For those of you who haven't been following, I started a short series of blogs on a book I'm reading called Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light. It's a compilation of the private letters of Mother Teresa, strung together to tell the story of her life. I'm blogging about the book because, frankly, I forget good stuff a lot. You know that phrase "in one ear and out the other"? I'm pretty sure the person who coined it did so after having a conversation with me.
One thing that really struck me about Mother Teresa is her committment to enjoy the moment that she was in, wherever or whenever it was. When she committed her life to God, she knew that doing what He asked of her would often require suffering. At the point of her calling, before God showed her what she would be doing among the poorest of the poor, she didn't know to what exent that would come true. Yet, she approached the tasks in front of her, even the most mundane, with such a joy, a cheerfulness. Her joy, according to the author, was the result of the "blessedness of submission;" the fruit of giving to Jesus whatever He asked of her.
She said, "When I see someone sad, I always think, she is refusing something to Jesus."
Wow. A few weeks ago in a conversation with my friend Justin, we were speaking about how ridiculously difficult it was to say and MEAN one of the most important phrases I believe we can every pray: I trust Your leadership, Jesus. (You can read his blog about it here.) Thinking about a life lived in complete submission, complete trust of Jesus, challenges me, especially in light of the statement above by Mama T. A life lived submitted to Jesus and His plan for my life means that no matter WHAT happens, good or bad, devastating or encouraging, I know that He called me, He chose me, He's for me, He knows me, He loves me, and will work all things for my good (Romans 8). So why shouldn't I be cheerful, even in the drudgeries of life? Why should I sink into despair or hopelessness?
I've heard preachers say that you can have the joy of the Lord without feeling or looking happy. But if you really have His joy, if you know you're His, if you're confident in His leadership in Your life, why not show it on your face through a smile? Why not let your eyes light up with the knowledge of His goodness? Why look sour, dour, or depressed? Why can't I enjoy and take delight in even the things that I'd rather not do, like washing dishes or mopping the floor? I'm following Jesus. I've followed him to this exact place in my life, this very spot, this very geographical location and position. If I trust His leadership, then I trust that this is where He WANTS me to be. He wants me to wash these dishes! Why can't I delight in doing His will and enjoying where He has me, even in the small things? And for gooodness sakes, why can't I SMILE about it?
"Well this isn't how I thought things would turn out," you say. "If I had more money, more friends, more time, more education, more _______ (fill in the blank) I'd be happier."
You know, I'm not so sure about that. I believe that right where you and I are this very moment, whether penniless, broken, hurt, lonely, unfulfilled, or whatever trial we're experiencing, there is a level of joy that we can experience in even the worst of times. There is a level of content, a level of trust in Jesus that will bring cheerfulness to that situation. Choosing to be cheerful in the face of the mundane, in the face of unfulfilled dreams and disatisfaction is a form of worship. Mother Teresa said:
Cbeerfulness is a sign of a generous and mortified person who forgetting all things, even herself, tries to please God in all she does for souls. Cheerfulness is often a cloak which hides a life of sacrifice, continual union with God, fervor, and generosity. A person who has this gift of cheerfulness very often reaches a great height of perfection. For God loves a cheerful giver...
A challenge for myself this week is to be cheerful and to enjoy each moment I live, no matter the circumstance. I'd love for the Lord to look at me this week, smiling through both the mundane and exciting moments of life, and be blessed by my cheerfulness. And when I'm faced with sadness or despair, I want to ask myself, "What might I be refusing to Jesus, and how can I submit to Him today in a greater way?"
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Lessons From Mama T, Part 1
I was the kid who went to the library, checked out 10-15 novels, and had them all read by the time the two week due date came around. I was the kid who brought books to the park, read them at recess, and actually enjoyed Sustained Silent Reading time in school. But then I discovered a little something we like to call Cable Television. And lo, it was good. And then another little invention exploded called the Internet. And yea, it was also good. Somehow between these two discoveries, and simultaneously being completely burned out from reading countless books for my college degree, my attention span was diminished and I found myself unable to finish a book from cover to cover.
Long story short, of late, I find myself getting stupider. So, in an effort to combat that, and after being inspired by a friend who has an insatiable appetite for reading, I have begun reading again. (This decision was precluded by a decision to turn off the TV for a few days. Honestly, when it comes to choosing between watching The Real Housewives of Anywhere versus reading a book, I will always choose those Housewives. Know thyself.)
