Storm

Kansas City had a beautiful thunderstorm come through a few days ago. It was exactly what I think of when I picture a perfect thunderstorm. First you have days of warm, sticky humidity, when you don't know whether to put on a light jacket or sweater because of the slight chill, or to take off the jacket because it's just too clammy to have anything too close. Then, the wind comes. Clouds start rolling in from the southwest, starting off wispy and light, then slowly billowing to epic heights. And as the towers of fluff move overhead, the world suddenly goes eery dark, made even more foreboding by the streetlights turn on in the middle of the afternoon. Then you hear it...far in the distance...a quiet rumbling. You pass it off as a truck on the not-to-distant highway, but then you hear it again...a little closer...a little longer... Soon come the first pitter-patter of rain on the windows. Then...the storm hits! Raindrops as big as your fist, drowning out all other noise as it attacks the rooftops with gusto. People huddle in their cars or in doorways, waiting...praying for a break in the salvo to possibly make it inside (or out) without falling prey to the torrent flooding down onto the world.  Then just as you brace yourself to run into the melee - blinding light! Your breath and the very blood in your veins pauses in expectation as the world stops and you begin to count...one one-thousand....two one-thousand...three one-thousand...rumble, grumble, Bellow, CRASH! And a fireworks display better than any 4th of July celebration begins. It's awe inspiring in it's deadly intensity, leaving you feeling both terrified at the sheer power and yet thrilled at the magnitude of it's beauty. At any moment, every moment, another flash and crash, slowly catching up to each other till they happen simultaneously on the street opposite. Then as suddenly as it began, the rage of the storm begins to wear itself out. The one one-thousands slowly grow farther apart, the rain slowly gives up the fight. And there, behind the chaos and strife...a cool, gentle breeze. You close your eyes and take a slow, deep breath. This is what you've been waiting for: the release of stifling air pressure; the scent of fresh, wet grass (or pavement, depending on your taste in scents); the lackadaisical meandering of a breeze following in it's passionate brother's wake, gently bringing a smile to your face and life to your heart.

...And then you realize that this is a metaphor for life sometimes, and you can't help but praise God for the flash/CRASHes, because you know the cool breeze is coming. Just hang on, hope, and praise. Stand in awe of the storm while it's crashing around you; I promise, the aftermath will be worth so much more. (and don't worry, I've been preaching this to myself for the last week. Still storming, but the sunset is spectacular!)

Chosen

Most people in church go on and on about how crafty and sly the devil is. It's right there in Genesis, the first time we see the devil show up as a character: "Now the serpent was the most cunning of all the animals..." But what people may not realize is that God is cleverer than that sly ole devil. I mean, He's God, He created Lucifer in the first place. The fallen angel's problem was that he thought he was better than God was (Ha!). But I know that in the face of my strongholds and lies that tend to plague my life, I forget that God is more crafty. For example...

Today I was rereading one of my favorite books: Celebration of Discipline by Richard  Foster. In the chapter on the discipline of meditation, Foster describes one way that people can use their imaginations to picture themselves with Jesus, walking with Him on the beach in Galilee, sitting and talking with Him in the gospel stories. So I decided to try it. I closed my eyes and started to daydream. But this time, instead of my normal time-wasting daydreams, I chose to daydream about me and Jesus.

Now, this is where God got clever. See, Satan really didn't like the idea that I may realize that I can daydream about Jesus instead of all of the other unhealthy daydreams he likes to feed me. So I'm picturing myself on the beach, looking over at the crowd of disciples and Jesus...when the thought runs through me, heart, soul, and mind: "Jesus wouldn't want me over there with Him."

"What?! How is that God being clever? Isn't that the enemy attacking with lies?" Well, yes, the enemy was telling me a lie; but the thing is, Satan's been telling me that lie for so long now, but this was the first time I actually heard it. It was as if I thought it loud enough that it interrupted my daydream like a slap in the face. Up till now, it's been a lie that has wormed it's way into my mind and heart softer than a whisper. It's always just been a feeling, a suggestion, a hint of an idea. But this time, the enemy got so freaked out by what I was about to do that he forgot himself and practically shouted it. And then it was almost as if God cupped His hand to His ear and said, "Oh, wait, what...what was that? You were telling My daughter a lie? Did you hear that, Dear One? The enemy was telling you a LIE." And then God smirked, cause I heard it and understood. (ok, maybe God didn't smirk, He doesn't really need to. It was more likely a pointed look at Satan saying, "BACK OFF, SHE'S MINE!!!")

And I realized (as Satan ran off with his tail between his legs) that for so long I have been under the assumption that I'm just a tag-a-long, a burden, an extra mouth to feed in the crowd just wanting a glimpse of Jesus. I don't want just a glimpse of Him, I want Him. But I've believed that my presence would just burden Him, that I'd be underfoot, and that He'd feel pressured to make time for me in His already hectic schedule of disciples clamouring for attention. So I backed away, loving Him from a distance, but ignoring any advances He made towards me. "It's alright, I know You're busy. Don't feel that You need to spend time with me to keep up an appearance. You're tired; go, sleep, I'll just love You from over here." If Jesus had really been around, that's what I would've done. Just sit back, afraid to approach for fear of overwhelming Him, afraid to find out that I would actually be a burden, that He would say, "Sara, I'm just too tired right now, can we get coffee maybe in a few weeks?"

