how is it we all feel like the only lonely one?
I talked with my twin sister on the phone this morning. Her husband just finished his basic training with the U.S. Air Force. She got to see him this last weekend at his graduation for the first time in 8 weeks. There was a change in her voice–a peace and relief I haven’t heard in her for a long time. I am struck by how different she sounds when she feels joined with her husband. I believe it is the sound of desire fulfilled. I enjoyed hearing his stories from her. I couldn’t help but feel an ache of empathy for him as she told me about his MTI’s (I think that’s what they’re called), and how they yelled in my brother-in-law’s face in such a demeaning way. It was hard for me to imagine someone treating a man who is kind and soft-spoken in such a way. My sister was delighted to share with me how much her husband had grown since she last saw him, though. “He stands taller and with more confidence… it’s amazing.” Her words were pregnant with a newly awakened pride and respect for her husband (not to say that she was not proud or respectful of him before–it has just grown). We talked about how he learned that he is capable of far more (physically, emotionally, mentally, etc.) than he could have ever imagined, and the impact that was having on him. He has gone through quite a transformation. This I expected. What has caught me off guard is the realization that his change is also her change. I have not thought much about how one person’s transformation can also mean another’s.
As I attempted to envision what “boot camp” was like for my brother-in-law, I found myself feeling like I’ve been in a boot camp of sorts myself. I don’t want to devalue in any way my brother-in-law’s experience–what he has gone through is honorable and far from anything I can understand. However, I’ve become very aware that I am capable of holding far more pain and heartache than I ever knew was possible. Not that I can “stuff” more than I knew, but that I can be aware of it and not use all sorts of methods to hide from it or make it go away. I can walk through the pain and survive. I’m assuming, but I’d guess that in many ways Airmen are stripped of their identities. Who they once were must be shed and left behind if they want to survive in the Air Force. No. Survive is the wrong word–if they want to be an effective Airman. What they once knew about the world does not fly anymore. I can relate. In so many ways I feel stripped of my identity. So much of how I operate in the world is being challenged and is shedding away. What was once okay to do is now not only not okay–it’s dangerous. How I communicate, how I ask questions, am I defensive? What are my motives? Is this for me or for them? How are my needs overriding theirs? Am I manipulating in a way that keeps me safe from them? Was that the right thing to say? Do I apologize? How much do I share? How much is too much? The questions are endless… who am I? Who do I need to be to be effective? Who do they need me to be to help them? It’s an interplay of risk and wisdom. It takes a lot of practice, a lot of help, and even more humility. I’m tired all the time and often feel like the biggest mess there ever was, but… there is hope in me. I don’t stand tall or with confidence yet, but one day my transformation will mean change for another, and that makes this worth it.
Here are some pics from some of the times I’ve been able to “play” while not digging myself out of school work!
Finally went to my first Mariner's game! Here I am with my roommate Renee and my new friend Melissa.
I took my nephew Christian to see Where The Wild Things Are. We liked it!
A group of classmates and I went to a farm up in Mount Vernon to pick pumpkins and apples. We had a great time!
My roommate Renee and me.
Every year I am surprised by how much I love Fall. I’m not sure why I’m caught off-guard by it every year, but I’m glad I am. It’s like experiencing Fall for the first time every year.
This is my first Fall in Seattle. To be honest, I had low (very low) expectations for the sort of Fall this city could produce. It doesn’t get that hot or that cold, which are usually prerequisites for a brilliant Fall. Even as the trees started to change a few weeks ago, I was skeptical. I thought that was as good as it was going to get. However, I have been happily proven wrong as the temperatures drop and the brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows begin to show themselves through the leaves on the trees outside. To experience the view of the UW campus while driving over Lake Union on I-90, to sit in the big comfy leather sofa chair facing the windows in Zoka and look out to see bright reds and oranges to the left and greens and yellows to the right filling the giants windows, to drive through Washington Park Arboretum–the trees in all their splendor… I think, “this is Fall.”
A couple of days ago my roommate and I were talking about how much we love Fall. We mentioned all our favorite things about Fall–the crisp cool air, the colors, the cozy warm feeling of being inside when its cold out, the smells of apple and cinnamon that seem to be everywhere, the unusual desire to bake, the strange craving for hot apple cider, the smell of dying leaves and burning wood. I wondered aloud why Fall has so many “traditions.” It seems like a season of goodness. And it seems ironic that it would occur just as the easiest season to enjoy (Summer) is ending, and the most difficult season to enjoy (Winter) is beginning. Then we remembered Harvest, and how Harvest is naturally a time of celebration. It marked the end of the all the hard(est) work, was the time for people to reap the bounty of it, and gave them a reason to celebrate. I love that God picked this season to be the season of Harvest. Celebration dances around us. Even the trees seem to be celebrating with their display of color. Most plants produce their best fruit for this occasion. It seems a perfect time to celebrate a season of hard work and prepare for a season of rest.
