Handicapped

The clanging of metal rang in my ears. It filled the entire room with unceasing noise. There was no finesse—no particular rhythm. When I found the source of the endless clamor, I found my next younger brother sitting cross-legged in the corner behind the upholstered rocking chair. He was the musician. His choice of instrument was a large stainless steel bowl turned upside down on the floor in front of him. His drumsticks were two long wooden spoons. His face furrowed in concentration and delight as he rapidly beat the spoons on the base of the bowl. That face was unlike my face. It was a flat face, with a somewhat flat nose. His eyes were slanted, betraying his extra 21^st chromosome. He continued to beat on the bowl. As a girl of only 4, I did not understand why he thought it was so much fun. Neither did I understand why it brought smiles to my parents' faces. Even at this age, he was bringing smiles to the faces of people around him.

My favorite brother was born with Down's Syndrome. I was so young when he was born that I did not realize he was different than I was. He grew up smack in the middle of a family of seven energetic children. When he was four, he developed a reaction to food that my mom thought was Celiac's Disease. It meant that when he ate anything that was made from wheat flour, he would become violently ill. He faced the upheaval of unexpected nausea and changing diet with a sense of normalcy that rivaled those of us faced with much smaller problems. While I, who had no physical issues whatsoever, complained that my older brothers left me sitting in the house while they roamed the woods; he merely smiled, then sat on the wooden stairs and rocked a doll while I pretended to play church.

His speech was thick and difficult to understand. By age four, my parents enrolled him in speech therapy. In years to come, my mom would say jokingly, “We enrolled him in speech therapy because we couldn't get him to talk. Now we can't get him to shut up.” As he learned to speak more clearly, he would confront anyone. There was no stranger to his verbal attack of cheerfulness and friendliness. He would corner an adult and barrage him with questions, oblivious to the fact that the adult was reacting like a fish out of water. The adult would respond, “I'm sorry, what did you say?” Durrel would repeat the question only to be met with an even more nervous, confused response. Eventually the adult would mumble, “Yeah, mm-hmm,” and retract himself from the conversation as though a heavy weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Durrel would simply move on to his next target. While Durrel met every person with friendliness, I tended toward pessimism even at a young age. When friends rejected me, I retreated to my mother, my high-pitched whine rivaling a siren. Eventually, I found that if I used his approach to people, I made friends. Friendly people are so much more welcoming than pessimists. Instead of crying when people treated me wrong, I moved on and found that people who really cared about me existed and were worth the energy of friendship more than the ones who slunk away at the earliest opportunity.

The percussion session in our living room was just the beginning of endless energy and passion. Whatever Durrel set his mind to was done with gusto and flair. Even more so if people were watching him perform. Whether a dancing monkey or a clown or an adorable little boy who could twist himself up like a pretzel, Durrel could be the center of attention without trying. One evening, I strained and stretched in attempt to reach my feet up behind my head. Durrel could do it, so why couldn't I?

In his upper teenage years, he developed an interest in Southern Gospel music. Whenever I visited home, he animatedly told me about the latest band he was interested in. He would coax me into watching his favorite Ernie Hause and Signature Sound DVD. As I watched, I would make a mental list of all the things I disliked about the style of music. While he watched, he stood upright, hand to his mouth, belting out the lowest possible note he could reach. Every now and then, he would blend in perfect harmony with those singing. He was the star of his very own American Idol. His stage was the living room. His audience none other than his big sister. Suddenly, I became aware of the catchy beat and the joyfulness of the songs. It was like he was back behind that old battered rocking chair once again. The pure joy of music reflected in his eyes, forgotten the frustrations of trying to meet expectations. And I envied him.

I went to serve a year of voluntary service, when I was eighteen, at a home for those with intellectual and physical disabilities. The residents I met at this home often unnerved others. I, however, saw individuals with unique personalities. I found humor in the stubbornness of Cheri, who would refuse to swallow her medication night after night, even though she knew she had to swallow in order to be able to eat her dinner. On numerous occasions, I blushed in mortification and then laughed until I cried when I realized that one of the residents had escaped the shower when I was not paying attention, and had attempted to streak down the main hall of the home. I received slobbery kisses on my cheek and understood that it was a sign of safety and comfort. Each one of these individuals that I met wormed their way into my heart. I do not think that would have happened without Durrel. He helped to shape me into the human being that I am. While I served at this home, he came to spend a week with me. By the end of the week, he knew the names of most of my friends as well as quite a few birthdays.

I moved on to my freshman year of college, and my parents and Durrel came to visit. My family is one of those half-way physically affectionate families. We hug, but then find something to talk about quickly so the obvious affection does not become uncomfortable. I was somewhat surprised then at this visit, when Durrel wrapped me in a giant bear hug and kissed me on the cheek. For several seconds, I was the blithering idiot who nervously giggled then realized that it felt good to be loved with that sort of freedom. It was a defining point in my relationship with him.

During my sophomore year, he again came to visit me during finals week. I gave him nearly free reign to meet whomever he chose. He was fascinated by all of the exams I was taking and proceeded to administer some of his own “exams” in the dining hall. He accosted my choir conductor and somehow convinced him to sit down and take his exam. One of my friends sat and wrote freestyle for ten minutes until Durrel was satisfied the exam was complete. He required everyone to write down their name and address which helped him in his letter writing process.