Or worse...afraid of finding out that I would just be another face in the crowd. Unknown. Unrecognized. Unloved.

There was another woman like that in the Bible. She actually could've gotten some serious repercussions from touching Jesus, as she was by Jewish law unclean. She'd been unclean for 12 years. Can you imagine...not being able to touch anyone for 12 years for fear of making them unclean as well? Granted, they would only be unclean for a week, but it probably wouldn't make her any friends if she kept touching people. So when she heard about Jesus, and knew in her heart that He could heal her, she didn't want to create a fuss, she didn't want Him or anyone else to even know that she touched Him. She was content to remain a hidden unseen face in the crowd.

But, like me, God did not let her go unnoticed. He stopped mid-stride, turned to look for her, giving her the opportunity to dare and take that first step forward towards Him, and then He called her "Daughter." (Mark 5:24-34). I don't think I would've heard anything else after that. I would've been too overwhelmed. I was just chosen by the One powerful enough to heal, to redeem, to set free, to send the devil fleeing. He stopped just for me. I'm not just a face in the crowd, a mouth to feed, a block on the calendar.

I'm the one He walks towards up the beach, holds out His hand and asks-with a hopeful smile and twinkle in His eyes, "Sara, come with Me?"

How could I say no?

Thoughts on thoughts...

What would happen if at the end of each day I wrote down each and every thought that went through my mind? Would I be able to share each thought with others? Would I be ashamed to show anyone anything that I wrote down?

I'm a thinker. I think about a mile a second (some of my coworkers and my closest friends can attest to this). But I'm also a dreamer, an Imaginarian, if you will. Sometimes, my imagination let's me see things in ways I wouldn't have before. It gives me creative ways to describe how I'm feeling and how I see the world and the people around me. Honestly, I would rather write this whole blog entry as an allegory, it would come out much easier than me just saying it like it is. I don't have words for "like it is", but I could write you a whole story about a girl who had a hard time speaking but once she began singing... actually, now that I think about, I did start writing such a story, I should keep working on that.

But sometimes, when I don't want to connect with the "like it is", I escape to dreaming. And sometimes the dreaming leads to imagining how things should be, how they could be, how they might be. The problem is- most of the time, I don't do this dreaming with God. The dreams I come up with, honestly they probably won't happen. But I spend my time thinking about them anyway. Essentially, I am telling God, "Yeah, Your idea for this story of my life is ok and all, but I think it would be better if it went like this..." I'm putting my own imagination above the Great Imaginarian that thought all of creation up in the first place.

At some point, I wake up from my dreams, and find that I don't really like myself for thinking them, but also find that story I'm supposed to be living is duller, less vivid and alive. That I'm less alive than I was a few years ago. When did that start happening? How do I get color and excitement and respect for my story back again?

The thing is, God already writes down each and every single one of my thoughts. My good ideas, my bad ones. My life-giving dreams, and the ones that, upon reflection, bring me disappointment and shame. He sees them all. If I really understood that, why am I just letting my imagination run wild?

If I started writing my thoughts down, being truly honest with myself of each and every one of them (that I honestly can remember), maybe it will change how I think throughout the day. Maybe I'll start daydreaming and suddenly think, I'll have to write this down tonight. Will I have the courage and strength to stop if I recognize that the current train of thought isn't one I'd want God to write down, or other people to read if I wrote it down? Some of my dreams are nice ones, seemingly innocent little day-dreams that are pleasant to imagine after a long day. But imagining I'm Cinderella for an hour before I fall asleep doesn't actually make my Prince show up at the door; instead it makes me bitter and filled with self-pity when I look at my less-than-romantic life and ask God, "Where is he, already?!" (As if God would send me my Prince, or anything else I demanded, in any other time-frame than His own.) I don't want that, that's not who I am, and it's not how I'm meant to live life.

If I start keeping myself accountable to what I am thinking, maybe I'll be able to recognize the things I allow into my thoughts, say "NO" to the ones that lead me to prideful despair, and instead catch Jesus' eye and say "What are You thinking about right now?" I know from experience that this is a way better way to think through life...why did I stop?

"Wunderkind" by Alanis Morissette

(A song written (I think) about Lucy in the recent movie "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe", but I can't help feeling it fits me too...)
Oh, perilous place walk backwards toward youBlink disbelieving eyes chilled to the boneMost visibly brave, no apprehended bloomFirst to take this foot to virgin snow

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wondermentI am a wunderkind, ohI live the envelope pushed far enough to believe thisI am a princess on the way to my throneDestined to serve, destined to roam

Oh, ominous place, spellbound and un-childproofedMy least favorite chill to bear aloneCompatriots in place they’d cringe if I told youOur best back pocket secret, our bond full blown

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wondermentI am a wunderkind, ohI am a pioneer naive enough to believe thisI am a princess on the way to my throneDestined to seek, destined to know

Most beautiful placeReborn and blown off roofMy view about face weatherGreat will be done

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wondermentI am a wunderkind, ohI am a ground breaker naive enough to believe thisI am a princess on the way to my throne

I am a magnet for all kinds of deeper wondermentI am a wunderkind, ohI am a Joan of Arc and smart enough to believe thisI am a princess on the way to my throneDestined to reign, destined to roam

Wanderlust

I was sadly reminded today that I love adventure. Why "sadly," you ask? Because I haven't gone on an adventure in a long time. If I didn't have to worry about money, I honestly wouldn't be here anymore. If I didn't have to worry about the stigmata (and the genuine danger) of a single young woman traveling alone, I definitely wouldn't be here any more!