I thought more about this idea over the next few days, and was moved to contemplate how I might celebrate the “hard work” that I’ve done over the last year… and the Harvest that God has done in my life. I wondered how I was displaying my celebration, if at all. It’s a sweet invitation for me to pause in the midst of Readings, WTL’s, and Buber discussions, to reflect on the goodness that is dancing around me. I couldn’t help but smile (perhaps only internally) at the thought of the journey of this last year. What a sweet year it was. I fondly remember the blessing of a new job with the Union Gospel Mission. That job was a place of rest and tender care for me as I was part of a staff team that loved me deeply and fiercely supported me. I was highly valued by this organization and given incredible training that I will forever be grateful for. This job also gave me the security and freedom to begin dreaming beyond it–and I started my pursuit of Grad School. I found MHGS. My response to everything I learned about it was, “this is too good to be true.” My heart seemed to line up with everything about Mars Hill. It wasn’t too good to be true, and on August 1st I moved to Seattle. I left five roommates, a house, and a neighborhood, that I deeply loved in Spokane. I traded it for three new roommates that can’t be compared to my Spokane ones, but who I deeply love in different ways. I moved from a city I enjoyed to a city I am already in love with. In the short two and a half months that I’ve been here I’ve made friends I sense will be in my life for, well, maybe life. I’m in a program I love. I’m being allowed to pursue my dreams and engage in what I’m most passionate about. What a time for celebration!
But even as I am intentional to sit in my thoughts of celebration, I can’t help but be somewhat haunted by the Winter that is looming before me. We’ve been talking a lot about desire in class. The nature of desire is to keep our hearts interested, longing, engaged with something we don’t yet have. I hadn’t occurred to me until just now, but with the celebration of desires met there is a feeling of being stripped and new desires are surfaced. It’s alarming and unsettling. I was pretty comfortable with the desires from before. I was in a familiar place with them. I had done the work I needed to do in order to reach “desire fulfilled,” and all I had to do was wait. Now that the waiting is over, my awareness of other desires that had been lurking in the shadows of my waiting have come into the light, and I am terrified of them. They are familiar, but unfamiliar, too. I don’t want them to go away, for that would be worse than death, but I want them to get out. They call me to feel the pain of realization that I don’t have what I so deeply want.
I suppose the beauty in this is that the memory of the Harvest can invite me to hope that this approaching season of Winter will also have it’s Harvest. I hope for the day when I can celebrate the fulfillment of this season of desires.
I have 20 minutes. Roughly three short-stories from my life to share with the random group of people that are my Practicum Group. What do I want them to know about me? What do I want them to see? Will they be happy stories? Will they be sad? Who will I introduce them to? Where will I take them? How do I decide?
This is my challenge for Monday.
Practicum has been an interesting experience (side note, I’ve noticed that I use the word “interesting” way more often than I would like to. I could use some help brainstorming some more interesting (ha) synonyms). It’s not really what I expected it to be, yet at the same time, very similar to what I expected. I was originally a little disappointed to be assigned to the Practicum Leader I have (I’ll leave the reasons out). The longer I’m with her, the more thankful I am to have her. I am learning so much from her, and really think I might have the best Leader in the school. She genuinely cares about us as people, about developing us as Pastors and Therapists, and knowing who we are. She’s teaching us how to be better at introspecting, how to be better listeners and observers, and how to be kind to ourselves and the others in the room. These are all very hard things to teach! I have an enormous amount of respect for her.
Something I’m learning from her, in addition to my other instructors, is that life is really all about story telling. We are part of a great story, we are each in our own unique story, and our lives are comprised of many little stories that weave in and out with others’ stories. To view the world through a “story lens” heightens my experience of life. It’s a glorious feeling to be aware that I am part of some kind of narrative. It’s exciting and mysterious! Even the most mundane moments of my day are suddenly swelling with anticipation of the potential drama that could unfold. (I must clarify that my use of the word “drama” is not intended to refer to the sort of drama that teenage girls… well… most women… live off of, but truly “exciting, emotional, or unexpected events” that happen throughout the day. This, however, could refer to the latter as well). I only wish I had the time and creativity to share with you the “dramas” of last week for me. There were so many: good, hard, fun, risky, and redemptive.
I had a Monday that challenged my internal awareness on so many levels.
I saw a short-film festival with stories I’m still thinking about.
I filled in gaps of my history that could potentially shift my identity, but at the very least my picture of myself.