He has the reading level of a child partway through first grade. He knows his alphabet but does not know how to write out complete thoughts on his own. He will copy something that another has written or simply write random combinations of letters in order to make a letter complete. I received a letter from him last Christmas. While much of it was nonsensical, other parts of it consisted of names and addresses from his address book. Each letter was painstakingly traced numerous times. As I ran my hand over the paper, I felt the ridges that had been created from the pressure that he placed on the pen as it traced each section of the letter. The bold black ink stood out from the whiteness of the paper, and I realized that what I held in my hand was not only a labor of love. It was a work of art. It was more beautiful to me than an expected Christmas card with warm wishes for a happy holiday. It was the essence of his character on paper. It was not a letter of unintelligible scrawls, rather a time-laden project which he finished to make me happy. I had not even gotten him a card.

On the surface, he seems like the kind of person who takes things in stride. Our family was working through the divorce of one of my brothers. Things were difficult for everyone as we attempted to find each of our roles within the situation. One day, Mom heard him talking while he was in the restroom. She listened closely and realized that he was praying, “I pray for my brother that you would be with him. In Jesus Name, Amen.” This same sensitive spirit came out at the recent wedding of a friend. He wanted to give a speech at the open mic and nothing would deter him. My sister and I went along to the mic with him. He talked for several minutes while we listened, realizing that not everyone in the audience could make sense out of what he was saying. What was understood was loud and clear: “Josh, you've been a good friend. And you've made a good decision today to get married.” He deserved a standing ovation; I have never been quite so proud of him in my life.

Since he was next younger than I, he suffered untold amounts of teasing and pesting from me. Despite my persistent teasing, he would always love me. He had dreams of doing all the things that the rest of us siblings were able to do. After my year of voluntary service, he talked for years about going to work at the home as a staff. He now talks about moving to Pennsylvania to live with me. Maybe one day that will come to pass. Through the disappointments he has faced, the rejection of people to his face, and the unfulfilled dreams, he still moves forward. He finds new dreams. He forgives and loves as though he has a sense of what people really need despite their protests. He embodies strength and stability. He is my hero.

I love music and am training to be a professional soloist and voice teacher. I sing beautiful music every day. But I envy the abandon with which he sings. He does not worry about the audience. He just sings and every part of the room lights up when he does. As I listen to the slightly off-pitch growl of his voice, the goosebumps that skitter across my arms make me realize that what I may have in talent, I sometimes lack in soul. Durrel—he has soul to the very tips of his big toes. When I sing today, I think about that little red-headed boy, eyes full of excitement, rat-a-tapping away on that stainless steel bowl. I imagine him belting out his favorite Gospel hymn. And I smile. I realize that I am the handicapped one. I am often handicapped by many different kinds of fear. But if I allow myself to be freed by the same passion he possesses, then we both have the chance to live as the whole individuals we are meant to be.

 

Note: This post was written as an assignment for my WRT 205 class. It is a tribute to my brother, whom I would not trade for the world!

Since it has been so long since I had written a decent post, I decided to give a brief run-down of the highlights of Junior year.  Here goes.  In somewhat chronological order. :)

1.  Labor Day Weekend

Spent in NYC.  The memories.  Who doesn't decide to go into Manhattan at 10 p.m.? 

2.  Cendrillon--my first ever opera performance

And what a wonderful cast to experience it with.  We even had our own unique family "dance" to kick off each performance.

An additional blessing was the overwhelming amount of support that was shown on my behalf.  Family and friends came quite a distance to see me perform.  I'll never know whether they were truly supporting me or just wanted a chance to see the real "witch" come out.  :)

3.  Finals Celebration

A trip to OH to celebrate the end of Fall 2011.  Hands down favorite memory was caroling in the snow in Cleveland with these delightful people.  It still causes warm fuzzies.

 4.  Bluebeard's Waiting Room

Wearing a shockingly large wig for my second opera performance with this cast of women.  Priceless.  Never mind the fact that they had to put up with my pretentious character, they also had to dress me, attach my wig and jewelry, and do my hair and makeup.  What fun!  What fun!

Yes, as a matter of fact, there was that much room under the hips.  :)

5.  Spring Break--NYC

Student rushing Don Giovanni at the Met!  Wonderful performance with two dear friends!



Brooklyn Bridge at night with those same friends and my bestest friend ever, My sister.

6.  Junior Recital 

Sadly, I do not have any pictures and the videos take a very long time to upload.  However, it was a highlight.  :)

Although I can hardly believe it, I am now a senior.  The next year looks exciting as well.  I will attempt to keep updated a little more regularly.  It's time to think Graduate Schools.  Yay!

Hear Me, O God, Nor Hide Thy Face

Isaac Watts

Hear me, O God, nor hide thy face but answer, lest I die;

Hast thou not built a throne of grace to hear when sinners cry?

My days are wasted like the smoke dissolving in the air

My strength is dried, my heart is broke and sinking in despair.

My spirits flag like with'ring grass burnt with excessive heat;

In secret groans my minutes pass and I forget to eat.

But thou forever art the same, O my eternal God!

Ages to come shall know thy name and spread they works abroad.

Thou wilt arise and show thy face, nor will my Lord delay

Beyond th' appointed hour of grace, that long expected day.