The book I've chosen to read is called Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light. It is a narrative of her life, told specifically through her private writings (letters mostly). The reason I chose this book was, first of all, Mother Teresa has always been an interesting individual to me. Second, I know she devoted her life to the service of others, and since I'm taking my church's Love-Serve-Live Challenge (21 days where we devote a week each to Loving God, Serving Others, and Living Big), I felt it would be beneficial for me to study the life of a person who had run the race well, so to speak. Serving Others is probably my weakest area (well, honestly they're all very weak); I struggle especially when it comes to loving people as they are. Most people, in all their inpredictability and imperfection, are hard to love. And I don't like to do hard things.
As I read the book, I am planning on posting some brief blogs about some things that impact me regarding her life. That way, you don't have to read the book to get the "good stuff." So here goes...
--------------------------------
Mother Teresa was Albanian of birth. Although she felt the call of God at twelve years of age to be a missionary, it took her six years to make a full decision to become a nun. At 18, she embraced this calling and set sail for India. Her missionary work in Bengal consisted mostly of teaching in a school run by the nuns for children in the area, although the children they served were not the "poorest of the poor" that she would eventually feel led to minister to.
I am uneducated in the ways of Catholicism, so until reading this first chapter, I didn't understand why a woman would want to become a nun, other than she felt called to ministry and this was perhaps the only outlet for women to serve God in a full-time capacity within the Catholic Church. However, I feel more enlightened after reading this chapter as to why Mother Teresa would decide to become a nun. Apparently, the final taking of vows is similar to a marriage ceremony between the woman and Jesus - she vows her life to him, promising poverty, chastity, and obedience. That a woman would feel so in love with Jesus that she would lay down all the comforts of life - wealth, earthly companionship, the possiblity of bearing children, privacy, independence - to follow Him and live for Him is quite beautiful. Mother Teresa referred to herself in letters as "Jesus' little spouse." There's something so sweet and quaint, so unusually bright, about that phrase.
Another thing that gripped me about Mother Teresa's start in ministry is her motivation. A friend and fellow sister wrote to her superior saying:
I think that Jesus loves Sister Teresa very much. We are in the same house. I notice that every day she tries to please Jesus in everything. She is very busy, but she does not spare herself. She is very humble. It cost her dearly to achieve that, but I think that God has chosen her for great things. Admittedly, her deeds are entirely simple, but the perfection with which she does them, is just what Jesus asks of us.
She tried to please Jesus in everything. This thought has challenged me ALL day today, this Easter Sunday. I frequently sacrifice pleasing Jesus in my speech, my thoughts, my selfish actions, the way that I direct my day... I'll often forgo pleasing him for the immediate satisfaction of making someone laugh with sarcastic words or biting comments... Reading this has made me wonder, how much of a priority to me is pleasing Jesus? Maybe if I just simplified my life, paring away all the unnecessaries (ahem, Housewives shows), and started from square one with the question of "Does this please Jesus?" before every action, I might be able to attain a similar communion with God...
Even more interesting is that, before she had a world-renowned ministry, before she fulfilled her calling as a missionary to the poorest of the poor, she had mastered herself. She had a true, tested, purified relationship with Jesus before she had any public ministry. This is not to say that she had attained perfection - reading further about her life testifies against that. Yet her first priority was to please God, and to do everything "for Jesus, and for souls."
I've spent a lot of time asking myself, "Does this please Jesus?" today. I've backtracked a lot, too, after words have been said, attitudes have been displayed, and actions portrayed, thinking, "What I just did definitely did not please Jesus." I'm challenging myself to ask if it would please Jesus BEFORE I do an action or say a word.
This is so simple, yet SO hard. I live a life mostly devoted to pleasing Cassie, not Jesus. Sure, there are shining moments, isolated incidents when Jesus is pleased. But I'm sad to say that mostly, I live for my personal comfort and the conservation of my pride. Yet, this must go if Jesus is to be pleased.
A verse that was read at our Good Friday service is haunting me...
What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ (Phil 3:8)
Everything is rubbish compared to the richness of knowing Jesus, of living with Him daily, of having unbroken fellowship with Him. Everything that's not like Him MUST go. There's no room for anything that doesn't please Him.
Long story short, of late, I find myself getting stupider. So, in an effort to combat that, and after being inspired by a friend who has an insatiable appetite for reading, I have begun reading again. (This decision was precluded by a decision to turn off the TV for a few days. Honestly, when it comes to choosing between watching The Real Housewives of Anywhere versus reading a book, I will always choose those Housewives. Know thyself.)
