Perry would be saying "I told you so.") I guess I just thought that since RELEVANT was kind of like a ministry they should treat it like a ministry. Fail.
Anyway, like I said, I was watching ONE TREE HILL with Sam and in the episode basketball star Nathan Scott had been in an accident of some sort and is now bound to a wheelchair, unable to play the sport. He's bitter throughout the entire episode, drinking way too early in the morning and whatnot. He's basically a whiner. It's kind of annoying. (I really dislike this show.)
But at one point in the episode, he goes over to a bookshelf full of trophies and plaques that he had won as a basketball star and starts pulling everything off in a wild rage, his wife and son scared in the next room.
Wow, I thought to myself, what a drama queen.
Here's this guy in his early twenties who's been in an accident (though, he will be able to walk again) and his concern is not for the well-being of his family, but for his own pride that was shot to the ground.
I'm sorry Nathan Scott that your boyish dreams died.
But then that got me thinking.
My dreams, like Nathan's, are dead.
The life I dreamed for myself at age 17 isn't the life I'm going to have when I'm 25.
It's just not.
The fields died for Nathan,
just like they died for me.
But, of course, this isn't the lesson I learned from this show. Because, as stated before, I already learned that my dreams needed to die - and they have - whether I like it or not. But I have not thrown anything off a bookshelf lately. And I have little desire to do so.
Nathan went into that wild rage not just because his dreams died but because he found his identity in those dreams. And when those dreams died, he felt empty. And worthless. And visionless. And un-human.
That's kind of how I feel right now. I mean, I like having a dream to fight for. I like knowing what I'm going to do in 5 years.
But I have also learned the dangers of finding my identity in my dreams instead of Christ. Maybe that's why I'm not throwing anything. I'm so upset that this dream has died, but I'm not the one that's dead -
Just my dreams.
God, I pray that I can accept this season of my life. I hate not having something like that to hope for, but I pray I can find peace in you and nothing else. Help me grow. Help me find my identity in you alone. Remind me that nothing else matters.
I mean, with my fields dying.
Recap: I blogged about this earlier in the month, about how God has on three separate occasions told me to let die my dream of working for RELEVANT. But, two of those three times God has revived it. My dream has lived on. But now this third time I think it's finally dead. I mean, really dead.
Will I intern with them still? Who knows. Will I ever get to shake hands with Cameron Strang? Uh, maybe not.
Turns out RELEVANT is not a magical place to work. Turns out they are a business with a profit motive. (I know Prof. Perry would be saying "I told you so.") I guess I just thought that since RELEVANT was kind of like a ministry they should treat it like a ministry. Fail.
Anyway, like I said, I was watching ONE TREE HILL with Sam and in the episode basketball star Nathan Scott had been in an accident of some sort and is now bound to a wheelchair, unable to play the sport. He's bitter throughout the entire episode, drinking way too early in the morning and whatnot. He's basically a whiner. It's kind of annoying. (I really dislike this show.)
But at one point in the episode, he goes over to a bookshelf full of trophies and plaques that he had won as a basketball star and starts pulling everything off in a wild rage, his wife and son scared in the next room.
Wow, I thought to myself, what a drama queen.
Here's this guy in his early twenties who's been in an accident (though, he will be able to walk again) and his concern is not for the well-being of his family, but for his own pride that was shot to the ground.
I'm sorry Nathan Scott that your boyish dreams died.
But then that got me thinking.
My dreams, like Nathan's, are dead.
The life I dreamed for myself at age 17 isn't the life I'm going to have when I'm 25.
It's just not.
The fields died for Nathan,
just like they died for me.
But, of course, this isn't the lesson I learned from this show. Because, as stated before, I already learned that my dreams needed to die - and they have - whether I like it or not. But I have not thrown anything off a bookshelf lately. And I have little desire to do so.
Nathan went into that wild rage not just because his dreams died but because he found his identity in those dreams. And when those dreams died, he felt empty. And worthless. And visionless. And un-human.
That's kind of how I feel right now. I mean, I like having a dream to fight for. I like knowing what I'm going to do in 5 years.
But I have also learned the dangers of finding my identity in my dreams instead of Christ. Maybe that's why I'm not throwing anything. I'm so upset that this dream has died, but I'm not the one that's dead -
Just my dreams.
God, I pray that I can accept this season of my life. I hate not having something like that to hope for, but I pray I can find peace in you and nothing else. Help me grow. Help me find my identity in you alone. Remind me that nothing else matters.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Biblical Mad Libs
I am re-reading parts of SEARCHING FOR GOD KNOWS WHAT by Don Miller (because I need reminded of some Truths he brings up) and it inspired me to create this: Biblical Mad Libs. Feel free to print this off and fill the blanks in manually.
1. Your name
2. Your best friend's name
3. Name of respected member of your church
4. Name of respected member of your affiliated political party
5. Someone whose lifestyle and/or beliefs you disagree with (i.e. a pro-choice activist, peacemonger, warmonger, gay activist, member of rival political party, etc.)
6. Automobile type
7. City of birth
8. Favorite place to travel to
9. Type of ointment (i.e. Neosporin)
On one occasion ___(1)___ stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," ___(1)___ asked, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?"
"What is written in the Law?" he replied. "How do you read it?"
___(1)___ answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'"
"You have answered correctly," Jesus replied. "Do this and you will live."