He hears his saints, he knows their cry, and by mysterious ways

Redeems the pris'ners doomed to die and fills their tongues with praise.

This is one of the pieces that Oasis Chorale will be performing this summer. The arrangement is by Alice Parker which means it is pretty near sheer genius.  We will be singing it in rough, early-American style.  I think it will end up being a fun piece to perform and definitely a new sound for most audiences.  :)  However, what really struck me was the text of this piece.  I find that it is the cry of my heart.

The feeling of emptiness—we all know it. That hopeless, energy-less feeling of worthlessness. Recognizing the depths of our sin and feeling that there will never be enough grace to cover it all. We are hungry. We are broken beyond our own repair. This song is the desperate plea for mercy and grace in light of the our sin-ridden beings. It is seeing ourselves in light of who we are. Defiled. Distorted. Dysfunctional. Dirty. (There sure are a lot of “d” words to describe the broken us.) Proud. Broken. Depressed. Then it calls upon the Truth—who God is. It is the sinner, in desperation, begging God to be who he says he is. Asking him to show up and redeem the despicable piece of dirt that we are. It is believing that He can and will redeem us to the point that our hearts are completely transformed and our mouths are filled with praise and joy. Believing that he will take us from the worst to the best. This is what we long for. And we hope with all our beings in these moments of despair in what we know to be true. We hang on with every remaining ounce of strength there is because it is our ONLY hope. And when it happens, it is a work of the supernatural. We do not understand how redemption happens. We only know that we have been redeemed. We are no longer facing death. We are free.

When all is stripped away...

When all is stripped away, who am I?

One of my favorite hymns, “Just as I Am,” contains this verse:

“Just as I am, Thy love unknown has broken every barrier down.

Now to be Thine, Yea, Thine alone, O Lamb of God, I come. I come.”

We all have barriers that alienate us. They help us to keep our lives under tight lock and key—controlled just enough that we keep people fooled. The scary part is that, too often, we fool ourselves. We justify the barriers. Of course, there’s the blatant barrier of sin, separating us from the Father. But what of the more subtle barriers—securities… identity…personal bubbles?

I, for one, prefer my safe little world. (Strangely enough, this seems to worsen as I grow older.) I like things the way I like them. I don’t appreciate my moorings being shaken, much less ripped out from under me. When I control my world, I know where I’m headed. I know who I am. I feel confident knowing that things are going according to plan. HOWEVER, I’m living a delusion. My little controlled world takes place in a bubble—a bubble that is threatened to burst at any moment. It feels safe to me, because I’m not aware that it is a very thin lining that is the foundation on which I build my beliefs. The reality, is that at any moment something sharp about my person may very well puncture that bubble, and it will dissolve completely. The other part of reality is that God may choose to remove my safe little bubble. Neither of these options feels safe; both tend to induce panic and other such emotions. So rather than dealing with reality, I often tend to live my pretend life, inside my bubble where I manage to convince 99% of myself that no one can hurt me.

The problem with this is: God also has a difficult time getting to my heart through the bubble. Knowing His love can be virtually impossible, since I’m so consumed with protecting my bubble that I don’t see His love in the various forms it is given to me. I don’t recognize the good things He has given me as from Him. Instead, when something good comes along, I desperately attempt to grasp it to myself within my bubble. I hold on for dear life, afraid of how my life will change if I let it go. (And I’m completely unaware of how ridiculous this appears!)

But what if all these things are stripped away? Then what? Who am I without the bubble? Who am I without the gifts, the good things that I am afraid to release? What does it really look like to just “let it go,” knowing that in the freefall through the bottom of the bubble, God will be present. Will He be enough? Will I trust Him to be enough?

What I do know, is that “All is vanity.” My pride, my self-sufficiency will only last so long. I need Jesus. My music is nothing. My relationships are nothing. My reputation is nothing. Nothing without the transforming love of a Father who wants to be with me. Who says, “Come unto me, and I will give you rest…for I am meek and lowly in heart and ye shall find REST unto your soul.”

Whoa!!! Help me...

...I'm on the rollercoaster called my life!

And this craziness, the ups and the downs, the frantic screaming--wondering if I'll really survive the next corkscrew--makes me wonder: What, exactly, is really worth it?

There are those few people I have observed who seem to be ranking quite close to Wonderwoman--at least what they managed to micromanage and achieve through that process seem to have happened through some superpower or another.

I, on the other hand, am rapidly coming to realize that, just as rollercoasters seem to be getting scarier every time I ride them, life seems to become just as scary. And while I may have fancied myself some sort of Menno-Wonderwoman, the reality is that I am a frail human being with definite limits. If I try to defy these limits, my screams seem to become less squeals of joy and mor the blood-curdling shrieks of terror.

In direct contrast to that disturbing mental image, I stood in a pre-Christmas Eve service. The lights wer dimmed as choir and congregation joined in singing "Silent night, holy night..." unaccompanied. It was as though a holy hush settled on my soul. Tears sprang unbidden to my eys. I realized that, in the depths of my soul, I crave quietness. And I crave the connection with my Father that I have been missing. I long for time to sit and be still, knowing He will meet me there.