The book I've chosen to read is called Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light. It is a narrative of her life, told specifically through her private writings (letters mostly). The reason I chose this book was, first of all, Mother Teresa has always been an interesting individual to me. Second, I know she devoted her life to the service of others, and since I'm taking my church's Love-Serve-Live Challenge (21 days where we devote a week each to Loving God, Serving Others, and Living Big), I felt it would be beneficial for me to study the life of a person who had run the race well, so to speak. Serving Others is probably my weakest area (well, honestly they're all very weak); I struggle especially when it comes to loving people as they are. Most people, in all their inpredictability and imperfection, are hard to love. And I don't like to do hard things.
As I read the book, I am planning on posting some brief blogs about some things that impact me regarding her life. That way, you don't have to read the book to get the "good stuff." So here goes...
--------------------------------
Mother Teresa was Albanian of birth. Although she felt the call of God at twelve years of age to be a missionary, it took her six years to make a full decision to become a nun. At 18, she embraced this calling and set sail for India. Her missionary work in Bengal consisted mostly of teaching in a school run by the nuns for children in the area, although the children they served were not the "poorest of the poor" that she would eventually feel led to minister to.
I am uneducated in the ways of Catholicism, so until reading this first chapter, I didn't understand why a woman would want to become a nun, other than she felt called to ministry and this was perhaps the only outlet for women to serve God in a full-time capacity within the Catholic Church. However, I feel more enlightened after reading this chapter as to why Mother Teresa would decide to become a nun. Apparently, the final taking of vows is similar to a marriage ceremony between the woman and Jesus - she vows her life to him, promising poverty, chastity, and obedience. That a woman would feel so in love with Jesus that she would lay down all the comforts of life - wealth, earthly companionship, the possiblity of bearing children, privacy, independence - to follow Him and live for Him is quite beautiful. Mother Teresa referred to herself in letters as "Jesus' little spouse." There's something so sweet and quaint, so unusually bright, about that phrase.
Another thing that gripped me about Mother Teresa's start in ministry is her motivation. A friend and fellow sister wrote to her superior saying:
I think that Jesus loves Sister Teresa very much. We are in the same house. I notice that every day she tries to please Jesus in everything. She is very busy, but she does not spare herself. She is very humble. It cost her dearly to achieve that, but I think that God has chosen her for great things. Admittedly, her deeds are entirely simple, but the perfection with which she does them, is just what Jesus asks of us.
She tried to please Jesus in everything. This thought has challenged me ALL day today, this Easter Sunday. I frequently sacrifice pleasing Jesus in my speech, my thoughts, my selfish actions, the way that I direct my day... I'll often forgo pleasing him for the immediate satisfaction of making someone laugh with sarcastic words or biting comments... Reading this has made me wonder, how much of a priority to me is pleasing Jesus? Maybe if I just simplified my life, paring away all the unnecessaries (ahem, Housewives shows), and started from square one with the question of "Does this please Jesus?" before every action, I might be able to attain a similar communion with God...
Even more interesting is that, before she had a world-renowned ministry, before she fulfilled her calling as a missionary to the poorest of the poor, she had mastered herself. She had a true, tested, purified relationship with Jesus before she had any public ministry. This is not to say that she had attained perfection - reading further about her life testifies against that. Yet her first priority was to please God, and to do everything "for Jesus, and for souls."
I've spent a lot of time asking myself, "Does this please Jesus?" today. I've backtracked a lot, too, after words have been said, attitudes have been displayed, and actions portrayed, thinking, "What I just did definitely did not please Jesus." I'm challenging myself to ask if it would please Jesus BEFORE I do an action or say a word.
This is so simple, yet SO hard. I live a life mostly devoted to pleasing Cassie, not Jesus. Sure, there are shining moments, isolated incidents when Jesus is pleased. But I'm sad to say that mostly, I live for my personal comfort and the conservation of my pride. Yet, this must go if Jesus is to be pleased.
A verse that was read at our Good Friday service is haunting me...