But ___(1)___ wanted to justify him(/her)self, so ___(1)___ asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"
In reply Jesus said: "___(2)___ was going down from ___(7)___to___(8)___, when he/she fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him/her of his/her clothes, beat him/her and went away, leaving him/her half dead. ___(3)___ happened to be going down the same road, and when he/she saw ___(2)___, he/she passed by on the other side. So too, ___(4)___, when he/she came to the place and saw___(2)___, passed by on the other side. But ___(5)___, as he/she traveled, came where ___(2)___ was; and when ___(5)___saw___(2)___, he/she took pity on him/her. ___(5)___went to him/her and bandaged his/her wounds, pouring on ___(9)___. Then ___(5)___put ___(2)___ in his/her own___(6)___, took him/her to an inn and took care of him/her. The next day ___(5)___took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after___(2)___,' he/she said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'
"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to ___(2)___ who fell into the hands of robbers?"
___(1)___ replied, "The one who had mercy on ___(2)___."
Jesus told___(1)___, "Go and do likewise."
The End.
P.S. Sorry if you're uncomfortable taking out words of the Bible and putting in new ones. I can see how that seems a little -- uhh -- heretical. BUT, the story doesn't lose its truthfulness this way, now does it?
1. Your name
2. Your best friend's name
3. Name of respected member of your church
4. Name of respected member of your affiliated political party
5. Someone whose lifestyle and/or beliefs you disagree with (i.e. a pro-choice activist, peacemonger, warmonger, gay activist, member of rival political party, etc.)
6. Automobile type
7. City of birth
8. Favorite place to travel to
9. Type of ointment (i.e. Neosporin)
On one occasion ___(1)___ stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," ___(1)___ asked, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?"
"What is written in the Law?" he replied. "How do you read it?"
___(1)___ answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'"
"You have answered correctly," Jesus replied. "Do this and you will live."
But ___(1)___ wanted to justify him(/her)self, so ___(1)___ asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"
In reply Jesus said: "___(2)___ was going down from ___(7)___to___(8)___, when he/she fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him/her of his/her clothes, beat him/her and went away, leaving him/her half dead. ___(3)___ happened to be going down the same road, and when he/she saw ___(2)___, he/she passed by on the other side. So too, ___(4)___, when he/she came to the place and saw___(2)___, passed by on the other side. But ___(5)___, as he/she traveled, came where ___(2)___ was; and when ___(5)___saw___(2)___, he/she took pity on him/her. ___(5)___went to him/her and bandaged his/her wounds, pouring on ___(9)___. Then ___(5)___put ___(2)___ in his/her own___(6)___, took him/her to an inn and took care of him/her. The next day ___(5)___took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after___(2)___,' he/she said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'
"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to ___(2)___ who fell into the hands of robbers?"
___(1)___ replied, "The one who had mercy on ___(2)___."
Jesus told___(1)___, "Go and do likewise."
The End.
P.S. Sorry if you're uncomfortable taking out words of the Bible and putting in new ones. I can see how that seems a little -- uhh -- heretical. BUT, the story doesn't lose its truthfulness this way, now does it?
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Mirror
Hello, friends.
I wanted to start this blog with a forward to stop those who might criticize the following. This isn't for you; this is a testimony to who God's shaped me into and a testimony to who I am becoming. Maybe I'm too honest in it, maybe I'm not honest enough. Whichever way you see it, please keep the hate to yourself.
I've never written anything that has opened my eyes like this piece. It has shown me how far I've come in the past four years ... and it's showing me how far away I still am. Tonight, while flipping through an old journal of mine, I realized that my pursuit of my identity started with a boy -- Adam. I wanted to know who I am before dating him. I never dated Adam. Nor have I "found myself." I'm intrigued by how God has used these gentlemen (Adam and others) to show me who I am.
So, without further ado. ...
The hurricane of bath water filling the tub only makes me turn my music up louder: the punk-rock I’m so fond of at this time, the heartbreak the artist squeals. It fits my mood. I’m a romantic even at fourteen.
I am in eighth grade, thinner than I know, with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair – straight in the winter, wavy in the humid summer. Nothing about me categorizes me as either beautiful or repulsive, save for the metal brackets glued to my teeth. (My orthodontist let me get colored rubber bands only once, and I chose gold – the same color as the food particles stuck between the grooves.)
Still, plenty of other girls have braces and I don’t feel any different than them. So I smile in the mirror in front of me – and sing.
I sing a love song for my future husband and a love song for the God I already know. I change audiences as I sing, knowing that both God and this boy would appreciate my song. No one can hear me outside the locked bathroom; my singing is muffled. My middle school prayers are disguised by the water and song.
This is my ritual. Bath time is set aside to be alone with myself and with God, when my mind muddles through memories of this day and expectations for the next. I dream now; I sing my love songs and pray now. It’s my special time-oasis. It’s my Walden Pond.
I stand across from the sink wearing cotton shorts and a lace camisole that fits too loosely at the top. I keep my socks on for irony, contrasting my long, bare legs bending in at the knees. I twirl in pirouettes twice before adjusting my look in the mirror – I twist tiny braids into the crown of my hair. There. Perfect.
Skipping back to the tub, I release a few inches of water to add more time to my pre-bath ritual. I’m back by the sink, looking at myself curiously in the mirror. My journal, the flimsy red thing I hid beneath my towel, is pulled out and I begin writing:
Dear Jesus, I know who I’m going to marry.
And I do. His name is David and he’s a musician. He wears a modern-day beatnik beanie with curly brown hair peeking out; his muscles bulge at the biceps. I write down his characteristics: blue-eyed, shy, respectful, funny, smells good. I push aside the notebook and stare at myself in the mirror.
I make faces as I always do. My favorite is the tiger growl (I wiggle my fingers accordingly). I scrunch up my nose or bite my lip, attempting an endearing look like the girl-next-door in the movies. I practice flirting with my eyes – something I have yet to accomplish.
My bathwater’s nearly full, but I must play with my hair once more before immersion; I push the fibers into a dramatic pouf. I make a fierce model face then promptly splash into the tub.