I long for peace in the middle of the storm. I want to know that at the end of this crazy rollercoaster, I will jump up and down with elation, convinced to the very tip of my big toe that it has been worth it!

September blahs sprinkled with fairy dust

Being a teacher, I am incredibly familiar with the February doldrums. I don't think I have ever before experienced the ones that come along in September though until now. I'm sure that there are myriads of factors that play into this "doldrum effect." These might include: traveling to Poland this summer, not enough down time over the summer to process life, returning to the States two days before school started.

Yes, yes. I was told I was insane. I didn't really need to be told that. I had figured it out already! (This post is not about my trip to Poland, although it was fantastic and I'm convinced God had me there for a reason!) However, I fought the usual uprisings of panic as I surveyed all that lay ahead of me. Apparently this was for some good reason!

It is over three weeks into the teaching school year and about the same into first semester of college. Last year, I was flying high right now. I couldn't believe the gift I had been given of going back to college. Music Theory was amazing! I was religiously practicing for my voice lessons. I was pulling A's and proud of it! In contrast, I feel the doldrums this year. But they are very special doldrums! :)

The last two days in particular have been two of the worst I have faced in quite a while! Yesterday, I dumped my lunch of Ramen noodles all over the library floor at SMS--before I had so much as taken ONE bite! (Fairy dust--the wonderful teacher's aide made me some more noodles so I didn't have to go without lunch, and the secretary helped me clean up my mess). Last evening I waited anxiously to head to college today. Today was the day I was supposed to get my FAFSA refund, which would enable me to pay some overdue bills, and in general to relax a little. However, I almost overslept this morning. I grabbed a quick breakfast as I ran out the door, and threw an apple in my bookbag for lunch. I left in good time, but still managed to hit worse-than-usual traffic and still arrived five minutes late for class.

After Theory III class (Fairy dust--I'm over halfway finished with Theory and Aurals.), I headed directly to get my refund check. I confidently announced to the lady at the Bursar's office that I was here to pick up my refund. My confidence turned into a nagging feeling in my stomach as she continued to study her computer screen instead of jumping up to get me my treasured check. She explained to me that since my credits are registered as 11.5 (part-time) I needed to go to the Financial Aid office and they needed to simply sign off before she could release the check. It was a simply solution, she assured me! I could come right back to her and she would hand me my check.

However, the Financial Aid office lady didn't find it so simple. (Fairy dust--this lady was amazing...a real god-send!) She kindly took me back to her office (she noticed I was about to melt into a puddle of tears on the spot), and explained that since my schedule had gotten messed up, and I now had only part-time credit level, my coveted grants were going to be cut. (Fairy dust--because I'm part-time, I get a parking permit for the good parking lot!) Of course, my student loans would gladly give me all I need, but the good stuff would be taken away! I did my best to pay attention through the thin veil of tears that clouded my vision. (Fairy dust--I felt this small reassurance that God was in control...very small, but present none-the-less.)

Not to worry, I will have all the Financial Aid I need, but I found myself frustrated with life and how little bad things can happen and just completely muck up your plans! I found myself telling God, "OK, I get it! I'm not big enough to take care of myself, even financially. I can't control everything. You've got to be the One in control!"

The biggest speck of Fairy Dust is that I also received a scholarship. It is a scholarship that is usually given to a music education major, but because those involved know of my investment in teaching outside of college, it was given to me. I am also runner-up for most improved rising sophmore vocalist (or something).

This whole "vent" is partly a way for me to relax right now. I'm wound so tightly that I'm a little afraid of snapping! (I also took my first Aurals Dictation Quiz of the semester...and I still hate that pressure!) Instead of working on homework, I chose to write all of this out. Why? I think to remind myself that God is good. In the middle of the doldrums, He sends little speckly fairy dust to remind me that He is present, and that He cares about me. And my Ramen noodles!

more from Isaiah

I am very slowly working my way through the book of Isaiah. I love the promises that I find there. I don't love so much the opposing sides of the picture of God that are displayed. Yes, I admit I struggle to resolve the image of a God who is loving and compassionate vs. a God who destroys people and cities because they do not listen to Him. It is difficult to wrap my feeble few "grey cells" (to borrow from Agathe Christie) around the idea that He is able to be both. He is love. He is justice. They cannot be separated from Him. He simply IS both of them.

And yet, I find myself intrigued by the idea. God is the perfect Balance. Everything is combined in and through Him. As fallen human beings, we don't like balance. We want ANSWERS! We want CUT AND DRIED! We want to be able to KNOW that we are RIGHT, and that we are the ONLY ones who are right! We want to win the debate!

I get it that there are absolutes. There is right and wrong. However, within the side of right, we as Christians get all muddled up. We live like we are on a teeter-totter, frantically running from side to side in an attempt to balance it out all by ourselves. But each time we run to the other side, the result is a resounding thud as we hit the ground.

Allow me to use an illustration:

As a young Christian, I was convinced that the way to be a good Christian (is there such a thing?) was to read my Bible and pray every day. This was what I heard preached and taught. If you want to follow Christ, you must read your Bible. You must pray. So, I attempted to read my Bible. I knelt every morning by my bed to spend time in prayer, only to find myself falling asleep. (not because prayer was boring, but the lack of sleep) I questioned, "Does this mean I'm not a good Christian? No matter how hard I try, it's not working." No matter how much I read my Bible, I found myself having the same issues day in and day out.

