When I was in high school, I wanted to be an architect. It was a respected career; besides, I loved the angular handwriting with the slanted horizontal letter strokes. I did all I could to prepare: took extra math and drafting classes, and attended an intensive summer workshop in architecture. That clinched it for me – the atmosphere and professors and students were so very cool, and I wanted it so badly. So I applied to only one college, the third-highest-ranking college in the U.S. for architecture, because I was so sure of where I belonged. It was great… but as the focus became more real and less abstract, it became less fun for me, until finally I knew: it wasn’t for me. I had talents, but those weren’t my strongest ones. Still, it was hard to give up the image of myself I’d created, and, perhaps more importantly, I didn’t want people to think I had failed.
Eventually, I switched to graphic design. My whole life had prepared me – the hours doodling and coloring intricate design books because I was bored, the hand-drawn type, the “newspapers” I wrote and designed to send to my pen pals. I found that my time as an architecture student was rather valuable preparation. Learning to look at things in a different way, to find out-of-the-box solutions to a given problem? I learned that in the architecture program. The math? Helpful to me as I’ve run my own business these past 14 years. No matter how much we prepare for something, though, until we actually try it, we don’t know if we can do it. Would I be a better architect or designer? I didn’t know until I actually stepped into those roles.
I’ve always thought I had very strong faith, but I also knew it had never really been put to the test. Again, I prepared diligently: I spent years praying, learning the Word, and seeking the face and heart of God. The training was there, but not the practice. Now my mom has cancer, and I have to step into a whole new role and try it out. The problem? I don’t feel like I belong there, or that I’m strong enough to stand upright, or spiritual enough to find the good in this. I’m so afraid I don’t have what it takes to allow others to see God through me as my family walks this path. I’m fearful that my weakness will make everyone think I’ve been an imposter all this time, that I’m not really what they thought I was. My eloquent prayers have evaporated and I sit in silence, not knowing what to say. I’m scared.
But, even if, to my deep disappointment, I discover that my faith is not what I thought it would be, that I’m not very strong and I’m not very sure – even if that’s true – at least I can take comfort in knowing that all my preparation is not lost. It’s still there, deep down inside. The Word is written on my heart, if I’ll only dig down deep to find it. The Lord is leaning down, reaching out His gentle hands to hold me, if only I’ll grab on to Him. Though it’s hard to believe at this moment, I think I will find that I do, in fact, have the faith I always hoped was there. I didn’t believe that even as I started writing this, but I feel God assuring me now that I do. He has already filled me with His love and His hope and His faith; it’s not about my abilities at all anymore, just His. I just have to step forward into this new role, and believe. With Him, I can be anything He wants me to be. I can do anything. Even something I really don’t want to do. Even this.
Oxygen masks
I sat on board the plane, waiting for take-off. When the flight attendant started her safety spiel, I zoned out. It’s important stuff, I know, but I’ve heard it so many times I can’t seem to force myself to pay attention. I look down at my book, and glance up again as she demonstrates how to use the oxygen mask. If the plane loses pressure, the masks will drop out of a compartment above you. Tug gently on the mask to start the flow of oxygen. Secure your own mask before helping a child or elderly person sitting beside you.
That has always struck me as backwards. Shouldn’t we be selfless and help the needy first? After all, they may not know what to do, or they may be less able to follow the instructions. But, to be practical, if you don’t have air, you can’t help someone else. Neither one of you would be able to breathe. As a Christian, this idea seems particularly hard to justify. Aren’t we to help others? To give the coat off our backs to someone in need? To feed them, clothe them, pray for them and love them and show them God’s love? To put ourselves last, to be the least among our brethren? It seems obvious – we are never to help ourselves first.
But as soon as I had that thought, a still, small voice told me I was wrong. It’s just like the oxygen masks. Yes, of course we are to do for others, in all those many ways. But if we do not take care of ourselves, we aren’t much use to someone else. If we don’t feed ourselves with the word and fill our faith tanks with prayer, we have nothing inside us to give to the needy person next to us. God created us, and He breathed into us the breath of life. In John 20, it is written, “He breathed on them, and saith unto them, Receive ye the Holy Ghost.” If I’m not nourished by the presence of God in my life, I have nothing helpful or valuable to give to the person beside me.
I wrote these words many weeks ago, and now the oxygen mask means a different thing to me. When I wrote, my world was not crashing down, I was not falling topsy-turvy through the sky, I was not gasping for air. My mom has been diagnosed with cancer, and I feel like I’m free-falling, waiting to crash. During this time, I have to remind myself of two things. One, that God will give me what I need to be able to breathe, to be able to survive. And two, it is the blessing of my loving friends and family beside me who, thank God, have kept their air tanks filled and are holding the mask to my face for me. When I can’t help myself, I find myself grateful beyond words to those who sit right next to me, holding me up.
That has always struck me as backwards. Shouldn’t we be selfless and help the needy first? After all, they may not know what to do, or they may be less able to follow the instructions. But, to be practical, if you don’t have air, you can’t help someone else. Neither one of you would be able to breathe. As a Christian, this idea seems particularly hard to justify. Aren’t we to help others? To give the coat off our backs to someone in need? To feed them, clothe them, pray for them and love them and show them God’s love? To put ourselves last, to be the least among our brethren? It seems obvious – we are never to help ourselves first.