What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ (Phil 3:8)
Everything is rubbish compared to the richness of knowing Jesus, of living with Him daily, of having unbroken fellowship with Him. Everything that's not like Him MUST go. There's no room for anything that doesn't please Him.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Owl City
So, my cousin Julie was in from Indiana last week to watch Jill and I run our 5K, and we took a little girl's day to have lunch and go to Ross. Ross, if you're not familiar, is sort of like a big, indoor garage sale... a step down from Marshalls or TJ Maxx, full of uber-cheap but new stuff. It's pretty great for a quick fix if you want to buy a shirt that will give you the immediate exhilaration of wearing something new, even if the quality is debatable.
At any rate, I was scouring the clearance home items and I found a silver owl statue. I thought for about 5 seconds of buying it, and then decided to pass. When I mentioned the owl to Jill and then showed her,she was so excited, because it just happened that she was looking for an owl to complete the look of her newly decorated (and super cute) playroom.
At some point in the shopping trip, she handed the owl off to me so that she could use the restroom. Julie and I were in the shoe aisle when the owl slipped out of my overburdened arms and crashed to the ground, breaking the ear off of the owl:
As you can see here, I was filled with immense fear over telling Jill what I had done to her owl. Here is her response (note how I try to blame the baby):
At any rate, I was scouring the clearance home items and I found a silver owl statue. I thought for about 5 seconds of buying it, and then decided to pass. When I mentioned the owl to Jill and then showed her,she was so excited, because it just happened that she was looking for an owl to complete the look of her newly decorated (and super cute) playroom.
At some point in the shopping trip, she handed the owl off to me so that she could use the restroom. Julie and I were in the shoe aisle when the owl slipped out of my overburdened arms and crashed to the ground, breaking the ear off of the owl:
As you can see here, I was filled with immense fear over telling Jill what I had done to her owl. Here is her response (note how I try to blame the baby):
Monday, March 1, 2010
Altars
I'm a very private person, and although I love hearing the secrets of others and feel no more loved than when a friend decides to confide in me her struggles or fears, I seldom share my own. That's why I've always been a journaler. Ever since I learned to write, I've been jotting down my thoughts in various notebooks. Unfortunately, most of the writing has been done in times of crisis, in times of pain, in times when I had no where else to turn except my marbled, worn composition book. Therefore, when I go back to read my past journals, my life seems to be filled with tragic, depressing events, thoughts or feelings. I seldom write when good things happen - I'm more of a devastation-journaler. Yes, writing is a great outlet for yucky feelings, but these journals are my legacy. I fear my great-grandchildren finding them long after I'm dead and thinking, "Wow, Great-Grandma Cassie was nutso. And her life pretty much sucked." Especially when I know that it's not true, and that the glorious, God-kissed moments of my life far outnumber those that turn me upside down.
At the end of 2009, I decided I was tired of writing this way, from tragedy to tragedy, from pain to pain, from valley to valley. I was reading a book called "Wild Goose Chase" by Mark Batterson (I HIGHLY recommend this book to anyone who feels a little stuck or bored in their walk with God. It will pretty much knock your socks off). In this book, Batterson talks about how in the Old Testament, God's followers built altars when He did something miraculous or something that they wanted to remember. When we started our Bible reading plan at the beginning of this year, I began to underline in Genesis every time it said that God's people built altars. They did it ALL the time!
Batterson says:
We have a natural tendency to remember what we should forget and forget what we should remember. Altars help us remember what God doesn't want us to forget. They give us a sacred place to go back to... We need altars that renew our faith by reminding us of the faithfulness of God. And every once in awhile, we need to go back to those sacred places to repent of our sin, renew our covenant with God, and celebrate what God has done.
I decided that in 2010, instead of journaling my drama, I would switch out my journal for a notebook I've simply named "Altars." In this notebook, I'm recording all of the landmark moments that I experience as I live this year out. Little things, such as moments of God's favor in safe travels or unexpected money coming my way. Big moments like today, when 16 couples got married at church and I was honored to participate in the planning of the event. Moments of thankfulness for the kindness of God in my life.
Don't get me wrong, there have been times in the first two months of this year that I've wanted to just verbally vomit all over the pages of a notebook, spilling my guts with pen and ink. It's been challenging to remember to record the good things... I almost have to force myself, as if it was a chore, to make record of the things God has done. But I know that it will be worth it when, the next time that I feel like I'm in a rough situation, or struggling emotionally, I can open my Altars book and read about the faithfulness of God over and over and over in my life.
Just wanted to share something new and different that I'm doing this year, and encourage you to do the same! An altar doesn't have to be written - it can be a picture of a victorious moment, a momento of an event... It can be anything that takes you back to those times when God has come through for you; anything that reminds you that he did it once, and can certainly (and WILL certainly) do it again.