Somewhere along the line I threw it away. Well, in my defense, I tried to read my Bible every now and then. I did spend time praying to Jesus as I walked through my day. But this whole idea of reading my Bible for a half hour in the wee hours of the morning began to seem ludicrous. How could that possibly save me, or even make me a good Christian? I decided that it is about my relationship with Jesus. It is about speaking to Him and listening to Him. It's about calling Him my best friend! It's not about what I am doing! It's about who I am being.

Slowly, but surely, I feel God calling me to a balance in this issue. Because I was angry that the one end of the teeter-totter simply thudded to the ground, I ran completely to the other end. It was a jolt then to realize that I thudded just as hard on the other end. I was reacting, and living in reaction to something rarely brings about the desired response. And so, I now am attempting to come to a place where I see the Truth in both sides. I am attempting to stand with one leg on either side, striving to keep the board in the air instead of crashing down. The tilting becomes not so great, and the frantic rushing does not happen quite so often.

This is only one example. I propose that the majority of our lives needs to be spent finding a balance...living in the so-called tension between two sides of an issue. Because we are not perfect, we are going to rush frantically at times. We are going to react only to face the jolting thud of our teeter-totter hitting the ground once again. But we need to allow ourselves to be called toward the middle and embracing Truth for what, and, more importantly, WHO It is. We need find our confidence not in our answers, but in a God who really does know all the answers.

One day, it will all make sense. Until then, "I press toward the mark..."

musings from Superchick

I don't know my exact sentiments about the group Superchick. Or about pop music in general. However, I was listening to the radio yesterday, and they played a twin spin of Superchick, and I was caused to meditate a little on their lyrics. I thought I would share them with you today. I can't guarantee theological correctness, but I think there is a good message behind each song. Here's the first:

So Beautiful

We are a thousand voices strong
We are each girl who sings this song
We are a beauty that is our own
And we are
And we are
So beautiful

We are light
We were born beautiful
We were meant to be more then these shadows of girls
They cut us down to size
Afraid we'll change the world?
But we'll fight for your right to be beautiful girls
If every girl could see her beauty,
We would be an army

We are a thousand voices strong
We are each girl who sings this song
We are a beauty that is our own
And we are
And we are
So beautiful

We have dreams we were born to fufill
We were meant to be more than just fairy tale girls
We are the colors so bright
Each beautiful girl
We are the stars in the night
And we are changing the world
When every girl can see her beauty we will be an army

Yes, I understand that this could be somewhat feministic, but I also think there are many lies that young women believe. One of the most common is the belief that we are not beautiful. We judge by the glamour that we see around us, and we feel we don't measure up. But there is a beauty...a much deeper beauty...

Here is the second:

We Live

There's a cross on the side of the road
Where a mother lost a son
How could she know that the morning he left
Would be the last time she'd trade with him for a little more time
So she could say she loved him one last time
And hold him tight
But with life we never know
When we're coming up to the end of the road
So what do we do then
With tragedy around the bend?

We live we love
We forgive and never give up
Cuz the days we are given are gifts from above
And today we remember to live and to love.

There's a man who waits for the tests
To see if the cancer has spread yet
And now he asks, "So why did I wait to live till it was time to die?"
If I could have the time back how I'd live
Life is such a gift
So how does the story end?
Well this is your story and it all depends
So don't let it become true
Get out and do what we were meant to do

We live we love
We forgive and never give up
Cuz the days we are given are gifts from above
And today we remember to live and to love

Waking up to another dark morning
People are mourning
The weather in life outside is storming
But what would it take for the clouds to break
For us to realize each day is a gift somehow, someway?
To get our heads up out of the darkness
And spark this new mindset and start to live life cuz it ain't gone yet
And tragedy is a reminder to take off the blinders
And wake up and live the life we're supposed to take up
Moving forward with all our heads up cuz life is worth living

We live we love
We forgive and never give up
Cuz the days we are given are gifts from above
And today we remember to live and to love

Enjoy!

we are His hands and feet...

This morning I am amazed at the fact that I am a part of the body of Christ. I am awed that He chooses broken, helpless people to be His hands and feet. So often, He feels far away. Too often when that happens, it is because I am not connecting to the people around me. They are a large channel of how I experience Jesus.

In our church service this morning, we spent some time praying for one of my sisters in Christ. I was touched by the love that was evident in our group. At the same time, I grieved for the many times I (and many others) have not experienced that kind of love and support within a church family. I'm moved to tears when I realize that there truly is a body--when one member suffers they all suffer. At the same time, I'm moved to sorrow at how many times I have neglected to be part of that body and have not cared well for the people around me.

The tricky thing is that, in order for this to work, we have to be willing to be vulnerable to those around us. We have to risk trusting them with our hearts--with our emotions. We have to believe that if they are the hands and feet of Christ, they will only want the best for us. That when we fall, they will sit in the mud puddle for a while, but then will help to pick us up and move us onward. This is a two-way street. We can only be the hands and feet of Jesus, if we are willing to also receive love and support from the rest of the body.