My ritual’s complete, but it’s to be repeated tomorrow and the next day. For four more years I dance in front of that bathroom mirror, praying and singing to both God and man, with no distrust for the reflection before me. I love myself in the way a healthy girl should.
But slowly, like the dripping of a broken faucet, my confidence began to wane. My ability to stare blankly into my face and at my half-clothed body became increasingly difficult. By college I was afraid to look.
--
I am in tenth grade and I have found true love.
In May of last year I decided to create a Myspace page to track down a high school senior, one I had heard about for years from my sister who had a crush on him. His name is Adam Parker and he is the greatest guy ever.
We talked on Myspace for over a month before meeting. And the night we did meet – a group of twenty high school students arranged a capture-the-flag game in my neighborhood – the first words I heard out of Adam Parker’s mouth were: “Where’s Lauren?”
We stood out in the humid air, agreeing on rules and team names. My hair had turned from silky to coarse in a matter of moments, and my shirt refused to disguise the sweat stains under my arms. My metal smile greeted him. “Hi.”
He reminds me of David, my husband from two years ago, the one so delicately described by my bathroom sink. He doesn’t like me the way I think he ought to, but I know I matter to him. He tells me all the time:
“You inspire me, Lauren.”
“You are so wise for your age.”
--
I’m a junior now and a master at ping-pong. My boyfriend Luke and I play whenever he comes over. We don’t keep score, but if we did, I’m sure I’d win. Sometimes he hits the ball across the room just so he can watch me chase it, and then he runs up and hugs me.
After a few weeks as “exclusive friends” – which, despite not knowing what that meant, gave me something to think fondly of in class – Luke cut short one of our ping-pong games. Once he whispered to me his plan, he walked up stairs and asked my mom permission to date me.
Luke buys me things to show his affection: a necklace, a DVD, dinner, a slushy. Or sometimes he slips notes or gas money into my pocket, as if I don’t notice. But most of the time, Luke and I walk through our neighborhoods talking and arguing and holding hands.
--
I’m still a junior, but Luke and I broke up. We started fighting, mostly about my best friend. She doesn’t like Luke very much. Everything is so confusing. I want to make everyone happy – my friend, Luke – but I’m the one suffering.
Tonight we sit tightly on that green leather sofa, my best friend on my right, Luke not five feet away.
“I hate him,” she tells me. I think she smiled. “Well, I hated him.” She reemphasizes the past tense to make me feel better. I don’t feel better.
Luke and I dated for four months – only two we called “official” in fear of my best friend throwing a fit. She didn’t like the way he came over every Monday night or joined us at youth group and answered all the questions in Sunday school.
“But I liked him,” I reply, not emphasizing the past tense. “Actually, I still kind of like him.” I get up from the couch and talk to another friend – not looking at her, not looking at Luke.
--
I haven’t had a date in front of the mirror in a while.
--
It’s summer and I am seventeen years old. I haven’t had a boyfriend since Luke, but I don’t care very much. I am a single woman; I can woo any boy I like.
Today’s the third day of a nine-day mission trip in Slidell, Louisiana where I’m teaching Vacation Bible School to young Katrina victims. Outside it’s a limitless sauna, so I do my best to stay indoors to tame my frizzy hair. I haven’t taken a shower all week, I have proudly announced to my friends. Not because I am a bra-burning feminist, but because of the cockroaches. They love the shower stall more than me.
But even without a shower and with my hair, which is cut short in a bob and responding like a 70’s afro, I manage to attract the attention of a boy.
His name is John Derek and he is Matthew McConaughey – in both looks and attitude.
He’s lying on the floor, elbows propping him up, playing a handheld video game. Charming, I know, but I still want him to notice me. I myself lay down, at least three feet away, and pretend I’m caught up in something else. I pull out my cell phone and begin texting no one at all.
I squirm closer – he doesn’t notice.
I army crawl an inch, two inches, three until John Derek notices me. “Hi.”
He turns back to his game. “Hi.”
I lean over his shoulder and ask what he’s playing. Pokémon, I think. I somehow see past the geekyness to ask him how to play.
He tells me, seemingly uninterested, but he puts the game aside. Then we engage in what I can only describe as a “flirting war” – one of those awkward-for-everyone-else-but-the-people-involved bustles of quips, poking, tickling, giggling and blushing. It carries on the rest of the night and most of the week.
Until my best friend told me it wasn’t worth it. He did live a thousand miles away, and he did flirt with all the other girls. And besides all that, he wasn’t really my type – jerky, manipulative … good-looking.
In an attempt at self-respect, I spent the final two days of the trip far away from John Derek. I had friends act as body guards, standing in the way whenever he got too close to me.
I left Louisiana without saying goodbye to John Derek. I think with him, though I had maintained dignity by not flirting with an unattainable boy, I left a part of my vulnerability. After that week I forgot that I was pretty enough to flirt.
--
High school is behind me; I have graduated. I gave up on finding a high school sweetheart and have pursued only friendships with guys.
Meet Matt. He’s in an on-again, off-again relationship with my best friend, but for most of our friendship they haven’t been together. Matt and I are close – really close – except nothing physical takes place. We’re just always together: getting coffee every weekend, seeing movies on boring evenings and texting till midnight.
Until now.
My finger dances on the plastic lid of my latte cup. He is speaking, but I’m trying not to listen. I swirl the cup around, imagining the brownish funnel the coffee is making inside. I guess how many sips were left: three? four? I take one for myself, the lukewarm cream dissolving in my mouth before making it to my throat. Just one.
Now it’s empty.
Now I’m forced to look at him and listen to his story.