I want to backpack across Europe. Not because it's the cool thing to do, but because I love Europe, and what better way to get to know it than sleeping rough, learning a new language while you milk a random farmer's cow in payment for sleeping in his barn and eating breakfast with his family, walking to the next country using only the sun and stars as your compass.

I want to go to New Zealand for a while. Just to be able to cry at the sheer beauty of it. To be able to experience the culture(s) of people who live completely on the other side of the world from me, and to realize how big my world really is.

I want to live in the UK. I've been saying that for so many years, and it breaks my heart a little bit more each time I realize how long it's been since I visited, and how much longer it's been since I lived there (seven years, SEVEN! And only one trip back...did you hear that? That was another piece of my heart crying). I don't care where I move: Wales, Ireland, England, Scotland. It changes each year; currently Scotland is again at the top of the list. "But it rains all the time over there, and you can't understand a word they say, and they eat sheep guts for crying out loud!" I don't care. All it took was one road trip through the southern-most portion up to Edinburgh and I was in love. (We actually passed by a castle-esk mansion on the way back, and once it was pointed out to me, I semi-jokingly cried out the window, "Marry me?!" Semi-jokingly. If any of you happen to know a strapping young Scotsman looking for a lass...). I want to study history and archaeology at Oxford (for free). I want to hike from the mouth of the Thames to where it merely trickles out of the ground. I want to spend a night out on the lonely moors listening to the wind, just to see if the ghostly tales are true. I want to be an itinerant librarian for a whole farming community (they do it in South America, why not the hills of Ireland?)

But where am I? Just here. I'm getting tired of being asked, "What's new with you?" and having nothing to reply with other than, "Just work, and church, and hanging out with friends and family." All very nice. And to be honest, all very much what I am called to be doing right now. But I want to GO, to SEE, to EXPERIENCE, to BE. It's so hard to do on a limited salary. Some part of me keeps saying, "Sara, if you just put so much aside each month." But honestly, I don't know that I would have what I'd need had I started doing that 10 years ago. Things keep coming up, like my old car nearly dying on me several hundreds of dollars worth at a time, or buying a truck because I was afraid the car was going to fall apart on the highway, or chiropractic appointments to get my scoliosis straightened out (which it almost has, Praise the Lord!). Then there's the little things, like eating, having internet to write these blogs and watch Doctor Who episodes, putting gas in that extremely thirsty little truck.

My heart keeps asking God, "When?!" But honestly, my mind never listens to hear if there's an answer. Because in my mind, it's just all too hard. I don't have the money; I don't have a job over there; I don't want to leave my job here; I can't go just for a month because I can't leave my job for that long; I'm a single young woman who can't go by herself, it's not safe. But my biggest is hold-back is that I'm really afraid God will answer my "When" and say, "Never." I'm afraid that all I got were those 9 months and 1 week back seven and four years ago. And I'm afraid to actually leave. I love my church, I love my family, I love my job. And I really, really don't like change.

But there's a part of me that is so longing to just go....

Nature Junkie

I really love nature...and using the micro/foliage setting on my camera... :-)

Walking in the woods in early April looking for signs of Spring....

...And today at the park chasing sunsets with a friend

Bar...none.

There's a certain amount of stress that comes with being gifted. First off...it's really hard to admit. No one likes a show-off, and I've tried really hard not to be one. In college, my closest friends would work really, really hard for months on a paper and get so excited when they got a C+ or a B. It was so awkward to try and respond honestly when I was asked what grade I got; they all knew I wrote it up quickly the night before (or even that morning), and with little to no "effort" got a...."mumble mumble," "What was that, Sara?" "cough...100%...blush, cough cough, mumble."

Yes, I do a lot of things really, really well. But when I get applaud me for it, I don't feel a sense of pride or gratefulness. What I feel is pressure.

When someone sets a goal or a standard for themselves, we call it "setting the bar." Sometimes, this proverbial "bar" is really high, sometimes it's really low, and sometimes it's a goal that is within manageable reach. But as a person who God has somehow gifted to be good at almost whatever she does, I find myself frequently being commended as someone who has already reached what other people would call a "high bar."

Do you know how hard it is to retain your position in other people's measurements? This one time, in fourth grade I think, I got an F on an assignment. Since that moment, I think I've only ever gotten below a B once or twice. Just the mere thought of possibly getting a C would give me minor anxiety attacks. It wasn't that my parents were pushing me to get good grades; it was just that one moment of feeling their and my teacher's disappointment when I fell below their bar.