We long for perfection within our churches. We hold back because we know we may (and probably will) get hurt. Yet we don't stop to realize what we are missing by not embracing what we have been given; we miss out on who Christ is and what He is really about. The truth is that it is safer to be cynical; to not trust because we have been burned before. So we sit and complain about everything that has been done wrong in the church situations in our lives, and forget that we are a part of change happening.

What I saw this morning was beautiful. It was a group of ladies who were willing to love and support a hurting friend and sister. But it was also a woman of great strength who was willing to be vulnerable and trust us with her heart.

I long for what a verse of one of my favorite hymns says: "Nearer, still nearer, while life shall last. Till safe in glory my anchor is cast. Through endless ages, ever to be nearer my Savior, still nearer to Thee." I cannot wait to be with Jesus, and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that He has been with me every step of the way. To know His embrace. To know His gentle voice. But, I am foolish if I do not know Him as much as I can while I live. This will require trust...am I, or are you, willing to take that risk?

concerts...

I'm enjoying the irony of being a music major. Not even two years ago, I would have taken advantage of every free concert available. (In my defense, I had no idea how many really were available.)

Anyway, I sit here tonight waiting for my eighth and final (hopefully) concert of this semester. And I wish I could go home and sleep. Go figure! Somehow when you have to attend as part of your education, it makes it so much less fun.

However, I am going to hear some vocal jazz. Something new for me. I have a hunch that I might actually like it. Who knows, maybe I will decide to broaden my horizons and learn to sing some jazz as well as opera???

Really? 'Cause I thought I was doing pretty well on my own...

Psalm 127:1--"Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it; except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain."

Ok, so I'm not in the process of building a house or trying to protect a city. However, I am in the process of living a life that I hope has meaning and will leave behind a legacy of some sort. Somehow, though, I seem to think I can do it all by myself. Like the cranky little two-year old..."No! I want to do it!" I'm not sure what it is that I don't get. The part that I can't really do it all by myself, or the part where even if I think I can, it is all pointless unless it is God's project. Rather sobering indeed.

I could end up a revered teacher...without God teaching me--pointless.
I could maybe be a dynamic speaker...without God behind the words--pointless.
Oh, maybe I could present a stunning performance of the Messiah--without a relationship with God--POINTLESS!

I want to hold on with grimy, grasping fingers to the good things in my life, and I completely forget that it's not about me. Outside of Jesus, all those good things are worth nothing. They can't heal a broken heart. They can't bind up wounds. They can't forgive. They can't give me life. And yet, I worship them by holding on tightly and demanding that God not take them away! Ah...sometimes I strike myself as being quite dense. In terms we used growing up, "Wake up and smell the seaweed!"

My own little parable...

I’m Getting Closer
by Rosemary Eberly

Little boy George bent over slowly to pick up another arrow from the ground. He sighed as he straightened up and placed the arrow against his bow for another shot. “Maybe this time,” he thought. “Maybe in some alternate universe, I will get lucky and hit the bulls-eye!”

He took aim again, carefully lining up the shot. He drew back the bow. A little flame of hope stirred within his heart. Maybe this was his lucky shot. Maybe he would get it this time. He held it just a second longer before he released and let the arrow soar through the air, only to see it plummet to the ground a foot in front of the target.

He stood, shoulders stooped, staring at the arrow pointed into the ground, tuft of feathers in the air as if to say, “Ha-ha! You’re so stupid! You thought you could really hit the bulls-eye? You can’t even hit the target!”

Frustrated to the very bottom of his toes, he dropped the bow and gave it a kick. “You stupid thing!” He yelled. “You are no good. I am done with this. I can’t be an archery hunter—It’s just too hard!”

Just then big man Jake stepped forward from where he had been watching the incident unfold. As little George looked up, his face turned a little red and his eyes squinted and his nose scrunched up. “I’m not going to cry,” he thought. “Crying is for babies!” But when big man Jake came up, squatted down in front of him, and wrapped him in a hug…he just couldn’t stop them anymore.

“I’m trying and trying,” he sobbed. “I shot at this target all day now, and not even one arrow hit it! It’s a stupid bow, and a stupid target, and I don’t want to shoot anymore!”

Big man Jake patted him gently on the back as the sobs turned to hiccups, the hiccups turned to sniffles, and then the sniffles slowly faded away. He held little George at arm’s length. “I want to show you something,” he said. He walked over and picked up an arrow stuck in the ground. “This is the arrow you shot first,” he said. “See how far it is from the target? Then there is this arrow.” He picked up another arrow a little closer to the target. “And this one, and this one, and this one.” He walked closer and closer to the target as he picked up the arrows that had landed in the ground. “With every shot you came closer to the target—and closer to the bulls-eye. Do you really want to give up now, when you are really starting to get better?”

Little boy George shook his head uncertainly. “But it is taking so long,” he said. “What if I am never able to hit the bulls-eye? I want to hit it now! I want to be a good shot!”

“Ah…” said big man Jake. “But this takes time. Every time, you are getting closer to the bulls-eye. The times you miss are just as important as the times you hit because they show how much better you are becoming. It might take ten more tries, or it might take a hundred more tries; but each time you take another shot, you are one shot closer to hitting the bulls-eye.” He picked up the bow and handed it to little boy George.

Little boy George studied the bow for a little. Then he reached out, took an arrow from big man Jake, and placed it against the string. He stood tall as he carefully drew back the string. He took a deep breath, and let it release. The arrow soared through the air and landed a little closer to the target. “Look,” he shouted, as he ran to the arrow. “I’m getting closer!”