He’s leaving me again, for her. It’s not that we were dating … I have no desire to actually date him … at least not admittedly. But when Matt went back to my best friend for the third time, leaving me dateless for the eighteenth month – well, now I’m lonely.
--
Welcome to college.
I expected nothing less than a dozen dates lined up by the first day of classes. I am in college and all college girls are pretty and worth dating – except me. I ho-hum through the first semester, finding plenty of crushes and very few dates.
My best friend isn’t here to weed out the losers. There are no Adam Parkers or Lukes to declare my importance. Matt is back at home, miles away, with his girlfriend.
And I am without a bathroom of my own; I’m stuck sharing it with my two roommates who wouldn’t understand my singing or my silly face-making.
I figure I need to do some soul-searching: to learn how to see myself in a new way, to learn how to find a mirror that casts my own reflection, not the reflection of others’ view of me. For too long I’ve relied on other people to define who I am.
I am not just the girl who crushes after a certain boy, or just the girlfriend of another. I am my own person, if only I knew who that was. I need to find myself and know myself as an individual.
I need a new bath time ritual.
I need a new song to sing.
I wanted to start this blog with a forward to stop those who might criticize the following. This isn't for you; this is a testimony to who God's shaped me into and a testimony to who I am becoming. Maybe I'm too honest in it, maybe I'm not honest enough. Whichever way you see it, please keep the hate to yourself.
I've never written anything that has opened my eyes like this piece. It has shown me how far I've come in the past four years ... and it's showing me how far away I still am. Tonight, while flipping through an old journal of mine, I realized that my pursuit of my identity started with a boy -- Adam. I wanted to know who I am before dating him. I never dated Adam. Nor have I "found myself." I'm intrigued by how God has used these gentlemen (Adam and others) to show me who I am.
So, without further ado. ...
“The Mirror”
By Lauren Sawyer
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love …
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself
- Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself” -
The hurricane of bath water filling the tub only makes me turn my music up louder: the punk-rock I’m so fond of at this time, the heartbreak the artist squeals. It fits my mood. I’m a romantic even at fourteen.
I am in eighth grade, thinner than I know, with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair – straight in the winter, wavy in the humid summer. Nothing about me categorizes me as either beautiful or repulsive, save for the metal brackets glued to my teeth. (My orthodontist let me get colored rubber bands only once, and I chose gold – the same color as the food particles stuck between the grooves.)
Still, plenty of other girls have braces and I don’t feel any different than them. So I smile in the mirror in front of me – and sing.
I sing a love song for my future husband and a love song for the God I already know. I change audiences as I sing, knowing that both God and this boy would appreciate my song. No one can hear me outside the locked bathroom; my singing is muffled. My middle school prayers are disguised by the water and song.
This is my ritual. Bath time is set aside to be alone with myself and with God, when my mind muddles through memories of this day and expectations for the next. I dream now; I sing my love songs and pray now. It’s my special time-oasis. It’s my Walden Pond.
I stand across from the sink wearing cotton shorts and a lace camisole that fits too loosely at the top. I keep my socks on for irony, contrasting my long, bare legs bending in at the knees. I twirl in pirouettes twice before adjusting my look in the mirror – I twist tiny braids into the crown of my hair. There. Perfect.
Skipping back to the tub, I release a few inches of water to add more time to my pre-bath ritual. I’m back by the sink, looking at myself curiously in the mirror. My journal, the flimsy red thing I hid beneath my towel, is pulled out and I begin writing:
Dear Jesus, I know who I’m going to marry.
And I do. His name is David and he’s a musician. He wears a modern-day beatnik beanie with curly brown hair peeking out; his muscles bulge at the biceps. I write down his characteristics: blue-eyed, shy, respectful, funny, smells good. I push aside the notebook and stare at myself in the mirror.
I make faces as I always do. My favorite is the tiger growl (I wiggle my fingers accordingly). I scrunch up my nose or bite my lip, attempting an endearing look like the girl-next-door in the movies. I practice flirting with my eyes – something I have yet to accomplish.
My bathwater’s nearly full, but I must play with my hair once more before immersion; I push the fibers into a dramatic pouf. I make a fierce model face then promptly splash into the tub.
My ritual’s complete, but it’s to be repeated tomorrow and the next day. For four more years I dance in front of that bathroom mirror, praying and singing to both God and man, with no distrust for the reflection before me. I love myself in the way a healthy girl should.
But slowly, like the dripping of a broken faucet, my confidence began to wane. My ability to stare blankly into my face and at my half-clothed body became increasingly difficult. By college I was afraid to look.
--
I am in tenth grade and I have found true love.
In May of last year I decided to create a Myspace page to track down a high school senior, one I had heard about for years from my sister who had a crush on him. His name is Adam Parker and he is the greatest guy ever.
We talked on Myspace for over a month before meeting. And the night we did meet – a group of twenty high school students arranged a capture-the-flag game in my neighborhood – the first words I heard out of Adam Parker’s mouth were: “Where’s Lauren?”
We stood out in the humid air, agreeing on rules and team names. My hair had turned from silky to coarse in a matter of moments, and my shirt refused to disguise the sweat stains under my arms. My metal smile greeted him. “Hi.”
He reminds me of David, my husband from two years ago, the one so delicately described by my bathroom sink. He doesn’t like me the way I think he ought to, but I know I matter to him. He tells me all the time:
“You inspire me, Lauren.”
“You are so wise for your age.”
--
I’m a junior now and a master at ping-pong. My boyfriend Luke and I play whenever he comes over. We don’t keep score, but if we did, I’m sure I’d win. Sometimes he hits the ball across the room just so he can watch me chase it, and then he runs up and hugs me.