Another time in fifth grade I got in trouble in class for staring out the window during a lesson. The next day while we were in line, the boy I happened to like at the time talked to me for the very first time (even though we were in the same class and on the same recess two-hand touch football group) and said, "Man, I've never seen you get in trouble before." If I wasn't already feeling shame, I started to then.

Another time more recently, I was not as prepared as I thought I would be for a computer class I was teaching to seniors. I (in my opinion) bumbled my way through the whole lesson, believing the students to feel more confused than they were before they came, and only smiled at me out of pity. In all honesty, I probably did a great job, and they probably were genuinely smiling at me out of gratefulness for trying to teach old dogs new tricks (they are the most adorable and hilariously funny old dogs! love em bunches!!).

But sometimes it's hard to be the good girl. Sometimes I get so tired of people telling me how wonderful I am that I just want to scream. Other times, on days like yesterday and today, when I have so much to do and so many people to please by doing it well, I start to forget who I really am. My ability to empathize with other people tends to go out the window, along with my ability to care about what I'm saying and to whom I am speaking (and yes, I had to backspace to fix my own grammar) in favor of "I have to get all of this done, and it has to be done right, and I don't have time for anything else but doing it all perfectly to my perception of what your standards are...which is perfect." But when it offends my coworkers, or when I lose my normally natural (and very beautiful) smile to a panicked staring-into-the-distance frown, something is less-than-perfect in my world.

The Truth is that God gifted my hands to be good at a lot of things (just don't ask me to play basketball or do a cartwheel). And He gave me those gifts in order to bless those around me. Because I am empathetic to people's feelings and needs, and I love to be able to bless them in any way that I can. But when I am trying to be what everyone else thinks I am (or in reality, what I think they are thinking), it dishonors my Creator; essentially I'm telling Him, "yeah, You did alright, but I think their idea of me is a billion times better."

The Truth is...God is the Creator of a lot of things, but a "bar" isn't one of them. When He told us, "Be holy, just as I Am holy," (Leviticus 11:45) or "Be perfect as your Heavenly Father is perfect," (Matthew 5:48) it wasn't setting us up for failure, trying to reach an unattainable goal. I think our culture has been focusing on the wrong word: perfect instead of be. The Latin word for the verb "to be" is Esse, which can be found in the English word "Essence." What (I believe) Jesus was trying to say was, "Look, I made you; just BE who I made you to be, because I made you in My Image, which is pure holiness and perfect." So in reality, holiness and perfection should be as easy to us as breathing, because it's what we were made for. So why am I trying to hard to be perfect?

Someday, hopefully soon, I will stop trying to be the good girl...not in favor of being a bad one, but in favor of simply and beautifully just being me. I've been trying to stop trying (?) these last ten years, and I've had many people help me along the way. But it takes surrender on my part of my own standards, of other people's standards, and of my unhealthy desire to attain both. All I can do is look into His eyes and breathe. In, and out. In, and out. And smile, because He's smiling. That's all I really wanted, anyway.

"But there's none like good ole Joshua"

So, one of the very first Bible stories you learn as a kid in Sunday school is about how Joshua fought the battle of Jericho (and the walls came tumblin' down). Sounds like a pretty epic story, and it is. But what I find more amazing is Joshua's story before Jericho.

You'd think that to walk around a city over and over again and then decimate almost every living soul, and then go on to conquer a whole nation, this guy would have to be pretty brave. But when Josh was staring out as Israel's leader, he was told about 30 times to "Be bold and courageous." You'd think someone who was already bold and courageous wouldn't need to be told so many times. But the book of Joshua starts out as a conversation between God and Joshua, mostly with God encouraging Josh over and over again that He will be with him, and to be strong and VERY courageous.

The first time we meet Josh is actually in Exodus (if I'm wrong, please correct me). Moses has been on mount Sinai for forever and has brought down God's life instructions for His people. One of the biggest things God tells Moses is that He wants to be close to his people, and for them to be close to Him. So God has Moses build a tent of meeting, what we would call having church in a tent. And Moses goes in there to meet with God, literally talking to Him "face to face, just as a man speaks with his friend." Amazing verse, filled with tons of sermon potential.
But my favorite part is how that same verse finishes out: "Then Moses would return to the camp, but his assistant , a young man named JOSHUA son of Nun, WOULD NOT LEAVE THE INSIDE OF THE TENT." (Exodus 33:11)

I feel like Joshua most of the time. There is nothing I would rather do than put on some quiet worship music, open up my Bible and journal, and just sit with God. He doesn't have to say anything, and neither do I. It's just enough to sit next to Him. But Joshua was not allowed to stay in the tent. He had to eat, sleep, and even worse-take the lead in all of Israel's battles, and eventually become the main leader of the whole nation after Moses died. No wonder he was told so many times to be courageous!!!

I wonder if he was able to ever go back and visit with God like he used to; or as leader, did he have to get creative with his quiet times (hard to do surrounded by several million people all the time!)?