At the end of 2009, I decided I was tired of writing this way, from tragedy to tragedy, from pain to pain, from valley to valley. I was reading a book called "Wild Goose Chase" by Mark Batterson (I HIGHLY recommend this book to anyone who feels a little stuck or bored in their walk with God. It will pretty much knock your socks off). In this book, Batterson talks about how in the Old Testament, God's followers built altars when He did something miraculous or something that they wanted to remember. When we started our Bible reading plan at the beginning of this year, I began to underline in Genesis every time it said that God's people built altars. They did it ALL the time!
Batterson says:
We have a natural tendency to remember what we should forget and forget what we should remember. Altars help us remember what God doesn't want us to forget. They give us a sacred place to go back to... We need altars that renew our faith by reminding us of the faithfulness of God. And every once in awhile, we need to go back to those sacred places to repent of our sin, renew our covenant with God, and celebrate what God has done.
I decided that in 2010, instead of journaling my drama, I would switch out my journal for a notebook I've simply named "Altars." In this notebook, I'm recording all of the landmark moments that I experience as I live this year out. Little things, such as moments of God's favor in safe travels or unexpected money coming my way. Big moments like today, when 16 couples got married at church and I was honored to participate in the planning of the event. Moments of thankfulness for the kindness of God in my life.
Don't get me wrong, there have been times in the first two months of this year that I've wanted to just verbally vomit all over the pages of a notebook, spilling my guts with pen and ink. It's been challenging to remember to record the good things... I almost have to force myself, as if it was a chore, to make record of the things God has done. But I know that it will be worth it when, the next time that I feel like I'm in a rough situation, or struggling emotionally, I can open my Altars book and read about the faithfulness of God over and over and over in my life.
Just wanted to share something new and different that I'm doing this year, and encourage you to do the same! An altar doesn't have to be written - it can be a picture of a victorious moment, a momento of an event... It can be anything that takes you back to those times when God has come through for you; anything that reminds you that he did it once, and can certainly (and WILL certainly) do it again.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The Fat Kid in Gym Class
For about the past 9 weeks, my cousin and I have been training for a 5K. Those of you who know me personally or follow me on Facebook or Twitter are probably pretty sick of hearing about it by now, and for that I'm sorry. It's just that talking about it a lot makes me accountable to, well, the world, because if I back out I have to announce to everyone that I didn't do it.
You see, I was (and still am) always the fat kid in gym class. As a kid, I never showed much interest in organized sports or outdoor activities. I was more of the nerdy book-reader type. So I never learned how to challenge my body, how to push myself physically, how to go beyond what I felt was possible for my body to accomplish. When I hit middle school and gym became compulsory, when "dressing out" became a curse word in my vocabulary, this was a conundrum for me. Here I was, straight A student, getting C's in gym because I couldn't pass the Presidential physical fitness test. When it came to the written bowling test, I was an ace in the hole. I knew all the rules of soccer, or enough so that I could get an A+ on the multiple choice exam. But unfortunately, that only accounted for a minimal percentage of the total PE grade. Me getting a C in 7th grade gym sent me to the school counselor in a mini-hysteria, since the idea of ruining my perfect GPA over not being able to run the mile was a complete shock to my perfectionist mentality.
From that point on, I pretty much embraced the idea that me + sports = unhappiness, so I did whatever I had to to get by in gym, until after 10th grade and it wasn't require any longer. Tenth grade signaled the end of me ever being physically challenged by an entity outside of myself. It wasn't that I didn't want to be physically fit. I wanted to keep up with the pack as they ran laps around the track. But the cruelty of teenage kids, coupled with a strong sense of pubescent worthlessness, made it easier to just give up. Climb the rope? No thanks. Take the pull-up test? Are you kidding me? What, do ya want me to pull my arms out of their sockets? Refusing to participate was easier than trying and failing.
Even then, though, I longed to be a runner. My brother was a great cross country runner. My two aunts that I looked up to so highly were marathon runners. One of them even carried the Olympic torch! And from the time I was young, I had helped them at the annual "Rotary Ramble," a 5K that they sponsored that was pretty much the main event in the annual calendar of their small town. I had passed out t-shirts to runners and helped hundreds of runners register for the race, all the while wistfully wishing that somehow I could participate.