After a few weeks as “exclusive friends” – which, despite not knowing what that meant, gave me something to think fondly of in class – Luke cut short one of our ping-pong games. Once he whispered to me his plan, he walked up stairs and asked my mom permission to date me.
Luke buys me things to show his affection: a necklace, a DVD, dinner, a slushy. Or sometimes he slips notes or gas money into my pocket, as if I don’t notice. But most of the time, Luke and I walk through our neighborhoods talking and arguing and holding hands.
--
I’m still a junior, but Luke and I broke up. We started fighting, mostly about my best friend. She doesn’t like Luke very much. Everything is so confusing. I want to make everyone happy – my friend, Luke – but I’m the one suffering.
Tonight we sit tightly on that green leather sofa, my best friend on my right, Luke not five feet away.
“I hate him,” she tells me. I think she smiled. “Well, I hated him.” She reemphasizes the past tense to make me feel better. I don’t feel better.
Luke and I dated for four months – only two we called “official” in fear of my best friend throwing a fit. She didn’t like the way he came over every Monday night or joined us at youth group and answered all the questions in Sunday school.
“But I liked him,” I reply, not emphasizing the past tense. “Actually, I still kind of like him.” I get up from the couch and talk to another friend – not looking at her, not looking at Luke.
--
I haven’t had a date in front of the mirror in a while.
--
It’s summer and I am seventeen years old. I haven’t had a boyfriend since Luke, but I don’t care very much. I am a single woman; I can woo any boy I like.
Today’s the third day of a nine-day mission trip in Slidell, Louisiana where I’m teaching Vacation Bible School to young Katrina victims. Outside it’s a limitless sauna, so I do my best to stay indoors to tame my frizzy hair. I haven’t taken a shower all week, I have proudly announced to my friends. Not because I am a bra-burning feminist, but because of the cockroaches. They love the shower stall more than me.
But even without a shower and with my hair, which is cut short in a bob and responding like a 70’s afro, I manage to attract the attention of a boy.
His name is John Derek and he is Matthew McConaughey – in both looks and attitude.
He’s lying on the floor, elbows propping him up, playing a handheld video game. Charming, I know, but I still want him to notice me. I myself lay down, at least three feet away, and pretend I’m caught up in something else. I pull out my cell phone and begin texting no one at all.
I squirm closer – he doesn’t notice.
I army crawl an inch, two inches, three until John Derek notices me. “Hi.”
He turns back to his game. “Hi.”
I lean over his shoulder and ask what he’s playing. Pokémon, I think. I somehow see past the geekyness to ask him how to play.
He tells me, seemingly uninterested, but he puts the game aside. Then we engage in what I can only describe as a “flirting war” – one of those awkward-for-everyone-else-but-the-people-involved bustles of quips, poking, tickling, giggling and blushing. It carries on the rest of the night and most of the week.
Until my best friend told me it wasn’t worth it. He did live a thousand miles away, and he did flirt with all the other girls. And besides all that, he wasn’t really my type – jerky, manipulative … good-looking.
In an attempt at self-respect, I spent the final two days of the trip far away from John Derek. I had friends act as body guards, standing in the way whenever he got too close to me.
I left Louisiana without saying goodbye to John Derek. I think with him, though I had maintained dignity by not flirting with an unattainable boy, I left a part of my vulnerability. After that week I forgot that I was pretty enough to flirt.
--
High school is behind me; I have graduated. I gave up on finding a high school sweetheart and have pursued only friendships with guys.
Meet Matt. He’s in an on-again, off-again relationship with my best friend, but for most of our friendship they haven’t been together. Matt and I are close – really close – except nothing physical takes place. We’re just always together: getting coffee every weekend, seeing movies on boring evenings and texting till midnight.
Until now.
My finger dances on the plastic lid of my latte cup. He is speaking, but I’m trying not to listen. I swirl the cup around, imagining the brownish funnel the coffee is making inside. I guess how many sips were left: three? four? I take one for myself, the lukewarm cream dissolving in my mouth before making it to my throat. Just one.
Now it’s empty.
Now I’m forced to look at him and listen to his story.
He’s leaving me again, for her. It’s not that we were dating … I have no desire to actually date him … at least not admittedly. But when Matt went back to my best friend for the third time, leaving me dateless for the eighteenth month – well, now I’m lonely.
--
Welcome to college.
I expected nothing less than a dozen dates lined up by the first day of classes. I am in college and all college girls are pretty and worth dating – except me. I ho-hum through the first semester, finding plenty of crushes and very few dates.
My best friend isn’t here to weed out the losers. There are no Adam Parkers or Lukes to declare my importance. Matt is back at home, miles away, with his girlfriend.
And I am without a bathroom of my own; I’m stuck sharing it with my two roommates who wouldn’t understand my singing or my silly face-making.
I figure I need to do some soul-searching: to learn how to see myself in a new way, to learn how to find a mirror that casts my own reflection, not the reflection of others’ view of me. For too long I’ve relied on other people to define who I am.
I am not just the girl who crushes after a certain boy, or just the girlfriend of another. I am my own person, if only I knew who that was. I need to find myself and know myself as an individual.
I need a new bath time ritual.
I need a new song to sing.
Friday, May 22, 2009
letting the fields die
To heck with brevity.
I know as a journalist I need to learn how to make the most impact with the fewest words, but as a storyteller I refuse to. God has been moving in these past few weeks, and I don't want to cut anything out -- for His sake, if not mine.
The other day, and for at least the third time since I was seventeen, God has told me to let the fields die.
In the Law of Moses, God commands the Israelites to set aside the seventh year as a Sabbath Year in order to let the fields take a break. No pruning or reaping is allowed; land must be left as is. Farmers have been working hard for six years and it's time now for rest -- to "sit down," as Pastor Paul might allude (Heb. 8:1).
