i'm changing my license plates

As you read this, please keep in mind that I have a degree, have held a full-time teaching job for two years, live on my own, pay my bills, budget accordingly, and am generally respected for having the mental capacity to screw in a lightbulb without anybody's help. However, on my way to the post office to responsibly mail payments to those companies who have earned my patronage, I first run over the curb with not one, but two wheels. Then, as a sheepishly align my car to the narrow path which leads to the mail boxes, I look in my rearview mirror to see if the woman in the Lexus behind me has a condescending countenance. I cannot tell. Then, as I reach to put my letters in the mail box, I drop all of the envelopes in between my car and the mail box. I am now flustered beyond control and am afraid to look in my rearview mirror to read the Lexus woman’s face. I open the car door to retrieve my responsible payments to those who have earned my patronage, but, because I forgot to put the car in park, the vehicle rolls forward and the slightly ajar car door smacks into the lip of the blue mail box. Fortunately I am only half-way out of the car at this point, and I apply the brakes to prevent the car from hitting the car precariously parked in the middle of the path in front of me. I, with my foot still on the break, bend over to pick up my bills and put them in the mail box. Unfortunately, not anticipating this string of events, I did not replace the Eastern logo on the back of my car with a U of I sticker.

fellowship in the mud

I visited a state park a few weeks ago with a group of friends. It was a wonderful weekend and a wonderful time just to kick back, enjoy company, and enjoy the nature that we so often miss in our busy lives. At one point in the trip, we had just come from one side of a deep dell, around which we climbed through small caves and climbed behind a small waterfall. We laughed at and wished the worst for each other as we found footing on narrow ledges, sometimes readying cameras for what seemed to be a friend’s imminent plunge into the pond around which we were climbing. After awhile we decided to hike on towards the opposite side of the dell to see what adventures might be in store for us there. The brush grew thicker, the dirt turned to mud, and we soon came upon a trickling stream. Some boys – actually, I think it was just my brother with his waterproof boots – moved a log so that we could use it to cross the stream, and my brother started haphazardly throwing large rocks in front of us, I later understood for us to walk on. Before long, we were in a quagmire. I don’t remember ever making a conscious decision to continue, or why we as a group just decided to go where it seemed no sensible person had gone before, but most of us did. We cautiously tested the soft ground before we took a step and tried to follow each other’s steps exactly. The boys went out ahead of us and tried to make things as easy as possible for the girls (even though we are beastly mountain women), often offering a hand or showing where to step. Sometimes they just weren’t sure though; I remember thinking that the path through the poison ivy was a better option than what they were doing, and I led us through with only one casualty due to a stinging nettle. Sure, people got hurt. One girl got elbowed in the face. Another girl got attacked by a plant left over from the curse of Adam. But, that can happen on even the most benign trail. The fact is, navigating our way through that muddy quagmire was one of my favorite parts of the trip. We willingly put ourselves in a challenging situation. It was muddy. It was wet. I sunk to my ankles in the mud a couple of times. I slipped off a rock and ended up standing in water once or twice too. But we were all in it together, helping each other out, trusting each other, and sympathizing with each other as our feet were consumed by the earth. And the great part is, we willingly put ourselves in that situation. We didn’t realize it would eventually get so muddy that we would have to turn back, but we knew it would be muddy, and we knew it would be more than a stroll. And what’s more, I probably laughed harder on that part of the trip than I did on any other.

I loved that camping trip. It made us like kids in that we wanted the biggest challenge. When I was little, I remember waiting for the day when I would be out of kindergarten and into the first grade, because that would mean I would no longer have to settle for the little climbing dome on the playground; I would graduate to the big dome. I looked forward to the big slides, the big teeter-totters, and the tires. Isn’t it funny? When we were little we would long for greater challenges. We wanted to sit atop the big dome, climb through the caverns of the tires, view the world from the highest rung of the latter on the slide. We wanted to get bigger, to be able to do more difficult things. I was so disappointed the first time I rode my bike across the block. The vanishing point of the sidewalk seemed like such a mysterious place; I imagined all sorts of adventures there. As the mysterious turned familiar, I remember, even at age six, feeling a loss. Challenge turned into the mundane. But as I grew up, I found myself choosing the mundane over the mysterious. I know some of you never lost your stomach for the most grueling option, but somewhere I started to settle for less. I would rather be with people just like me. I’ll drive the paved road instead of the gravel road. I’ll send an e-mail instead of making the phone call. I continue working instead of going to graduate school. As an adult, I am lacking something I had as a child: the desire and courage to go after the greater challenge and thus experience the greater adventure. And, with the God that I serve, I imagine I’m missing out on some pretty grand adventures and some pretty grand people with whom to experience those adventures.