But I think the thing that gave Josh the most courage was God's promise that He would always be with him. A year and a half ago, I got a tattoo on my left arm. It says (in Welsh, because I'm Celtic at heart): "Courage, Dear Heart." It's a quote from "The Chronicles of Narnia: Voyage of the Dawn Treader". Aslan, C.s. Lewis's characterization of Jesus, whispers this into His beloved Lucy's ear during a very frightening ordeal in which she feels all alone, abandoned by the strong men she has relied on thus far. All it took was her remembering Whose she was, and Who loved her more than anyone else in any world (Narnia or England), and she was encouraged. Emboldened might be a better term for it.

We feel the most courageous when we know beyond any doubt that we are loved. And if the Creator of all things is the One loving us, and we truly, truly understood this truth, the things we feared will suddenly seem so much easier to handle. You could even call us brave enough to conquer a whole nation, if the God who calls me "Dear One" said we could.

AM I what I DO, or do I DO who I AM?

"It's not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me." ~ Batman Begins

I hate that quote. Sometimes, I get so tired of being praised for stuff that I do. It's so easy to look at stuff that people do and assume that it's who they are. Most of the time, it's probably not. If you were to ask random strangers on the street if they put their whole heart and soul into their job or weekly tasks at home/work, a large majority of them will probably say "no." We do our jobs because it pays the bills, it puts food on the table, it helps us save up for that big trip to the Bahamas. But rarely will you find people that truly love going into work on a Monday morning. Those people somehow have been blessed enough to find something to do that mirrors who they truly are.

I feel honored to be one of those people. Granted, sometimes when work is really crazy at the library, all I want to do is snuggle farther down into my comforter and ignore the daylight coming through the window. But most of the time I truly love getting to go to work each day. It's not always been like this. There were several years where all I wanted to do was work anywhere BUT at the library. But no matter how many job interviews I had, God never let me leave.

There was one time when He gave me a second part time job at my church's office. For three years I was part time library clerk, part time church office assistant. I love my church, I love my pastors, and I loved working in the office. But sometimes, I felt appreciated for the wrong things. "Great job on the bulletin, Sara!" "Love the look of the new directory!" "Wow, you figured out how to print out all those labels without having to type each one? That's amazing!" Now, I'm sure all those things were amazing to people whose knowledge of computers extend to email, social media, and solitaire; but for me, it was honestly a little boring. There was little to no creativity on my part: I was doing a task that needed to get done, and I felt almost anyone could've done it, but I was the one getting praised for it.

Think of something that is really easy for you to do, say, blinking, and then imagine someone telling you, "wow, I really love the way you blink your eyes, that's really impressive." That's how I felt about my work at church. I was being praised for something I did without effort and without heart, and it felt like other people were starting to be "define me" by it. The problem was, that's not who I am at all.

Two years ago this month, I stopped doing something that had defined me for 10+ years. When I was in high school, the youth pastor at the time and his wife were really instrumental in seeing the gifts in me that no one else could (mostly because I was shyly hiding in the back), and pulled me into youth leadership. After high school, I tried to leave Metro Youth...that lasted for maybe less than one semester. But when that pastor and his wife suddenly stopped working at church and moved to Texas two weeks later, I made an inner vow to never leave the teens at Metro like that. It hurt a lot of us; many of the kids stopped coming to youth group and even to church because of it. But I stayed on, because somehow between my junior year of high school and my freshman year of college I realized that I love working with teenagers. I love calling them out of their shells to become who God created them to be; I love laughing with them, crying with them, just being with them, really. And so for 10 years, that's what I did.

But three Octobers ago, I was challenged by God (through the voices of people wiser than  me) to take a look at why I was still with Metro Youth. I had been getting restless, with both my jobs, with volunteering at church not just in the high school but in the nursery and on the audio/visual team for worship, with life in general. I broke into tears when a friend said to me, "Maybe you should stop working with Metro Youth." Because I didn't want to...and because I didn't want to admit to myself that he was right. I wrestled (boy did I wrestle!) with God for months, until I finally gave in and gave over my youth group to Him.

It was the most dreadful depressing summer I've had yet. I'd let go of my teens, but there wasn't anything yet to fill the void. I prayed and prayed, and cried when I saw my roommates leaving every Wednesday night for youth group, but I still didn't know why it was that God made me stop what I loved to do. Until a friend and co-worker at the library got a promotion at another branch. She had been our teen programmer, and once she left, they asked if I would fill in for her until they hired a new full-time person to take her place. And a thought I'd never imagined I'd think came into my head...What if I applied for the spot? Had you asked me two years previously, I would have scoffed and said, "yeah right!" But somehow this just made so much sense. I'd never worked a "full" 40 hour work week before; even with two jobs I was still under 35 hours a week. And I most definitely did not want to work full time at the library.

But God told me it was right. So I applied...and I got the job.