And so, like God commanded the Israelites, God wants me to take a Sabbath from personal "field" -- my ambition.
I have wanted to work for RELEVANT Magazine since I was seventeen. My ambition has led me to base a lot of decisions on what I know I need to do to achieve that goal. Sometimes my decisions were insignificant and quirky. (In the summer after eleventh grade, for example, Ashley and I made cakes made to look like each member of the RELEVANT Podcast, including Cara Davis' unborn baby, "Mavis Davis," and tagged the crew on Facebook.) Sometimes they were a little more serious. (I emailed CEO Cameron Strang and told him everything I was doing to prepare myself for the job and followed his advice to the tee.)
The year later I made more drastic decisions like joining the high school newspaper staff, taking a college-level writing course, writing into the RELEVANT Podcast (see episode 4.18.08) and declaring journalism as my major. (After all, Cameron was a journalism major as well.)
This year, of course, I worked even harder. I got a position on my college newspaper staff, took a magazine writing class, emailed Chad from RELEVANT more times than I can count, asked former/current RELEVANT interns questions, applied/received the A&E position for next year's newspaper staff and worked way too hard at keeping my grades up.
But sometimes God tells me to let my fields die.
The first time I remember him doing this was last summer, in August, when Adam Smith moved to New Zealand. I wrote a blog about this, of course, saying how I was devestated that my very favorite member of the RELEVANT Podcast was leaving for good. I'm pretty sure I cried when I found out.
But more than that, for the first time since my dream formed, I began questioning whether or not this was really my calling. Does God really want me to work there? Am I really a good writer? I ended my blog with this:
I let go. I let God take my dreams (my ambitions) just in case they needed revising. God knows that when I love something passionately, I refuse to let go. So every few months he kindly asks me to let the fields die, and I find myself obeying.
Five days after that night, God spoke to me through Haggai. He told me to pick up my plowshare.
I have always equated the Book of Haggai with my life calling; Pastor Tom used the book to teach me that years ago. So when Tom covered the topic again in the "Majoring in the Minors" sermon series last summer, I knew God had something to say. He did. I had always looked at my calling (Ezekiel) and my career (magazine writer) as two separate dreams. God said they're one.
My seven years started over and my fields revived.
January happened, but I will spare you most of the details for time's sake and to protect those involved. I emailed one of my favorite writers, a former writer for RELEVANT, who after one comment I had made told me that perhaps RELEVANT isn't the dreamland workplace I thought it was. I told him that he crushed my dreams, which he did, but in goodwill. God, again, told me to let the fields die.
That was Monday, and by Wednesday God once again revived my calling. It's hard to believe I learned everything I needed to in just two days, but I did. It was Summit Week at school and I learned more spiritual truths in those few days than I had the rest of the semester, sadly.
Wednesday night the topic was on dreams, based off the Book of Daniel:
And the conclusion I came upon:
My seven years started over and my fields revived.
So now here I am. Two days ago I found out that Chad from RELEVANT no longer works there. Of course I'm anxious to know why, but am in no place to inquire why, so I sit here thinking up horror stories. Chad is who I wanted to be. He used to be a fan of the magazine and the podcast, then he became an intern, then he worked there and practically ran the show when Cameron was on sabbatical. And now?
I began asking those questions again: Is this where I'm supposed to be? What does God want me to do? Should I change my major? Do I really love this? Can I work somewhere else?
The fields are still at rest, and I suppose they will be for a while. Now that God has revealed the reason behind my crises of ambition, I think these periods are going to last longer. At least, this one might.
THE LESSON:
Congratulations for making it this far. I'll try to make this brief because I feel like the blog itself shows what I have learned more than anything.
God does not want us to worship anything but Him. Period. If I have learned anything in the past few years it's that. I have a strong tendency to bow down to whatever intrigues me at the moment, and have spent time serving the RELEVANT god instead of Jesus Christ. Taking a break from my dreams has shown me how far I've fallen from what God wants of me and my ambitions. He wants me to use them for Him, not for myself.
Being vulnerable is okay. Letting things die is how they come back stronger. One of my favorite snippets of the Gospels is Jesus' statement that every seed must first die before it may grow. Dreams work the same way. If I'm willing to let God take the reigns, they I know my dreams will be steered in the right direction.
God knows what's best -- I cannot forget that.
My world may seem like it's falling apart, but it's not.
My dreams may seem to be stalling or falling short, but they're not.
They're resting.
Just for a little bit.
ezekiel.
I know as a journalist I need to learn how to make the most impact with the fewest words, but as a storyteller I refuse to. God has been moving in these past few weeks, and I don't want to cut anything out -- for His sake, if not mine.
The other day, and for at least the third time since I was seventeen, God has told me to let the fields die.
In the Law of Moses, God commands the Israelites to set aside the seventh year as a Sabbath Year in order to let the fields take a break. No pruning or reaping is allowed; land must be left as is. Farmers have been working hard for six years and it's time now for rest -- to "sit down," as Pastor Paul might allude (Heb. 8:1).
And so, like God commanded the Israelites, God wants me to take a Sabbath from personal "field" -- my ambition.
I have wanted to work for RELEVANT Magazine since I was seventeen. My ambition has led me to base a lot of decisions on what I know I need to do to achieve that goal. Sometimes my decisions were insignificant and quirky. (In the summer after eleventh grade, for example, Ashley and I made cakes made to look like each member of the RELEVANT Podcast, including Cara Davis' unborn baby, "Mavis Davis," and tagged the crew on Facebook.) Sometimes they were a little more serious. (I emailed CEO Cameron Strang and told him everything I was doing to prepare myself for the job and followed his advice to the tee.)