Post-college I decided that working out was important, so I got a gym membership and have pretty much belonged to a gym consistently since then. I go to the gym in spurts. For three months I'm committed to working out, and then something happens (like vacation) to interrupt my routine, thereby resulting in me reverting back to old habits. I've never pushed myself to do something that I felt was physically beyond my ability, though.
In early December, I was thinking about getting in shape, and I decided to do it. I would run a 5K. Instead of being the one volunteering at the event, I would be the one registering and receiving the t-shirt. I asked a few friends to train with me because I knew I'd need the support.
So here I am. Nine weeks later, training for my 5K that is in little over a month. I've pushed myself physically more than I ever thought I could. More than the physical challenge is the mental one. Because although my body mostly says, "Wow, this sucks, but we can do it," in the hard times of training, my mind is often louder. In those really tough parts of the run, my middle school brain tends to come to the forefront, reminding me how ridiculous it is to try to run when I'm just the fat kid in gym class, telling me how silly I look and how pointless this is. It's in those times that I literally have to talk to myself out loud! If you've ever been around me at the lakefront when I'm running, you probably have thought that I'm a schizo weirdo, but please understand, I'm just cheering myself on so that the voices outside become louder than the inside middle school ones.
In one month, this fat kid from gym class will cross the finish line of her first 5K. Yep, I said first, signifying that it won't be my last. When I cross the finish line, I'll probably laugh. Or maybe cry. I'm not sure yet, since finishing isn't something that I ever did in middle school gym. Whatever it feels like, however I react, I know that that day, when I cross the finish line, the fat kid will officially be put to rest. I anxiously anticipate her funeral. :-)
You see, I was (and still am) always the fat kid in gym class. As a kid, I never showed much interest in organized sports or outdoor activities. I was more of the nerdy book-reader type. So I never learned how to challenge my body, how to push myself physically, how to go beyond what I felt was possible for my body to accomplish. When I hit middle school and gym became compulsory, when "dressing out" became a curse word in my vocabulary, this was a conundrum for me. Here I was, straight A student, getting C's in gym because I couldn't pass the Presidential physical fitness test. When it came to the written bowling test, I was an ace in the hole. I knew all the rules of soccer, or enough so that I could get an A+ on the multiple choice exam. But unfortunately, that only accounted for a minimal percentage of the total PE grade. Me getting a C in 7th grade gym sent me to the school counselor in a mini-hysteria, since the idea of ruining my perfect GPA over not being able to run the mile was a complete shock to my perfectionist mentality.
From that point on, I pretty much embraced the idea that me + sports = unhappiness, so I did whatever I had to to get by in gym, until after 10th grade and it wasn't require any longer. Tenth grade signaled the end of me ever being physically challenged by an entity outside of myself. It wasn't that I didn't want to be physically fit. I wanted to keep up with the pack as they ran laps around the track. But the cruelty of teenage kids, coupled with a strong sense of pubescent worthlessness, made it easier to just give up. Climb the rope? No thanks. Take the pull-up test? Are you kidding me? What, do ya want me to pull my arms out of their sockets? Refusing to participate was easier than trying and failing.
Even then, though, I longed to be a runner. My brother was a great cross country runner. My two aunts that I looked up to so highly were marathon runners. One of them even carried the Olympic torch! And from the time I was young, I had helped them at the annual "Rotary Ramble," a 5K that they sponsored that was pretty much the main event in the annual calendar of their small town. I had passed out t-shirts to runners and helped hundreds of runners register for the race, all the while wistfully wishing that somehow I could participate.
Post-college I decided that working out was important, so I got a gym membership and have pretty much belonged to a gym consistently since then. I go to the gym in spurts. For three months I'm committed to working out, and then something happens (like vacation) to interrupt my routine, thereby resulting in me reverting back to old habits. I've never pushed myself to do something that I felt was physically beyond my ability, though.
In early December, I was thinking about getting in shape, and I decided to do it. I would run a 5K. Instead of being the one volunteering at the event, I would be the one registering and receiving the t-shirt. I asked a few friends to train with me because I knew I'd need the support.