The first few months were a little hard, trying to figure out how to budget my time at the branch, figuring out all the duties that were suddenly my responsibility, and most importantly trying to figure out how to get teenagers to come to my programs! But after a while, I realized that I've found my niche. Suddenly, I had coworkers asking where I got my computer class lessons from, and the impressed surprise on their faces when I said I made it up myself was better than any compliment about the bulletins. I had two teens coming regularly to my programs...then three...now five or six, maybe twelve on a good movie night. My crazy ideas for teen programs have gotten noticed not just by other teen programmers at other branches, but by the administrative staff of the whole system (you haven't really lived until you've played life-sized Battleship or Monopoly!) I have moments of combined creativity with other equally brilliant coworkers, powwows that honestly are a little frightening, because the results are getting us noticed by other branches, by headquarters, by other library systems. And it's all so. much. FUN!!!

So, when I say I hate the quote from Batman, what I mean is that I hate it that the two concepts are separated. I do not want to be defined just by who I am "underneath", nor simply by what I "do". I want to be defined as a person who "DOES who she IS." When I finally go Home and get to really be held by my Father in Heaven, I want to be able to hear that from His lips; "Well DONE, My good and faithful servant."

"Make me a servant, humble and meek.
Lord let me lift up those who are weak.
And may the prayer of my heart always be:
Make me a servant, today."

White Knuckles

"Calm me, O Lord, as You stilled the storm.
Still me, O Lord, keep me from harm.
Let all the tumult within me cease.
Enfold me, O Lord, in Your peace."
- from Celtic Daily Prayer Book

I "brought work" home with me this weekend. Usually, I can just leave it all behind and not think about it (unless it's fun and exciting to think about, which is usually the case, as I love my job). But it's not even a full week into May and it's already a stressful month. I just made a list of things that HAVE to get done in the next week or two, and it's roughly at 18 items, and that's not including the normal weekly tasks required of me. One or two are simply emails that have to get sent, but others are much, much larger projects.

Usually, once I've created a list of all the stuff I have to do, I am fine. I know what has to get done first, what can wait till I'm working at the front desk, and what can honestly wait until next week. But the first initial week of this kind of heavy-on-the-crazy season is usually utterly stressful and sends me into a mind-clouding spin. And this last week was a doozy! Meeting up at headquarters, the catalog system changing which means I have to change an entire handout for the computer lesson I teach in two weeks, and then to cap the whole week I ended up having to do MATH...on the spot...in front of teenagers!...for two hours!! (ok, it was kinda fun, we were playing the game of Life, but infinitely more awesome cause it was "life-sized" and took up the whole programming area; but note to self - do not both play the game AND be the banker at the same time my already stressed brain cannot handle it!)

My poor coworkers started noticing how stressed I was when I couldn't string a normal sentence together at the beginning of the week. By Friday, it graduated into dysfunctional paragraphs. Thankfully I only worked for four hours this morning, and tried to avoid speaking unless I absolutely had to, for the sake of my poor coworkers and patrons.

[Bunny Trail: See it's like this in my brain: on a normal, calm, peaceful day, I already have an interesting time of making a complete, understandable sentence. I don't have a stutter or other speech impediment; the problem is I think too fast. By the time I start actually speaking, I'm working on the end of the thought, which in speech would take about 5-10 minutes to explain. So I have to stop mid-thought to remember how the thought began, in order to actually put it into words so that the person I'm talking to can follow along. Sometimes I'll even say phrases or sentences backwards - last night to a friend I literally said: "See you good," instead of: "It was good to see you." My brain was already at the end of the sentence so I said what I was thinking, then had to go back to add in the rest. This usually ends up with slight embarrassment on my part, and leaves me wondering if I have a mental problem (probably leaves other people wondering the same thing sometimes).

Honestly, this is why I don't talk to people a lot. I'm afraid that I'll say something that doesn't make sense. Usually around close friends this isn't a problem; honestly I tend not to actually think before I speak, I just start speaking, and it's most of the time it's ok. But with people I'm not as familiar with, the process goes as follows:

Step 1) think, usually in the form of pictures or ideas
Step 2) think with the intention of putting into words
Step 3) put thought into words.

Sadly, "thinking with intention to speak" takes a lot longer, so by the time I'm actually ready to say what it is I want to say, the moment to speak has passed and the current topic of conversation has nothing to do with what I was thinking.  This is why I love writing. I can take as long as I want to think then think to type then type, and you're not sitting there staring at me waiting for a reply. Which just causes me to stress out, which makes my thoughts more jumbled, which makes my sentences turn backward and my paragraphs into unfollowable gibberish. Speaking of stressing out...I think I was talking about that a few thought processes ago...end Bunny Trail.]

So work is piling up, not just tasks but responsibilities as well. My annoying bosses (slight sarcasm, they know I love 'em) tend to talk me up to other people in the library system, which leads to me being asked to be on special committees or to create brand new programs that other people in the system might use as well. While this is flattering, sometimes it just merely adds to the stress of what is already going on. And I don't really like a lot of recognition, so I get embarrassed and flustered and whoops, there goes my brain into a foggy mist again.

The prayer I wrote at the beginning of this (wow, extremely long) blog is one I always find myself praying when I'm stressed. Sometimes, like today, I can say it over and over again with no change. I've allowed the stress and the worry to completely take priority in my mind and heart, and no amount of rote memorization can alleviate that which I don't want to let go. Most of the time we human beings tend to think that stress takes hold of us and ruins our lives. But now that I think on it, I don't believe that's true. Yes, there are times in our lives that work and family and life can pile up and create a traffic jam of things clamoring for our attention. But we are the ones who grab on with white knuckles and don't let go.