The year later I made more drastic decisions like joining the high school newspaper staff, taking a college-level writing course, writing into the RELEVANT Podcast (see episode 4.18.08) and declaring journalism as my major. (After all, Cameron was a journalism major as well.)
This year, of course, I worked even harder. I got a position on my college newspaper staff, took a magazine writing class, emailed Chad from RELEVANT more times than I can count, asked former/current RELEVANT interns questions, applied/received the A&E position for next year's newspaper staff and worked way too hard at keeping my grades up.
But sometimes God tells me to let my fields die.
The first time I remember him doing this was last summer, in August, when Adam Smith moved to New Zealand. I wrote a blog about this, of course, saying how I was devestated that my very favorite member of the RELEVANT Podcast was leaving for good. I'm pretty sure I cried when I found out.
But more than that, for the first time since my dream formed, I began questioning whether or not this was really my calling. Does God really want me to work there? Am I really a good writer? I ended my blog with this:
The questions kept coming. I know that I just need to trust God–there’s no doubt about that. I know what it is to close my eyes and jump, and that’s what I’m going to have to do. I don’t like it, but if I am truly going to call Christ my Savior, I’m going to have to just go–go wherever he says to go.
If it's to RELEVANT, then that's where I'm supposed to be.
If not, then I pray he prepares me for somewhere else.
I let go. I let God take my dreams (my ambitions) just in case they needed revising. God knows that when I love something passionately, I refuse to let go. So every few months he kindly asks me to let the fields die, and I find myself obeying.
Five days after that night, God spoke to me through Haggai. He told me to pick up my plowshare.
I have always equated the Book of Haggai with my life calling; Pastor Tom used the book to teach me that years ago. So when Tom covered the topic again in the "Majoring in the Minors" sermon series last summer, I knew God had something to say. He did. I had always looked at my calling (Ezekiel) and my career (magazine writer) as two separate dreams. God said they're one.
My seven years started over and my fields revived.
January happened, but I will spare you most of the details for time's sake and to protect those involved. I emailed one of my favorite writers, a former writer for RELEVANT, who after one comment I had made told me that perhaps RELEVANT isn't the dreamland workplace I thought it was. I told him that he crushed my dreams, which he did, but in goodwill. God, again, told me to let the fields die.
That was Monday, and by Wednesday God once again revived my calling. It's hard to believe I learned everything I needed to in just two days, but I did. It was Summit Week at school and I learned more spiritual truths in those few days than I had the rest of the semester, sadly.
Wednesday night the topic was on dreams, based off the Book of Daniel:
Big Ideal: Dreams come only with difficulty and delay
Bold Action: Chase your dreams anyway
And the conclusion I came upon:
I'm not supposed to change my dream. Granted, I'm not supposed to bow down and worship it either ... but God place it in my heart for a reason. And I need to fight for it!
My seven years started over and my fields revived.
So now here I am. Two days ago I found out that Chad from RELEVANT no longer works there. Of course I'm anxious to know why, but am in no place to inquire why, so I sit here thinking up horror stories. Chad is who I wanted to be. He used to be a fan of the magazine and the podcast, then he became an intern, then he worked there and practically ran the show when Cameron was on sabbatical. And now?
I began asking those questions again: Is this where I'm supposed to be? What does God want me to do? Should I change my major? Do I really love this? Can I work somewhere else?
The fields are still at rest, and I suppose they will be for a while. Now that God has revealed the reason behind my crises of ambition, I think these periods are going to last longer. At least, this one might.
THE LESSON:
Congratulations for making it this far. I'll try to make this brief because I feel like the blog itself shows what I have learned more than anything.
God does not want us to worship anything but Him. Period. If I have learned anything in the past few years it's that. I have a strong tendency to bow down to whatever intrigues me at the moment, and have spent time serving the RELEVANT god instead of Jesus Christ. Taking a break from my dreams has shown me how far I've fallen from what God wants of me and my ambitions. He wants me to use them for Him, not for myself.
Being vulnerable is okay. Letting things die is how they come back stronger. One of my favorite snippets of the Gospels is Jesus' statement that every seed must first die before it may grow. Dreams work the same way. If I'm willing to let God take the reigns, they I know my dreams will be steered in the right direction.
God knows what's best -- I cannot forget that.
My world may seem like it's falling apart, but it's not.
My dreams may seem to be stalling or falling short, but they're not.
They're resting.
Just for a little bit.
ezekiel.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
between the river and the ravens I'm fed
It's really hard to write when nothing's going on.
I'm used to being fed up with something or obsessing over some new found philosophy I can write about for three blogs in a row. But not right now. School's out, I don't have a job, my reading's been light and uninspiring (ah, no offense, brilliant writers from whom I'm reading) and I'm not really enraged about anything. I usually am about this time. Last year I was going through my anti-politics kick, the year before that (and the year before that) I was frustrated by everyone's lack of faith. (Or something like that.)
I have spent most of my summer (so far) running errands, listening to music, reading, watching the news, watching TV, drinking coffee, redoing my Web site, inviting myself to people's houses, applying for jobs and eating cake. Not simultaneously, though that would be funny.
Anyway, my goals for this summer included writing every day (fail), reading three different magazines (fail, fail), submitting articles for publication (augh, fail) and reading nine books (I'm still doing okay). I want this summer to matter (as I say every year) but it can't get much liftoff without money to make it matter.
Here comes the punchline.
Yesterday my state tax return came - and not a moment too soon. I'm not broke - yet - but I will be soon if I don't get a job. Sure, I'd be fine if I didn't drive anywhere, ever. But if I stay at home all summer I might go crazy.