Big man Jake smiled and leaned against the tree.

Of Our Humanity and Inhumanity

While searching for poetry for the upcoming Spring program at SMS, I came upon some thought provoking pieces. I don't know the history behind them, but I thought I would share two that really caught my interest. Enjoy!

MAN'S INHUMANITY TO MAN

Many and sharp the numerous ills

Inwoven with our frame;

More pointed still, we make ourselves

Regret, remorse and shame;

And man, show heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man,

Makes countless thousands mourn.

Robert Burns

This next one is a woman I identify with. I am assuming that at some level we can all identify with her. The crazy part is that we often think it actually works to hide...even from God's love.

THE WOMAN I AM

The woman I am

Hides deep in me

Beneath the woman

I seem to be.

She hides away

From the stranger's eye--

She is not known

To the passers-by.

She goes her way,

The woman I seem,

But the woman I am

Withdraws to dream!

The woman I seem

Goes carelessly--

When love goes by

Does not seem to see.

But the woman I am

Knows sudden fear...

And hides more deeply

When love draws near!

For love might look closely

Perhaps...and see

Her beneath the woman

I seem to be!

Glen Allen

This poem reminded me of one of my favorites. I did an analysis of this poem in World Lit class. Powerful stuff. And way too true.

WE WEAR THE MASK

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile;

But let the world dream otherwise,

We wear the mask!

Favorite Verses from Isaiah 54

The words of a loving Father to a desolate child...

v.4 "Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood."

v.7,8 "For a brief moment I abandoned you, but with deep compassion I will bring you back. In a surge of anger I hid my face from you for a moment, but with everlasting kindness I will have compassion on you," says the Lord your Redeemer.

v. 9,10 "To me this is like the days of Noah, when I swore that the waters of Noah would never again cover the earth. So now I have sworn not to be angry with you, never to rebuke you again. Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed," says the Lord, who has compassion on you.

Preservation....

Tonight on the way home from school I was texting...I know, I shouldn't have been. I looked up and saw a deer right in my path. Hit the brakes, swerved to the right. As I did so the music playing caught my attention, "The Lord shall preserve you from evil..." Coincidence? I'd like to think not!

Aftermath and Shame

The aftermath of the FB arts colloquy has been quite brutal in the processing department. (For all you artists out there who did not take it in, you really did miss out!) I guess colloquies are not about providing the much desired answers, but rather, serve as a means of keeping our mental and spiritual faculties on alert. I came away feeling that I have more questions than ever before. There were many good things proposed. Many thought-provoking questions asked. I left challenged and stirred to continue wrestling with the questions.

More specifically, I was challenged by the thought that too often we live out of shame about who we are. Every human being faces this (if you haven't, feel free to challenge me) in some area or another. It may be shame about who we are or what we have done. But for this time, I want to think about the shame that can surround the Anabaptist.

I remember vividly the feeling of walking through town and being afraid to meet the curious eyes of people walking by me. I perceived that they viewed me as strange, peculiar, and possibly even a little stupid for buying into such a strange mentality. What was worse--I was thinking those same things about myself. I couldn't imagine what I could possibly have that I could offer to that person. I felt peculiar. And I was ashamed of it.

The obvious fact of the matter was, I didn't have to look the way I did. There was nothing to keep me from moving on and leaving my church and community. It was a choice I was making. Even after I felt sure of the "call" to remain a Mennonite, I still balked at the fact that I felt so different. Sometimes I became angry because I felt like an odd-ball. Then a very wise person said to me, "You are choosing to do this." No one, not even God, is forcing you to be a Mennonite! Suddenly I had to take responsibility for my own choices, and I realized that since I am called here, I need to be happy being here! This is not something I have to do. I could just as easily be a Christian in a different church. God could use me in other places. This is a gift God has given me. I was raised in a unique situation for a special purpose, even though I do not always understand the purpose! It is also a gift I can give back to Him. He has asked so little of me. All I need to do is follow Him. If that means me looking a little different, is it really the end of the world?

All good stuff! Then I decided to go to college. And a panic attack erupted! What were people going to think? Would these preppy little kids be okay with who I am? Am I okay with who I am?

Enter: another wise person. He said simply, "Don't be ashamed of who you are." Those words have carried with me in the last six months like no others. There is such profundity and truth in realizing that we are a part of who we are created to be, and believing that we have something to offer those around us. I hope that I continue to grow in this. There are still moments where I feel afraid of what people think. I have the same vanity issues as everyone else.

I wish for everyone that we could really come to know who it is that we are created to be. Don't misunderstand this to mean who we want to be. Too often we want to be some perfect person. In reality we are fallen human beings. We will NEVER be perfect. When we are who we have been created to be, we get to be alive in the middle of our falleness. We get to be part of the bigger picture. We get to help build the kingdom of God. Why spend time wanting to help build in some other person's shoes? Who has God made you to be? Does He have a calling on your life right now? Go for it! Embrace it! Know that out of it, you have something to offer the broader community.

Let it go, woman!

Moment of God's grace today...