I interviewed, accepted, and started a nanny job.
I met the most difficult 14-yeard old boy I’ve ever known and felt good when I got him and his brother to school without him burning the house down.
I was given free tickets by my favorite band and went to their show. I sang along, rocked out, and got to thank them for their generosity.
I walked the fine line of broken/repair with my twin sister and broke through years of invisible separation.
I know new friends better and laughed a lot with them.
I experienced the ups and downs of an interesting plot. These little blips of my week don’t do them justice. Do they leave you wanting to hear the whole story? Do they make you think of the stories from your own life? I’m curious to know what its like to read one or two lines of a story… is it less than interesting, left wanting? Does it even matter?
Of course it does! This is the invitation of God. To play a part in the narrative. How exciting it is to become aware that you play a part!
I have some time before I need to go to bed, and I have maxed out my ability to read for the night, so I thought I’d share a bit about my grad school experience thus far:
Reading. I don’t do much else these days. In order to stay caught up on my class readings, I literally have to spend almost every day reading. I’m not sure how this is going to work for me when I get a job.
The difficulty I’m having with writing this entry is reflective to me of how disconnected I am from myself right now. I spend so much time in my readings and trying to process what I think about them all, that I have no idea how I’m really doing. Reading all the time doesn’t give me a lot of time to engage with people the way I normally prefer to, and even when I’m given those opportunities, I’m so tired and mentally taxed that I am not very “present.” Its ironic since most of what I’m reading focuses on the concept of relationship and incarnational living.
I had class until 8pm on Wednesday. At about 7:15 pm I started watching the clock. I wanted to escape. I wanted to stop thinking, contemplating, reflecting, processing. I just wanted to be, but I didn’t want to be alone. I read alone all day long. So I was thrilled when a classmate invited me to go out for beers and pizza with a group of people after class. At first I declined the invitation and took advantage of a safe ride home from a friend. However, once I walked in the door of our house, I wanted to turn around and run. It was the last place I wanted to be. I thought to myself, “Carpe diem!” (we watched scenes from Dead Poet’s Society in class that day), and drove myself to Zeek’s to join my classmates (who were glad to see me!). What a breath of fresh air it was. It was short-lived, but so great to be able to sit with friends and process our classes, share stories, laugh, and live light-hearted. I hope for many more times like this.
Mars Hill is a peculiar place. I love it, but I don’t understand it. I spend so much time with so many incredible people that I long to know more deeply (to experience “I-Thou” moments with). But our time is so limited and focused. It’s so frustrating to me! But nothing good comes quickly, right?
My favorite reading so far is I and Thou by Martin Buber. It’s incredibly abstract, but beautiful and wonderful and I wish everyone would read it. All I can say about its topic is Relationship.
My roommate, Renee, and I went to a local coffee shop last night in an attempt to get some work done. The following is her story about our experience. I’m sharing it on here, because I couldn’t write it better, and because the way she wrote it resonates very deeply within my heart. This is exactly why I am in Seattle at MHGS:
A short story…about a night on Neptune
Tonight my roommate & I went to a coffee shop called Neptune. And I have to say that at times I felt like I was on the planet of Neptune. Definitely out of my comfort zone!
We both went there to work on various projects we have going on, but unbeknown to us, once we ordered our coffee (not to-go) we discover that it was open mic night!
At times it was…well “rough” (ie two guys singing a song with a chorus that simply repeated “marijuana” over and over again in two-part harmony…yeah I know and it went on FOREVER).
But in the midst of the noise the college-aged girl who served us our coffee went up to the mic with her ukulele. She said she was going to play the first song she ever wrote, and that it’s a bit emotional for her, and I’m thinking to myself…how emotional can one be with a ukulele? Little did I know!
She sang a song that had this really eerie feel to it. It was a happy, children’s sounding song, but what made it eerie were the lyrics. The song describes her dad, who views her (his daughter) as bad, and then the chorus is about how her dad beat her, and threatened to beat her more.
I find it so interesting to see the vulnerability this woman had, despite the fact that most of the coffee shop is half-listening in the “audience”, like I was up until this point. This woman has survived a lot, and has a story, and like the rest of us, she desperately longs to be known…and to be loved. So much so that she’ll sing her story to a room full of strangers, most of whom aren’t listening…on the off-chance that someone does and connects with her, and for a moment engages in her world.