Did we accomplish anything in our voyage through the mud? No, not really. Kristen got quite a bump on her head, and Rebekah got quite a stinging sensation in her hand, and we all got mud smeared up to our knees. But, it was fun. I laughed harder than I have laughed in a long time. Who knows what we would have found if we had continued? Probably more mud, but also probably more laughter, more ingenuity at the hands of my brother, and more opportunities to help each other as we struggled along the path. Thank God for those muddy times. Thank God that we have to help each other out every once in awhile. Thank God that we have to get close enough to each other to actually touch each other once in awhile. Maybe if we trusted God more to follow Him into those quagmires more often, we would get to experience that fellowship more, maybe we would get to laugh more, maybe we would delight in Him more.

answered prayer

Sometimes I forget that God hears. I pray, and I do consciously believe God hears, but I don't live my days in expectation of seeing His work. I pray every day (okay, I have missed a day or two) for the safety of my family. I pray for Mom and Dad, for JP and Linsay, that God would protect them from disaster or disease, from accident or harm. Things scare me. JP scuba dives. Submerging oneself in water does not sound like a good idea to me. Dad sometimes gets on a ladder and fixes things. Termites eat wood. Ladders are made out of wood. Anything can happen. Mom plants flowers. Flowers attract bees and hostile hummingbirds. It could get ugly. So I pray. And sometimes God shows up in visible ways.

A few weeks ago my dad, after a morning of documenting continuing education for his teaching certificate, as well engaging in other enjoyable activies, decided that he would sit down on our back deck and enjoy a Subway sandwich. It was a beautiful day, not even a breeze, temperature in the 70's. School was out for the summer, the pace of the day was laid back, and for once my parents had a day of peace. Dad could enjoy his sandwich with no worry of stress-induced indigestion. Well, that was until the sky started falling. Without warning, the utitility pole in our backyard snapped at its base, falling across the doghouse, nearly crashing into our neighbor's garage. The power line from the pole to the house went slack, falling across the deck (see photo below), not more than five feet from where Dad was sitting with a mouth full of turkey club on Asiago toasted bread. The strength of the main power lines managed to keep the pole from crashing through the garage, but as they swayed with the shift of weight, they bounced off of each other, arking and sparking all across the neighborhood. Less than five feet away from the live power line lying across the deck on which he was sitting, Dad decided not to move. He also decided he didn't feel like finishing his sandwich. Mom, unable to actually get to him, asked if she should call 911. Dad decided that was a good idea.

I am just thankful that Dad wasn't hurt or killed. And I am thankful that Mom didn't run out there and get hurt or killed as well. This was a near miss. A freak accident that could have turned tragic. I wonder how many freak accidents and "normal" accidents we avoid each day. I wonder what impact my prayers had on that near miss.

I doubt we realize the impact of many, if not most of our prayers. When I was in college, I and a group of others prayed twice a week for Eastern's campus, for the students and faculty, for the Christian Campus House, for those who there, for those who had not yet arrived. We who prayed, and I know there were many who prayed for the campus, even if they did not sit in that particular circle, will live our lives never knowing exactly why God put it on our hearts to pray that semester, that year. And we will never know what lives are different now because God called us to prayer and we obeyed. Maybe a girl was more careful about who had touched her drink. Maybe an international student was befriended by an American student who really wanted to be his friend. Maybe someone decided that she would give Intervarsity a try. Perhaps a challenging question that a professor asked motivated one student to think about life and meaning, existence and God. And then maybe that student had a conversation with a Christian on his floor, and then, months later, he started reading the Bible, asked quesitons, and surrendered his life to Christ. Maybe blessings of wisdom and strength were given to the student leaders at Campus House. Maybe. We prayed for all of those things. I am confident that they were in some way answered. And I am glad that students who preceded my time at Eastern prayed for me. I, an incoming freshman, scared, looking for belonging, looking for meaning, looking for God. I ended up at Campus House even though I had never heard of it before. And I stayed. So, anyone who was at Eastern the years before me, thank you for praying for me before you ever knew I existed. And those of you who are at Eastern now, please keep praying for the students who will follow you. God has a story in mind for them. He may be calling you to pray for them.

In a down power line, God reminded me that He still is answering prayer, even if I only occasionly am able to see it. It's not just a coincidence that safety is provided when we pray for it. Those people who prayed for the incoming freshman class, the class of '98, likely never really got to know me or become familiar with my story, or my roommate's story, or many of the stories that were written while we were there. Yet, those prayers were answered in God letting us find him.

I hope that I pray more now. I pray that I pray more.

Why visitations?

