This, for me, was the pertinent quote:

When I’m with somebody who talks zealously about faith, about Jesus, about the Bible, after a while, I find myself wondering whether or not their faith is strong at all. For instance, if I were with somebody who kept talking about how much they loved their wife, going on loudly and profusely, intuitively I would wonder whether or not they were struggling in their marriage. I would wonder whether they were trying to convince me they loved their wife, or if they were just trying to convince themselves. Faith in Christ, for me, is similar. It’s intimate and private. I’m not comfortable giving loud prayers. I’m more comfortable giving quiet prayers, intimate prayers. Often alone, in fact. Of course there is a time for proclamations, but that’s the key, isn’t it? There’s a time. I love that the New Testament is mostly intimate letters written to small groups of people who met in homes. I like the quiet authenticity of our faith.

I have never thought about the New Testament like that before, but I like it, too. Of course there are times and places for being bold and taking a stand. But more often than not, faith is about what you do and how you act in the quiet.

The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you. There’s only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you’ll reach out and take it. Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too. -Frederick Buechner

I used the first part of this quote back at the end of November, but I decided I wanted to go ahead and post the entire thing (luckily I reserved the right to revisit it). I have been thinking some more about the idea of writing a story with your life, and I am challenged by the idea of reaching out and taking the gift of grace. Maybe that’s not too surprising, since I tend to hold back. To keep from being rejected. To keep from being embarrassed. Because it hurts. Because I have all these holes in my life and there seems to be no way to fill them. Because I am afraid.

But part of the story I want to write with my life is about taking the offered gift: the hand of friendship, the time, the kind word, the beautiful day, the way words turn into sentences and sentences into stories. Of those, the only ones that I ever accept without reservation are the stories that I can take in without having to share myself with anyone else. We just celebrated Christmas, and I have been overwhelmed with what Jesus gave up to come and be with us, what he shared with us, and what he offers us. I don’t always know what to do with strong emotion, and what emotion could be stronger than the love of God that compels him to come to earth as a baby?

The confidence that enables people to accept gifts graciously always seems like a gift in itself, and one that I admire and envy. But looking at the quote makes me wonder . . . if those are the things that the grace of God is offering to me, what business do I have to be afraid?

—

Don’t forget, today is the last day to enter to win a mix CD!

When I was in high school, we did a section on Thoreau and Emerson. I found nothing to like about them, and in my reflection, slammed them quite a bit, calling them self-centered and self-important. I still have very little use for them, but I have come to appreciate what they were doing a little bit more than I did then. I have also come to realize that it was maybe not the place of a junior in high school to determine whether Thoreau and Emerson were as great as they thought they were. Or whether they were great at all. Students like me are the reason I am glad I don’t teach high school English. I doubt my work was revealing any heavenly lights.

I ran across this quote over my winter break, which seemed convenient since the new year is always a good time to think about where changes need to be made. The past few weeks, as 2009 was winding down, one thing that I began to realize is that, in the busyness of life, I have let too many things slide, especially when it comes to relationships. It is difficult for me to balance working full-time with much of anything else, and I have had quite a lot else going on. When I come home from work, I really just want to put on my pajamas and relax. I do not want to leave my house. I do not want to pick up the phone. I do not even really want to get on email. The Bible is very clear on the idea that we need people. I am less clear on how to make that happen when life is wearing me out. I am lucky that I have such good, patient friends and family, because they have put up with a lot.

I don’t really do resolutions, but I enjoyed this post by Don Miller in which he talked about living a good story. I haven’t read his latest book, but I love the idea of giving your goals a narrative context so that you know the kind of story you want your life to tell. I want my life to tell a story of rich relationships, of people I trust and can turn to. This year, with the extra time on my hands, I want to invest in the people around me. I want them to be more a part of the story of my life.

In order for that to happen, it’s not enough to write a blog post about feelings and motivation. It takes time and effort and some of that aforementioned humility to go with hat in hand and apologize for being unavailable, for being unable to prioritize. I have more respect for Mr. Thoreau than I used to. I hope he’s right about those heavenly lights.

Don’t forget to enter to win a mix CD if you haven’t already done so! If you need more examples of my mix CDs to entice you, here’s one I made for Alisa and here’s one I made for a CD swap. Oh, and here’s the left-handed mix I made last year.