But as soon as I had that thought, a still, small voice told me I was wrong. It’s just like the oxygen masks. Yes, of course we are to do for others, in all those many ways. But if we do not take care of ourselves, we aren’t much use to someone else. If we don’t feed ourselves with the word and fill our faith tanks with prayer, we have nothing inside us to give to the needy person next to us. God created us, and He breathed into us the breath of life. In John 20, it is written, “He breathed on them, and saith unto them, Receive ye the Holy Ghost.” If I’m not nourished by the presence of God in my life, I have nothing helpful or valuable to give to the person beside me.
I wrote these words many weeks ago, and now the oxygen mask means a different thing to me. When I wrote, my world was not crashing down, I was not falling topsy-turvy through the sky, I was not gasping for air. My mom has been diagnosed with cancer, and I feel like I’m free-falling, waiting to crash. During this time, I have to remind myself of two things. One, that God will give me what I need to be able to breathe, to be able to survive. And two, it is the blessing of my loving friends and family beside me who, thank God, have kept their air tanks filled and are holding the mask to my face for me. When I can’t help myself, I find myself grateful beyond words to those who sit right next to me, holding me up.
An envelope full of leaves
One day, walking to the post office, I noticed the leaves were starting to turn colors. Fall is my favorite time of year, and I walked slowly, stopping to pick up the prettiest leaves, gently shuffling through the blanket of leaves, trying to uncover the most colorful and interesting ones. Bright green centers with orange and red edges, some all red – you know, the vivid-beyond-anything-you-can-imagine red/orange/pink color of maple leaves in all their fall glory. Each one is a work of art. At the time, Pastor Nathan was in Afghanistan, and I missed him so much. So, that day, I gathered a handful of the prettiest leaves, and when I got to the post office, I laid them between sheets of white paper, sealed them inside a cardboard envelope, and sent them off to Afghanistan. I figured by the time they got there, they’d be all brown and brittle, and it was likely Nathan would end up with an envelope full of crushed leaves. But I sent them anyway, because I love the colors so much it makes my heart hurt, and because when I studied overseas during college I missed seeing our version of autumn, and because it broke my heart to think of Nathan missing out on this beauty, this annual display of God’s splendor that takes our breath away every single time.
Of all the care packages and letters I sent, this is the one Nathan most often mentions. I don’t know why it affected him, but I know why I sent them. I missed him, and I wanted him to know I was thinking about him. And the colors were too beautiful not to share. I thought Nathan needed to see this quintessential part of life back home, and remember all the things he loved, and long to come home so strongly that nothing – no matter what, nothing – would keep him from returning.
I think this might explain why God gave us His Word. He loved us, and long before we had been born, He already longed for us to return to Him. He knew of the incredible beauty waiting for us and wanted to stir up a longing in our hearts that would sustain us. And, being the Creator of all, He knew intimately of the beauty of His home, and of His love, and of the beauty He placed within each of us. It was all too beautiful not to share. So He did.
Of all the care packages and letters I sent, this is the one Nathan most often mentions. I don’t know why it affected him, but I know why I sent them. I missed him, and I wanted him to know I was thinking about him. And the colors were too beautiful not to share. I thought Nathan needed to see this quintessential part of life back home, and remember all the things he loved, and long to come home so strongly that nothing – no matter what, nothing – would keep him from returning.
I think this might explain why God gave us His Word. He loved us, and long before we had been born, He already longed for us to return to Him. He knew of the incredible beauty waiting for us and wanted to stir up a longing in our hearts that would sustain us. And, being the Creator of all, He knew intimately of the beauty of His home, and of His love, and of the beauty He placed within each of us. It was all too beautiful not to share. So He did.
Going back
I went to my daughter’s swim meet this weekend. It was held at my old high school, in the pool in which we swam in P.E. The whole building has changed around it – new wings added, new hallways and entrances and classrooms, but the pool is just the same. Sitting there looking around this place I didn’t even know I remembered, memories flooded in. The fear of having to jump off the diving board, feet first, going all the way to the bottom of the pool before I was allowed to resurface. The humiliation of wearing suits color-coded by size, stretched out in front by girls more “developed” than I, tied closed in back with a shoestring. P.E. teachers giving first aid demonstrations over there. My asthma making it hard to catch my breath; always swimming in the lane by the wall so I could stop if I had to.
With distance, sometimes we forget. But when we go back to a place from our past, emotions and feelings and events and details float up from the depths of our memory, fresh and strong and vivid. I was surprised at what I remembered after so long (gasp! It’s been 25 years!). Maybe we need to go back spiritually sometimes, too. Back to the place where we first found God (or where He found us). Back to the spot where we were when it happened. Back to the way we used to pray or worship. We need to remember how He got our attention. Why we fell in love with Him. What He said to us, and what we were doing when he said it. We need to let His love wash over us in waves. We need to flood our senses with the feeling of His presence. We need to dive right in, into the deep, deep waters of faith, without any fear. Without hesitation. Just jump right in.
With distance, sometimes we forget. But when we go back to a place from our past, emotions and feelings and events and details float up from the depths of our memory, fresh and strong and vivid. I was surprised at what I remembered after so long (gasp! It’s been 25 years!). Maybe we need to go back spiritually sometimes, too. Back to the place where we first found God (or where He found us). Back to the spot where we were when it happened. Back to the way we used to pray or worship. We need to remember how He got our attention. Why we fell in love with Him. What He said to us, and what we were doing when he said it. We need to let His love wash over us in waves. We need to flood our senses with the feeling of His presence. We need to dive right in, into the deep, deep waters of faith, without any fear. Without hesitation. Just jump right in.
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