In my mind, visitations have always been somewhat ridiculous. The concept of the visitation is good, but the way we go about it here in the Midwest is tiring, stressful, and takes away from both mourning and celebration. My grandfather died last week, and, as is customary, there was a visitation the evening before the funeral. Grandpa’s body was laid out, open casket, at one end of the funeral home room, Grandma and all the children stood in front of and to the side of the casket, and then the mourners, the well-wishers, friends of the family, neighbors, etc. stood in a line around the perimeter of the room, waiting for forty-five minutes or more to shake the hands of the family, look at Grandpa, give their condolences, cry, and even be comforted by those they came to comfort. It sounds nice, but the family ends up standing for over three hours with the dead body of their loved one behind them. Friends of one child shake hands with all of the family members, explain who they are, and tell them that they are so sorry. None of the immediate family gets to really talk with anyone. The line progresses and people have one minute at most to express themselves, exchange hugs, or even be friends. Then the people walk out the door, and those who need comfort the most are still fulfilling their obligation to stand up, sweetly smile, thank people for coming, and nod their heads at what a wonderful life their loved one has led.

Why do we handle visitations this way? We don’t have to. When my great-grandmother died ten years ago, my dad’s cousin, Julie, from Washington state came home for the funeral, and looked at us quizzically at the mention of a visitation? What is a visitation? You stand up for hours while people pass through a line and shake your hand? Why? Do you really get to talk to people? What kind of comfort comes from that? I must say that some comfort does come from it. Grandma would never have considered doing a visitation any other way. It is the way things are done, and, in her mind, the standard way of expressing grief and love. But do things have to be that way? Or, if that is what people of my grandmother’s generation prefer and are most comforted by, does my generation have to follow suit? I found myself, accidentally, calling the visitation a reception all of last week. The irony of course is that a reception is a celebratory and joyful event, while the visitation is a mournful, subdued event. However, I believe that our mourning could be better served and comforted if our visitations were more like receptions. Why not make the funeral dinner the main visitation event? People can talk to the family members as long as they need to. Long hugs can be exchanged. Stories can be shared. Tears and laughter can mingle. Please do not get me wrong. I am not discounting mourning, grief, and tears as legitimate, appropriate, and God-given ways of working through the death of a loved one, and I am not suggesting that we just pretend that there is nothing to cry about and have a party instead. But, in working through grief, I wonder if there is a better way. The love of family and friends is crucial in the times of grief; why not make it easier to give and receive that love? Why not create the opportunity for legitimate acts of kindness? Why not forgo the line and create a authentic environment for friendship and sharing – why not a meal, an open house, or even a worship service with authentic fellowship afterwards. What we need most in our times of grief is love. Why not reflect that in our services?

homecomings

Yesterday I returned home from a 10 day absence, the beginning of which was a wonderful, yet probably not deserved, respite from responsibility, but the majority of which was spent giving comfort, receiving comfort, and mourning the death of my grandfather. The visit to my hometown, county, township was somewhat formulaic, I feeling like the lead character in a movie about homecomings, family, and discovering who we really are, with the houses, buildings, and big yards that contained our childhoods. I, having left to aquaint myself with bigger cities, returned home to the farm, the quaint country church, and hosts of relatives and friends whom I had not bothered writing or calling. After my visit there, I am in no way eager to move back to Central Illinois, nor do I feel like I have to rearrange my life, reprioritize, or gut the infrastructure of my personality in tune with what I feel I may have discovered during a time of sorrow with the people who taught me my earliest lessons. However, I feel that I did, in a way, emotionally come back home. I had been angry, not with my parents, but with others and their failure to live up to my expectations, their failure to be the sparkling idols that I had set them up to be. The farm, my grandparents’ farm, had been my Utopia growing up. Everything that was good, everything that was worked for, earned, and enjoyed was in my mind and my heart somewhere on those farms. I loved the pastures of the North farm, the creek of the Homeplace, the red-winged black birds, the dogs, the kittens, and the calls of the livestock. I enjoyed being in the middle of nowhere. And I loved my Grandpa, the man who worked the farm, whose touch could calm the animals, who worked hard without complaint and without ever counting down to vacation. I remember praying for him with all my might when some sort of machinery would break down (which was every week), just begging God to cut Grandpa a break, give him a taste of success, let him be glad at the fruit of his work. I thought my Grandpa could do no wrong... imagine my devastation when I found out that he could. I, little by little, realized that the farm was no Utopia, that my grandfather was not infallible. I don’t know if I was angry, was hurt, or was just frustrated, but I distanced myself from the farm for a long time. I returned there in the wake of Grandpa’s death, however, and found myself no longer angry or frustrated or wanting to not be there. I don't know why, but I was just at peace with everything. Things had been done wrong, things were not ideal, and in some ways things were just the opposite of what they could have been if only Grandpa had stopped striving long enough to consider us, his family. But, I forgave the farm, my grandpa, and myself. I came to treasure my role as granddaughter once again. I felt satisfied with my place in the family tree. I felt like Grandpa would have been proud of me, even though he wouldn't have known how to show it. I know Grandpa loved me, even though he didn't understand me and was scared to try. I know my grandfather is Grandpa, and even though we are now paying for some of his mistakes, we loved him, and I forgive him. That is at least one less load to bear.