“The time is ripe for looking back over the day, the week, the year, and trying to figure out where we have come from and where we are going to, for sifting through the things we have done and the things we have left undone for a clue to who we are and who, for better or worse, we are becoming. But again and again we avoid the long thoughts….We cling to the present out of wariness of the past. And why not, after all? We get confused. We need such escape as we can find. But there is a deeper need yet, I think, and that is the need—not all the time, surely, but from time to time—to enter that still room within us all where the past lives on as a part of the present, where the dead are alive again, where we are most alive ourselves to turnings and to where our journeys have brought us. The name of the room is Remember—the room where with patience, with charity, with quietness of heart, we remember consciously to remember the lives we have lived.” — Frederick Buechner (A Room Called Remember: Uncollected Pieces)

Happy New Year!

Our Advent series at church this year is about Mary, the first disciple. When you talk about something every year, it is always a challenge to hear it in a new way. This morning I was struck by one of the comparisons that our pastor made: by bearing God into the world in the form of Jesus, Mary made it possible for all of us to bear God into the world ourselves. Mike and I talked about it later, this idea that we can carry God into the work that we do, his light into the world, his presence and comfort into difficult situations. We are all given the opportunity to be disciples like Mary, to choose to be the handmaiden (or handmaster?) of the Lord and receive the gifts that we have been given. Make no mistake, they may be challenging gifts indeed, if Mary is any indication. The Christmas Mystery points this out, too: “There’s no point in believing what’s right unless it leads to helping people in distress.”

If we focus too much on all the (wonderful) trappings of the holiday, we will miss part of this heavenly glory: God, incarnate, who dwelt among us so that now his Spirit can live within us. And all the beautiful, difficult, messy, glorious things that means.

As we move into Advent we are called to listen, something we seldom take time to do in this frenetic world of over-activity. But waiting for birth, waiting for death–these are lightning times when the normal distractions of life have lost their power to take us away from God’s call to center in Christ.

During Advent we are traditionally called to contemplate death, judgment, hell, and heaven. To give birth to a baby is also a kind of death–death to the incredible intimacy of carrying a child, death to old ways of life and birth into new–and it is as strange for the parents as for the baby. Judgment: John of the Cross says that in the evening of life we shall be judged on love; not on our accomplishments, not on our successes and failure sin the worldly sense, but solely on love.

Once again, as happened during the past nearly two thousand years, predictions are being made of the time of this Second Coming, which, Jesus emphasized, “even the angels in heaven do not know.” But we human creatures, who are “a little lower than the angels,” too frequently try to set ourselves above them with our predictions and our arrogant assumption of knowledge which God hid even from the angels. Advent is not a time to declare, but to listen, to listen to whatever God may want to tell us through the singing of the stars, the quickening of a baby, the gallantry of a dying man.

Listen. Quietly. Humbly. Without arrogance.

In the first verse of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” we sing, “Word of God, our flesh that fashioned with the fire of life impassioned,” and the marvelous mystery of incarnation shines. “Because in the mystery of the Word made flesh,” goes one of my favorite propers, for it is indeed the mystery by which we live, give birth, watch death.

When the Second Person of the Trinity entered the virgin’s womb and prepared to be born as a human baby (a particular baby, Jesus of Nazareth), his death was inevitable.

It is only after we have been enabled to say, “Be it unto me according to your Word,” that we can accept the paradoxes of Christianity. Christ comes to live with us, bringing an incredible promise of God’s love, but never are we promised that there will be no pain, no suffering, no death, but rather that these very griefs are the road to love and eternal life.

In Advent we prepare for the coming of all Love, that love which will redeem all the brokenness, wrongness, hardnesses of heart which have afflicted us -Madeleine L’Engle

I posted this passage a couple of years ago during December, when I posted a thought or poem by Madeleine L’Engle or Luci Shaw for Advent each day of December. You can see them here. As this is the first Sunday of Advent, I thought I would repost one of the passages, and this is the one that stood out to me. I have been thinking about good things and bad things and suffering lately. If there is some kind of scale for how well people can handle adversity, I would be on the low end of that scale. I think that somewhere along the line I developed a twisted, fearful idea of what it means to face adversity. I have been emailing my pastor about this, because it’s something I want to start dealing with so that I have life’s struggles in a more appropriate perspective. In his last email to me, he said:

I believe it is God’s speciality to bring good from evil. God works with us to bring good out of all the stupid and evil things we do, and God is so good at this alchemy that people think God planned it. I don’t believe that.