I was reminded of how little good my tendency to control everything really is. In my voice lesson today with Mr. Scarlata, he mentioned that I seem to be trying to control the sound. When I expressed my frustration with the thought he said, "Just let it go, woman! You have to let go and let God."

How appropriate. I try so hard to control my life and make sure everything goes the way I want. Once in a while, maybe God says, "Let it go, Woman!"

God...good things...bad things...What the ????

The other day was quite an emotional one for me. I was living in the after-effects of very little sleep, and everything seemed big and overwhelming. The tears were falling freely as I told a trusted friend about how huge everything appeared. I poured out the feelings of frustration at God because of the negative emotions I was feeling. Good friend that she was, she pushed me. She asked me, "Is God doing anything good in your life right now?"

The tears fell faster, but I only gave a semi-committal answer of, "Maybe..."

"Has He done good things into your life up until now?" She kept pushing.

And the tears fell faster. Any person less comfortable with tears would have escaped the room long ago! But she only kept pushing and I answered "Yes."

The next question was one I could not answer well at the moment. "Why did that make you more emotional?" I was caught off guard. Yes, why did that particular question stir even deeper emotions within me? Why did it hurt more to realize that God has done good things for me in the past? Shouldn't it have been a calming effect? (See now, everything will be okay, etc...)

All of this has been running through my head. I remember a period of life where I in a certain level of naivety said, "Bring on the pain." Seriously, WHAT was I thinking? If I know anything about God, it is that He does love to take us seriously. And it seems that prayers for patience, pain, desperation, etc. are ALWAYS answered! However, I think there is a connection here. Back when I was crazy enough to ask for pain, I was also pretty crazy about my relationship with God. There were great things going on as well as painful things. I think this is what triggered the tears.

We so badly want good things from God. We want to believe His love. We want Him to allow all of our dreams to come true. We want to live giddy in love with Him. And yet we run from what it takes to develop this intimate relationship with Him. I run from it, because I am afraid of what it will bring. I want a fairy tale ending without the tale itself. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Fiona (from Shrek)-all of the above faced some pretty adverse circumstances before they had the happy ending. Who would have thought that a fairy tale really could teach something good? :)

So in the middle of everything, I am challenging myself to remember the good things. Regardless of whether or not we approve the bad things, they are coming! You and I have to wrestle through what that says about God. Is He really good? Or is He sort of cruel to create us to want such good things, knowing all the while we will have to deal with sub-par things?

I believe from the depths of my heart that He is good. Right now, quite honestly, it doesn't feel all that true. But I do know it is. Because of this, know matter how crazy life gets, we have to hang on to what we know. We have to remember the good things. We have to believe what He has said to us. We have to see His interactions with the details of our lives and claim the promise that He really has our best in mind! And we need to remember how He has come through for us in the past, and believe that He will again. It may not look exactly the way we have pictured it, but it will be GOOD. Painful? Maybe. But definitely good!

The beginning...

And so begins the era of my blog... I have thought of starting one for a long time, but procrastination being one of my weaknesses, had not followed through until now. I invite you to join in the journey of Grace Notes from my life.

There is a story behind the name. (Go figure, huh?) It has so much to do with "Amazing Grace," the hymn that has stood the test of time (and various arrangements) and continues to impact the lives of people today. Two years ago, I sang a solo for this piece while singing with Oasis. While I felt honored to have received a solo, I struggled with connecting to the piece. My intellect told me that it was true. I really was (am) a wretch, I really am saved by grace, etc, etc. I continually struggled to believe that it was true. See, I'd never been the raucous sinner, the one with the life of philandering and debauchery. At least not where people could see. However, I lived with my hidden demons. The ones that reminded me daily that while I looked as though I had been saved, the reality was that I was still a wretch. They told me that I really wasn't good enough for God. Why should He pay attention to me, when I was continually rejecting Him through my disbelief and miserable failings?

I stuck to believing what my mind was telling me, but it wasn't until a year or so later when I was again singing "Amazing Grace" that I realized that Grace is all about the disbelief, the fears, the fallenness of all mankind and, in my life, for me! It dawned on me that God was doing good things through me, fallen and messed up as I was. And then I realized, "This is what Grace is all about!" It takes someone who does not believe in herself, and uses her to impact the lives of others. It lifts her up from the mud puddle she has been in for a very long time, wipes the tears from her eyes, and shows her how God perceives her right there, in the middle of it all!

This revelation was not earth-shattering. However, it has changed the way I view myself. I am starting, (baby steps, mind you) to believe that God loves me all the time. That he looks at me when I fall, and all He cares about is that I reach out to Him. That He will pick me up each and every time! And beyond all of that, He takes delight in me...

This blog is not meant to be a shrine of any sort to my life. I am not a proponent of sharing my most intimate thoughts with the entire world, so it will be vague at times. However, I want it to be a place where the glory of God can be displayed. I want to chronicle the works of grace He is doing in my life to remind myself of how far I have come, and possibly to give hope to some other that He can do the same for them!

In closing, from the pen of George Herbert:

Love
Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd any thing.

'A guest', I answere'd, 'worthy to be here.'
Love said, 'You shall be he.'
'I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.'
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
'Who made the eyes but I?'

'Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.'
'And know you not', says Love, 'who bore the blame?'
'My dear, then I will serve.'
'You must sit down', says Love, 'and taste my meat.'
So I did sit and eat.