So here I am. Nine weeks later, training for my 5K that is in little over a month. I've pushed myself physically more than I ever thought I could. More than the physical challenge is the mental one. Because although my body mostly says, "Wow, this sucks, but we can do it," in the hard times of training, my mind is often louder. In those really tough parts of the run, my middle school brain tends to come to the forefront, reminding me how ridiculous it is to try to run when I'm just the fat kid in gym class, telling me how silly I look and how pointless this is. It's in those times that I literally have to talk to myself out loud! If you've ever been around me at the lakefront when I'm running, you probably have thought that I'm a schizo weirdo, but please understand, I'm just cheering myself on so that the voices outside become louder than the inside middle school ones.
In one month, this fat kid from gym class will cross the finish line of her first 5K. Yep, I said first, signifying that it won't be my last. When I cross the finish line, I'll probably laugh. Or maybe cry. I'm not sure yet, since finishing isn't something that I ever did in middle school gym. Whatever it feels like, however I react, I know that that day, when I cross the finish line, the fat kid will officially be put to rest. I anxiously anticipate her funeral. :-)
Saturday, January 2, 2010
A Contrast in Christmases
"Presents are the best way to show someone how much you care. It is like this tangible thing that you can point to and say 'Hey man, I love you this many dollars-worth.'"Silly as it is, I've always had a sort of anxiety about gift-giving because it seemed to me that I was never able to purchase a gift that was good enough for those I love. Money is always in short supply, it seems, right around the time that gifts are due. Whatever money I can scrounge up for a gift never seems adequate. I mean, really - "Hey friend, thanks for walking with me through that really bad breakup. Here's a $20 Barnes & Noble's gift card. Go read a book."
I digress. The point is, in past Christmases, presents have been very important to my family. Maybe because we're not as good at telling each other how much we love and treasure one another, we try, like Michael Scott, to somehow express our love by assigning it a dollar amount. And believe me, Christmases past have NOT been skimpy. I have been showered with gifts, money, gift cards, electronics, and the like.
This Christmas, however, was different. Times have been hard. Many of my family members are in the construction industry, or at least construction-related industries. This kind of work has all but dried up in Northwest Indiana, leaving so many of my family members with a significantly lower incomes. Because of this, my family agreed not to exchange gifts at our family gatherings.
So what had normally been a "presents extravaganza," with gifts piled higher than my grandma's four-foot LED-lit tabletop tree, with the kids panting in expectation of what gift they would open next, would have to be something else this year.
Without the distraction of presents, we had to INTERACT with one another. Gasp! Shock! Dismay! Instead of the focus being on presents, we played games together like Mafia, where, in true Studdard/Hendon family form, most people (including me) lost their voices attempting to compete with the volume level in the house (we're a loud bunch). We shared old memories of one another, as my sweet Aunt Barb gave everyone a jar labeled "I remember" that was filled to the brim with slips of paper of her memories of us. We looked through old photo albums, laughing at the haircuts and stone-washed jeans of yesteryear, yearning for the now-in-style maxi-dresses in pictures from the seventies, wondering in amazement at how much so-and-so looked like Uncle so-and-so, and reminiscing about the fun that we'd shared in all the seasons, not just the Christmas ones.
And it was the absolute best Christmas ever.
After we finished our family Christmas and headed home, we were excited to let my little niece open all of her gifts since she hadn't been with us earlier in the day. Even in the face of financial hardship, we had all set aside money to lavish her with gifts so that she wouldn't feel the affect of the economy in her Christmas. So she did have gifts piled high, waiting her under the tree. And as she went from gift to gift, eagerly tossing aside the gifts she had just opened to move on to bigger and better ones, I wondered, what are we trying to accomplish by the way we "do" Christmas?
I understand that the fathering heart of God pours gifts out to his children, gifts we don't deserve, gifts that we often toss aside after looking at for a few minutes, in exchange for want of another grander, better gift. And if God graciously gives his children gifts, then it only follows that parents, inherently flawed yet made in his likeness, would seek to bless their own children by giving them presents. But when we pile gifts high, allowing the kids to open them, look at them for a few short seconds, and then shoving another gift in front of them, saying "Open this one!" aren't we setting them up for ingratitude? Aren't we giving silent assent to an attitude that always is yearning for more, for what's next?
In my immaturity, I assumed that any Christmas that didn't look like the one full of presents wasn't really Christmas at all. But this December proved me wrong. Presents weren't needed to make this a true Christmas. Having them there may have distracted us from really loving on one another, from laughing together, from singing and playing and just being family.