I love that word, alchemy. That’s what Madeleine L’Engle is talking about, too, this surprising redemption that we celebrate during Advent. And so I am going to take her advice and try to listen this year. Our Advent theme at church this year is about Mary, the first disciple, and I am looking forward to hearing her “old familiar story” again, letting it wash over me anew.

I am just starting to realize now exactly how depressed I was over the summer. Hence my giant manifesto for the fall – I needed to have a plan so I could get through. I needed to feel like things were under control. And since I just have one class left to attend, it is looking like I might make it after all. Little mini-breaks like this are so helpful because I can see how easy my insides unwind, even with all the chaos of the renovation around me. I hope it means that I am handling things better. The things that were stressing me out were things that are, well, stressful. I don’t think that I can say that I have learned not to let those sorts of things bother me, but I think that I have learned that being very intentional about certain things, including vitamins and exercise and taking time for myself (which usually means reading) can make a difference.

And though I have not been officially participating in NaBloPoMo, I thought it would be fun to try to post every day this month just to see if I could do it. One thing I have learned this month is that the discipline of writing (and oh, it is definitely a discipline, trying to come up with something to say every day for a month) also helps. It helps me work out those things that knot up my insides. I made the wrong decision over the summer when I took a month off. I think that made things worse. And so this is my public apology to everyone who interacted with me this summer: I’m really sorry about all that.

I have been thinking a lot about this quote by Frederick Buechner:

“The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you.”

I reserve the right to talk about this quote again, but what I have been thinking about are ways to feel more included in this party that we call life rather than always seeing myself as a wallflower. That’s what I want to focus on this year for Advent, the idea that God actually wants me at this party. What are your ways to remember that? How do you focus on that idea of grace?

“What we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often just what we also fear more than anything else. It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are . . . because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing. It is important to tell our secrets too because it makes it easier . . . for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own . . . ” -Frederick Buechner

This evening I gave our neighbors a key to our house. We already have a key to their house, because we often take care of their dog when they go out of town. By the way, their dog is awesome. Coming from me, that is really something. She is a good dog. Also, she likes me. It could be because of that one time I gave her peanut butter. I’m really not sure. It could just be because I take the compost out to the back yard. She likes eating the compost. And Big Bunny’s poop. I know. It’s gross.

It seems like a big deal to exchange keys. We just got ours back from Alisa, and with all the construction, I really wanted them to have one in case of some kind of emergency (like the one that struck when I was at the movies tonight, but I won’t bore you with that story). And it just seemed fair. Perhaps they would like to feed Big Bunny something inappropriate, since their dog is always getting into our compost. Perhaps we might lock ourselves out at some point. Or perhaps I wanted, in some way, to say that our house is open to them, as theirs has been to us.

When we were looking at this house, we saw the nice family playing outside, and we were so happy to see people our own age. Over the past year and a half, we have gotten to know them more, little by little. It helps that they are generous of heart and spirit, always looking for ways to include people and make connections. (It also helps that their children are adorable.) I did not expect for them to become a regular part of our lives, spending time together on almost a daily basis. I did not expect to call them friends, to share our joys and sorrows with them. I did not expect to spend Saturday afternoons there, to have their help when Mike is out of town, to babysit their kids, to go for runs and pour out my soul, to spend countless hours with them at the pool across the street. It has been an unexpected gift, and I don’t know how to thank them for it. I simply handed them the key.

I think the pendulum has swung back a bit, or maybe I’m just not in the same environment that I used to be. All I know is that every year, I look forward to handing out candy, to seeing the little ones in their costumes. I look forward to our Great Pumpkin Party. And this year, Mike took things a step further when he decided that we would continue the Great Pumpkin Party fun on Halloween night itself, by offering s’mores and cider to the trick-or-treaters (only the ones we knew, do not fear). I would have been happy to sit inside and watch Halloween episodes of our favorite shows on Hulu, but Mike forced me outside to talk and eat and play with our friends. We sat in our carport with our twinkle lights on and our fire going and handed out candy and played Trivial Pursuit. Our friends came by and hung out for a while. And in the middle of it all, I remembered this John Fischer article in CCM back in 1999. He talked about being at home on Halloween, about interacting with the community around us. I realized that what Mike had done was a holy thing, that he was living out his faith in a real and meaningful way. He wants to know the people in our community and to be known by them. He will be the first to tell you that he is not good at committing to things and to people, but he is trying. And on Halloween, that meant doing more than just handing out candy.