Praying that prayer will only work if I allow myself to realize that I have to stop being the one trying to take control, because frankly, I suck at it. In the grand scheme of my life, I won't remember how stressed I was this week (unless I come back to read this blog in 30 years). In the grand scheme of the universe, no one will ever give a crap that I was mixing my words and sentences in 100 years. I'll be lucky if it was remembered that I existed at all. What does matter is that God's got me, and I am so important to Him that He doesn't want to see me battered by stress that I didn't have to deal with in the first place. So I pray that prayer, make my priority lists, read Isaiah 41:8-10 out loud over and over again, and slowly I find the stress slipping away, and my heart is at peace in His presence.


But you, Israel [Sara], My servant,
Jacob [Sara], whom I have chosen,
descendant of Abraham, My friend—
I brought you from the ends of the earth
and called you from its farthest corners.
I said to you: You are My servant;
I have chosen you and not rejected you.
Do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be afraid, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you; I will help you;
I will hold on to you with My righteous right hand.
Holman Christian Standard Bible (HCSB)

Climbing and Falling

Once upon a time there was a little boy who loved climbing. He climbed everything, the counters, the tables, the dressers, the bookshelves, even the parents! Then one day, his parents decided to let him find other things to climb and sent him outside to the back yard, and there, the little boy discovered trees. There wasn't a day when he was begging to go outside and climb his trees, even in the rain and freezing cold winter snow. And because his parents loved him so, they bundled him up dryly and tightly and let him climb (if only for a little while, so he wouldn't catch cold).

Then one day, the little boy had a play date with the little girl next door. He decided to show her his favorite climbing tree. He led her to the backyard and started climbing up the tall maple tree. When he looked down, the little girl was still standing at the bottom. "Why aren't you climbing?" the little boy asked. "I'm afraid I'm going to fall!" said she. Falling? The little boy was puzzled. "It's ok, come on up!" So the little girl climbed. But she was not as tall as the little boy and could not reach the branches he could. She gave a little jump...and fell. The little boy was stunned. He had never fallen before, and had never seen his dad or even his mom fall when they climbed with him. But there was the little girl on the ground crying fiercely from her scrapes and bruises.

The next day, the little boy's mom went outside to call the little boy in for lunch. But he wasn't in his favorite tree. He wasn't in any tree. After a few minutes, his mom figured out he wasn't even outside. So she went back inside and found him sitting on the floor next to his bed. "Little One," she said, "why aren't you upside?" (this is what they called playing outside in the trees). The little boy was quiet for a few moments, and then whispered, "because I don't want to fall down."
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From when I was born to roughly 8 years old, my family went to a teeny tiny baptist church just down the street in our teeny tiny town in upstate New York. I loved the pews, and the hymns, and the centuries-old gravestones in the back yard. It was all I knew about church and about God. But my parents grew restless. They didn't feel...alive. It was just the same old routine week after week, no change, no growing, no challenge to it any more. So we moved to another church, farther away, in a bigger "city" (which meant it had traffic lights and the speed limit was over 35).

This church was so completely the opposite of our little baptist church! ("Daddy, what's that?" "It's an electric guitar, Sweet Heart." "Oh...What's that?") We found ourselves in the middle of a charismatic church in the early '90's, which for those of you who are familiar with it was the beginning of the "Toronto Blessing" as some people called it. People would raise their hands, talk in funny baby talk, dance with banners, and stranger yet, fall down on the floor shaking.

Eventually, my younger brother and sister started "giving in" to the weirdness of the church, but being the oldest with the most memories of how things used to be, I didn't like it at all. I wanted to go back to the pews and ole Mrs. Forrey pounding out the hymns on the organ. Eventually, both my siblings got baptized, but I wouldn't even raise my hands in church during worship. I would stand up, because Mom and Dad made me, but I wasn't about to let them see me give in to everything else.

One night, we were having children's church down in the basement while the parents had church upstairs. I'm not sure what went on upstairs, if it was mirroring everything that happened to us or not, but the Holy Spirit came and visited the kids. I don't remember much of what led up to it, but what I vividly remember was sitting next to my brother, who was shaking on the ground with his eyes half closed and muttering under his breath. I was terrified! I thought he was having a seizure or something. Then one of the teachers came over and said, "He's being slain in the Spirit. Isn't it wonderful!" It wasn't wonderful. I was seriously frightened. Not necessarily about Adam's well-being (kids can sense when grown-ups are and aren't concerned), but I was suddenly really, really scared of the Holy Spirit. If He makes your body do all those things in public, I was definitely not going to get close to Him!

Looking back, I have to give my teachers some grace. Hearing other people's accounts of those several years of "revival" that happened all over the U.S., I've come to realize that the adults weren't really sure what was going on either. Everything was new to them too. So they couldn't explain it to us children who saw and were frightened. But the result of that is now a generation of young adults who are still hesitant when it comes to the Holy Spirit. I've been baptized now (although it was several years after we moved from that church and New York out to Kansas City to be a part of Metro Vineyard Fellowship), I've walked on purpose with God for over 15 years, and can not imagine existing in a world where He isn't part of my life. But any time I think about the Spirit aspect of His Person, and I still partially close off my heart and tell Him with trepidation: "Please, no."