For the sake of Christmases in the future, I hope that I remember this one. I hope that, whether it's a season of want or plenty, we as a family emphasize the love instead of the gifts, and are able to recreate what we experienced this year. It wasn't about assigning a dollar amount to our love, but it was about truly loving one another, and showing it through our time, attention, and interaction. And it was a real, true Christmas.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
So Kind
Psalm 103:8 (KJV)
The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy.
There have been so many times in my life that I've come to the end of my own mistakes, come to the end of my own bad, self-centered decisions, and have had to experience the pain of the result. This is the ugly side of the oft-used biblical reference "you reap what you sow."
Many times I've sown seeds out of the desire to fulfill what my flesh wants, only to reap the inevitable result of corruption and destruction.
And as much as I've deserved a swift kick in the rear from God for my ignorance, my pride, my lack of reliance on His way as the best way, He's never done that to me. When I've been in the pit, face-down in the dirt of my bad decisions, God has never rubbed my face in it.
Why? Psalm 103:8. The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and (just in case you forgot what I said two seconds ago) PLENTEOUS IN MERCY.
That word mercy in the Hebrew is beautiful. It means "desire, ardour, in a good sense, zeal toward anyone, love, kindness." It cracks me up that this verse mentions mercy twice, once at the beginning and once at the end, but it's so wise of God. We forget that his mercy is waiting, ever-present, plentiful, abounding, overflowing. In face, we prefer Murphy's Law to God's, quickly assuming that anything bad that could possibly happen will, waiting "for the other shoe to drop." We expect the worst, enter situations skeptically, not hoping too much out of fear of disappointment, instead of remembering that His mercy is available, here, present, and plenteous.
Plenteous in the Hebrew means "much." Not a whole lot of depth in that word, huh? When I was a kid, and my dad would look at me and say, "How much do you love me?" I would stretch my little arms out so wide, wide enough that they were practically behind my back, and say, "This much!" What I was doing was a physical representation of what I wasn't verbally able to express. To my little five-year-old self, stretching my arms out wide meant that my love for him was infinite, inexpressibly big.
So how much mercy does God have for you? How much zeal, how much desire, how much enthusiasm, how much passion, how much love and kindness? THIS MUCH. I'm so thankful for the kindness of God in my life today, for his infinite patience with me. Not a foot-tapping, eyeing-the-clock, how-long-until-you-get-your-act-together, eye-rolling patience. Not simply a tolerance of me or my behavior, but a beautiful zeal for me in both my successes and failures.
The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy.
There have been so many times in my life that I've come to the end of my own mistakes, come to the end of my own bad, self-centered decisions, and have had to experience the pain of the result. This is the ugly side of the oft-used biblical reference "you reap what you sow."
Many times I've sown seeds out of the desire to fulfill what my flesh wants, only to reap the inevitable result of corruption and destruction.
And as much as I've deserved a swift kick in the rear from God for my ignorance, my pride, my lack of reliance on His way as the best way, He's never done that to me. When I've been in the pit, face-down in the dirt of my bad decisions, God has never rubbed my face in it.
Why? Psalm 103:8. The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and (just in case you forgot what I said two seconds ago) PLENTEOUS IN MERCY.
That word mercy in the Hebrew is beautiful. It means "desire, ardour, in a good sense, zeal toward anyone, love, kindness." It cracks me up that this verse mentions mercy twice, once at the beginning and once at the end, but it's so wise of God. We forget that his mercy is waiting, ever-present, plentiful, abounding, overflowing. In face, we prefer Murphy's Law to God's, quickly assuming that anything bad that could possibly happen will, waiting "for the other shoe to drop." We expect the worst, enter situations skeptically, not hoping too much out of fear of disappointment, instead of remembering that His mercy is available, here, present, and plenteous.
Plenteous in the Hebrew means "much." Not a whole lot of depth in that word, huh? When I was a kid, and my dad would look at me and say, "How much do you love me?" I would stretch my little arms out so wide, wide enough that they were practically behind my back, and say, "This much!" What I was doing was a physical representation of what I wasn't verbally able to express. To my little five-year-old self, stretching my arms out wide meant that my love for him was infinite, inexpressibly big.
So how much mercy does God have for you? How much zeal, how much desire, how much enthusiasm, how much passion, how much love and kindness? THIS MUCH. I'm so thankful for the kindness of God in my life today, for his infinite patience with me. Not a foot-tapping, eyeing-the-clock, how-long-until-you-get-your-act-together, eye-rolling patience. Not simply a tolerance of me or my behavior, but a beautiful zeal for me in both my successes and failures.
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