I know you wish I would stop going on and on about the church calendar. And I am sorry. But this Sunday was All Saints’ Sunday, which happened to fall this year on All Saints’ Day. This is the day that we take to remember those in our church and in our lives who have passed. We speak their names, and this year we lit candles in remembrance. I looked at those candles and saw joy and pain intermingled. People we have loved who are no longer here with us. I am always thankful for this Sunday – it is one of my favorites. It’s right to take the time to remember the people we have lost, to name them and to acknowledge that empty space in our lives.

We laughed at evil and death on Halloween night. I saw Superman and kitty cats and a football player and a gumball machine. I lit candles to put in the jack-o-lanterns. And the next morning, I lit a candle in remembrance of my dad. The juxtaposition of the two is so perfect for me – death, you have no power here. Instead, we remember those who have gone before and who we will meet again. And we will keep our lights on, not because we are afraid, but because we love those around us and want to share our lives with them.

I, I love you
When you don’t
When you don’t do anything
When you’re useless
I love you more
When you don’t do anything

When you don’t move, when you don’t try
When you don’t say anything
When you don’t move, when you don’t win
When you don’t make anything look

I, I love you
When you don’t
When you don’t do anything
When you don’t want, when you don’t lie
When you don’t make any sense
When you don’t go, when you don’t hide
When you don’t think anything

I, I love you
When you don’t
When you don’t do anything
When you’re useless
I love you more
When you don’t do anything – Sam Phillips “Don’t Do Anything”

When I mentioned that back in June that I had taken a swimming lesson, I, uh, somehow neglected to tell you that I sat next to the pool and had an honest-to-goodness panic attack beforehand. Part of it was embarrassment that I was 29 (I was still 29 then, just barely) and didn’t really know how to swim, and part of it was that I am generally bad in the water, and part of it was fear of looking stupid, and part of it was just plain fear that I wouldn’t be able to do it. The pool is supposed to be a lounging place, and I was sitting there quietly crying because I was too scared to enjoy it. In the end, Mike had to get in with me, and the teacher was incredibly nice and made me feel so much better about my lack of skills. I have practiced, and though I never really managed to get the breathing part down, I will be ready to try again next summer.

I am not a bold person when it comes to trying new things. Little things like calling people I don’t know. Medium-sized things like taking a swimming lesson at the age of 29. (You might think that’s a small one, but to me it was at least medium-sized.) And big things like, oh, I don’t know, making new friends or changing jobs or moving . . . those things terrify me. I like safety, security, plans, and to-do lists.

I have thought a lot this summer about fear. I started that post talking about the high dive, and all summer I watched kids (and adults) run off it. Or pencil. Or flip. Or do the can opener. Or, my personal favorite, the cannonball. I wanted to join in the fun, but I was scared. It’s so high! Ten feet! During my last week of summer vacation, though, I told Mike I was going to do it. I climbed the ladder and took a few steps until I was out over the water. It was so blue and clear. And so, so far away. My legs started shaking. I made small jokey talk with the lifeguard about how she might need to rescue me. I held onto my suit (modesty before even fear) and jumped. When I came up, the lifeguard said, “Was it fun?” Fun? Fun was beside the point. This was about letting that high dive know who was boss! I will get back to you when I have finally decided which one of us that is.

Mike and my family and even God, they love me when I don’t do anything. It didn’t matter to Mike if I just wanted to sit beside the pool all day. It didn’t matter to him if I didn’t want to go off the high dive. What mattered to him was that I was afraid to try. He wants me to be happy . . . but not stagnant. I know, because that’s what I want for him. If he feels that way, if that’s what the people who care about me want for me, how much more must God both love me and want me to grow? I know those things. Sometimes they don’t make it into my heart, but I know them. They are the things that help me make sense of life’s challenges. I don’t want to turn everything into a “teachable moment,” but thinking through what I have learned and how I have grown and changed gives me a greater sense of peace and perspective.

This is going to be a challenging school year, because I am going to be trying a lot of new things. I think, though, that the people around me want me to succeed, and I am going to need their help both to get through and to be bold. When we left the pool that day, the lifeguard who did not have to save me was sitting at the front desk. She grinned at me and waved, something she’d never done before. It hadn’t occurred to me until just then that one of the benefits of being brave is that you start collecting people who are rooting for you.

(That’s not me. I just wanted you to see how high it is.)