I've been selling textbooks, too, periodically, which has put a little bit of money into my account at the end of the month.
I smiled as I folded the state-issued check into my wallet because I knew that I had just enough to get by. I can still afford gas to get to my Wednesday night Bible study at Ruthanne's and I can afford to buy at least one or two presents for all the weddings and grad parties I have to go to (ahh!). But I don't have enough to waste on crap.
I have enough.
And it's beautiful.
But really hard, too.
Part of me is so frustrated that I haven't found a job yet, but the other part of me is excited by the discipline. I've never had a steady job. I work freelance or seasonal or the darn business shuts down. I'm learning to be flexible, to have to depend on God.
It's great, but it's so scary too.
Hopefully, hopefully I'll still get a job so that I can participate in more this summer.
But even if not, I will have to keep trusting.
Lauren
I'm used to being fed up with something or obsessing over some new found philosophy I can write about for three blogs in a row. But not right now. School's out, I don't have a job, my reading's been light and uninspiring (ah, no offense, brilliant writers from whom I'm reading) and I'm not really enraged about anything. I usually am about this time. Last year I was going through my anti-politics kick, the year before that (and the year before that) I was frustrated by everyone's lack of faith. (Or something like that.)
I have spent most of my summer (so far) running errands, listening to music, reading, watching the news, watching TV, drinking coffee, redoing my Web site, inviting myself to people's houses, applying for jobs and eating cake. Not simultaneously, though that would be funny.
Anyway, my goals for this summer included writing every day (fail), reading three different magazines (fail, fail), submitting articles for publication (augh, fail) and reading nine books (I'm still doing okay). I want this summer to matter (as I say every year) but it can't get much liftoff without money to make it matter.
Here comes the punchline.
Yesterday my state tax return came - and not a moment too soon. I'm not broke - yet - but I will be soon if I don't get a job. Sure, I'd be fine if I didn't drive anywhere, ever. But if I stay at home all summer I might go crazy.
I've been selling textbooks, too, periodically, which has put a little bit of money into my account at the end of the month.
I smiled as I folded the state-issued check into my wallet because I knew that I had just enough to get by. I can still afford gas to get to my Wednesday night Bible study at Ruthanne's and I can afford to buy at least one or two presents for all the weddings and grad parties I have to go to (ahh!). But I don't have enough to waste on crap.
I have enough.
And it's beautiful.
But really hard, too.
Part of me is so frustrated that I haven't found a job yet, but the other part of me is excited by the discipline. I've never had a steady job. I work freelance or seasonal or the darn business shuts down. I'm learning to be flexible, to have to depend on God.
It's great, but it's so scary too.
Hopefully, hopefully I'll still get a job so that I can participate in more this summer.
But even if not, I will have to keep trusting.
Lauren
Between the river and ravens I'm fed Sweet deliverer, you lift up my head and lead me in your way
Sunday, May 10, 2009
idolatry.
I wonder if you remember my blog from September when I promised to do everything to the glory of God. I wrote:
I decided that just a month into school, promising to work my hardest to make that possible. And you know what? I succeeded. I worked so hard, didn't let myself get lazy. I was an overachiever, ambitious, a great student.
But I also worshiped my GPA.
Here's a lesson in idolatry.
Idolatry is one of those sins that kind of sneaks up on you. It's unintentional, that's for sure, but it's also incredibly stealthy. I don't set out to commit idolatry, it just seems to happen.
This has been one of my more casual sins for some time. I get really excited about certain things - I'm passionate - but it turns deadly after quite some time. It starts to consume me. My dream to work for RELEVANT, for example, has become an idol for my a lot. I just want to work there so bad ... I get so caught up with that, instead of the big picture, and instead of looking to God who will equip me for that job.
I think of Aaron and the golden calf. We learned in BIL101 that the Israelites weren't trying to worship the calf when Aaron formed it out of gold, rather, they were trying to worship God through the golden calf. Calves were used as a pedestal for a god to sit upon, not as a god itself. The Israelites hoped to have a sort of visual aid for worshiping God, not realizing that he cannot be contained to a tiny golden altar.
How often do we do that? We see the good in our jobs or our dreams, our hardwork or successes, but instead of worshiping God for them, we worship the thing itself. We think we're trying to worship God through the calf, but we end up falling to our knees and worshiping the thing created before us.
I want my college experience–my going-to-class, homework-ing, studying, note-taking–to be my spiritual act of worship.
I decided that just a month into school, promising to work my hardest to make that possible. And you know what? I succeeded. I worked so hard, didn't let myself get lazy. I was an overachiever, ambitious, a great student.
But I also worshiped my GPA.
Here's a lesson in idolatry.
Idolatry is one of those sins that kind of sneaks up on you. It's unintentional, that's for sure, but it's also incredibly stealthy. I don't set out to commit idolatry, it just seems to happen.
This has been one of my more casual sins for some time. I get really excited about certain things - I'm passionate - but it turns deadly after quite some time. It starts to consume me. My dream to work for RELEVANT, for example, has become an idol for my a lot. I just want to work there so bad ... I get so caught up with that, instead of the big picture, and instead of looking to God who will equip me for that job.
I think of Aaron and the golden calf. We learned in BIL101 that the Israelites weren't trying to worship the calf when Aaron formed it out of gold, rather, they were trying to worship God through the golden calf. Calves were used as a pedestal for a god to sit upon, not as a god itself. The Israelites hoped to have a sort of visual aid for worshiping God, not realizing that he cannot be contained to a tiny golden altar.
How often do we do that? We see the good in our jobs or our dreams, our hardwork or successes, but instead of worshiping God for them, we worship the thing itself. We think we're trying to worship God through the calf, but we end up falling to our knees and worshiping the thing created before us.
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