The problem is, most of the time - if I'm not thinking about it - I am open to Him and tell Him "Yes!" Because I cannot be myself without Him. He is my genius, my voice, my smile, my joy, my compassion, my  "don't you mess with my friends" fierce loyalty and protection, my hope, my heart, my life. Without the Holy Spirit, I am like the little child whose sole purpose and design in life is to climb...sitting in fear on the floor next to her bed.

So, Spirit, how do we do this? How can I climb again?

"Jesus loves me, this I know - for it's May and there is snow!"

I love snow. Always have. Always will. There's something simply beautiful about the way it falls slowly to the ground, like it wants to take its time and dance on the wind before settling graciously to the ground with its brothers and sisters. I could watch the snow fall for hours, inside or outside (ok, maybe outside for only an hour, there is a limit to what a normal human body can take).

I love the stillness and the quiet it brings. Have you ever noticed how quiet everything gets when it's snowed? Maybe that's just because everybody stays indoors huddled under blankets and no one dares to venture out into the slush, but it seems like more than that sometimes. Like the whole world has hushed itself in awe of the beauty falling from the sky.

My favorite memory of snow is from when I was 10 or 11. It was the year before we moved out to Kansas City, where people freak out and close school for one inch of snow. Back in the Hudson Valley area of New York, they merely put chains on the school bus tires, maybe causing an hour or two delay. Actually canceling school was a rarity. Everyone else on my bus route knew to simply bundle up and make their way down to our house, the nearest bus stop on the main road (even with chains, there was no way our bus was making it up Mount Reservoir Rd). Most of the time, though, it only snowed a foot or two; hardly anything, really.

But 1993/4 was different. That was the year it snowed 4 feet. And when you're a young girl who's 4 ft and a few inches, that's pretty spectacular! Dad had someone come out to plow our tiny little driveway so that us kids could wait for the bus (yes, there was still school). The drifts from the plow were taller than even my dad! My brother and I instantly set out creating caves in which to use as forts and reading nooks (I was a book-a-holic even back then). I remember being wrapped up in my snow suit and multiple layers of hats, gloves, socks, and scarves; curled up in a tiny, surprisingly warm yet bum-soaking snow cavern reading what may have been a Little House on the Prairie book, suddenly finding myself at eye level with the roof of my grandparent's truck as they came for a surprise visit. Then running inside to hang the layers of sopping wet snow clothes on the roaring wood stove to dry, with a cup of the most amazing hot cocoa you'll ever drink waiting for me at the table while Mom chatted with her parents. Perfection.

Now, I'm not a kid anymore, and though we got REALLY lucky with snow this year in Kansas City (over a foot!), I usually have to settle for brief flurries with accumulation of maybe 2 centimeters. So when it randomly snows like this in the beginning of May, it still makes me smile and turn all giddy with a childhood desire for snow caverns and hot chocolate by the wood stove. And then I come home, curl up on the couch to watch the snow dance and swirl and spin, and close my eyes to enjoy the blanket of stillness that has covered the world in a contented comforting embrace.

the Silence

I know, it's a bit crazy. But I'm taking the month of May to cut out the three most important things in my life: books, movies, and music. Why in the world would I do that, you ask? It's simple: because they've become the most important things in my life, and quite honestly they shouldn't be.

Have you ever just sat for hours alone with your own thoughts? I used to love it. For most people, it's terrifying. There's a reason the imagination industry (Hollywood, Barnes and Noble, Amazon, Words with Friends) makes billions of dollars each year: people do not want to be alone with themselves with nothing but their thoughts running through their heads. They would rather have someone else's thoughts instead of their own. I'm sadly have been one of these people.

Currently I have 15 library books sitting on my shelf, waiting to be read. Sadly, I will have to bring them all back to work tomorrow, because I'm not going to read any of them for a month, and I don't want to get overdue fines. But right now they're just sitting there, taunting me. "Come, Sara, read me! You don't want to just sit there and think about how you feel like your life is just the same-ole-same-old, or how you're turning 30 this year and have never had a boyfriend, or how lonely you get when you sit at home by yourself. Come, we'll be your friends, we'll do the hard work of relationships and give you a happy ending, we'll take you on an adventure and give you the excitement you long for. Just read me." And I've happily complied for the last four months. But it's not enough.

So I'm going to turn off the noise for one month, and simply sit still in silence. I'm going to let my brain run through its gazillion thoughts a minute until I've thought myself out and there is nothing left but a quiet that is so still and peaceful. Because maybe, just maybe in that still silence I can be myself again. And maybe, just possibly I can hear God speaking again. Because when I sit alone in silence, I'm not really alone. Technically I'm never really alone, but I only realize it when I'm truly silent and still. So this next month I will be (hopefully) blogging more than my usual once-a-year, because my gazillion thoughts a minute need somewhere to go, and writing is my favorite method of detox.