Everyone’s got a story
Anyway, I guess tonight just served as a reminder to me that everyone’s got a story, and a longing to be known and loved. And everyone is in need of Christ’s redemption. People are all around me, with their stories, and their needs, and their longings, if I’m simply willing to notice them and listen. (from Renee Hensley)
We also met a new friend who has a beautiful voice. We invited her to another open mic night we know of, which she seemed excited to hear about. She, too, seemed to have a lonely spirit. Her hair was long and plain. She wore a skirt to the floor and a hooded sweatshirt, with the hood pulled around her head. Everything about her appearance and demeanor seemed to communicate that she wanted to hide, and yet her vulnerability in playing and singing her songs for us tells of something more. It was almost like her way of inviting us in to know her. Was she timidly wondering if anyone would show up?
While I walked away from Neptune last night feeling like I had wasted two hours of my night, I also realized I had an invitation in my heart that wasn’t there before–to enter this woman’s story. We exchanged numbers, and she even texted me last night in her excitement at meeting Renee and I. This, I believe, is what knowing God is about. It’s so simple. It’s love. I have an opportunity to show up for this girl. To love her, know her, invite her into my story as well… how tragic and sad it would be if I missed this. I don’t know what the future will hold for her and I. Maybe nothing will ever come of our encounter… but its such a great reminder for me to look for the invitations that come my way every day. To see them as such a gift to participate in the dance of life that God has created us for. To miss the joy of this invitation, this dance… it would be the loss of life. It would be death.
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Renee is on staff with Campus Crusade for Christ on the Seattle Metro team. She just moved to the Northwest from Texas. This story was in an e-mail update that she regularly sends out to her financial and prayer partners. If you are interested in learning more about her, her blog is renegadeblogger.wordpress.com.
I made it through my first week of Grad school! It was pretty exhausting, but only because we had so much fun. I did anyway. It was a week full of information, activity, questioning, risk-taking, welcoming, and new things.
It was an emotional week for me, even though I have yet to shed a tear (I probably need to). I felt myself pulling back a little at the constant invitation to be myself. Never before have I felt so safe to be myself in a large group, and the foreignness of that feeling alone freaked me out. I felt myself dreading the digging I know is coming soon. Digging up old places of my heart that I’ve broke ground in before, as well as new places I’ve yet to discover. I felt my insecurities increase as the week rolled on and I grew increasingly tired. My confidence waned as shame was triggered, disappointment reared its nasty head. I also felt the strange ache of anticipation… a little scary and exciting all at the same time. I know I’m joining something huge that is happening at Mars Hill Graduate School. Something that will change me forever, and, hopefully, will change this world. As Paul Steinke said last night at our Vespers service, we do this in hopes that the world will one day dance.
With that said, in the midst of all this crazy newness, my heart longs for the familiar. I miss my friends. I miss the ease of conversation and laughter over repeated stories. I crave the lack of awkwardness and insecurity. I deeply long for the feeling of being known. I miss being with people who know my quirks, who know my needs, and who love me anyway. I miss not having to wonder, constantly, what sort of impression I’m giving… not having to be constantly aware of what I’m revealing because of what I might be revealing. I guess I know what it feels like to be in a conversation with me sometimes… feeling like someone is analyzing every word you say, every action you make, every facial expression, every hand gesture. Its both thrilling and terrifying. And I get to be around 100 of them every week. It concerns me a little that I’m already feeling overwhelmed by this and it is only the end of the first week. But, as Paul Steinke also says, “May my brokennes never be the end of the story.”
Its 6:20 am on Saturday morning before my first week of grad school. I was up until 1:30 am last night. Why am I already awake?
Even though I ask why, I really don’t mind this disruption. My window is open and I’m listening to the sound of the rain fall on the leaves of the trees outside my window. The air that’s finding its way in through my window smells amazing. I could get used to this part of rain. I need to learn to live in and love the rain because I signed up for 3 years of it.
Yesterday was the final day of the Writing Workshop I took. It was very helpful and I’m glad I signed up for it, but it has also shed a little more light on the reality of what I’m getting myself into, which is a little daunting. Our instructor gave us an assignment yesterday to walk around the neighborhood and look for an icon that represents how we are feeling right now (“right now” I took to mean this period of time as well as in the moment and as they are related). I walked around the waterfront (because it’s in our neighborhood…sweet!) with a classmate of mine. She asked me to talk about how I would answer the question, and so I processed with her. I was feeling a need for redemption. Events of the last two weeks have stirred up and reopened a lot of old (and not-so-old) wounds of mine. Lately I have felt like it is inevitable that these wounds will be perpetually agitated. They date back to my birth and there has been, what sometimes feels like, very little reconciliation for me with these particular issues. So, I told her I was looking for something that was a contrast with the old and the new, something of revival or restoration. I recognize my progress, but am, at the same time, aware of my need to continue on in it. What I found was this rock sculpture:
On the waterfront in Belltown, Seattle.
I love this image for how I’m feeing right now. It has the rough, unfinished edges around it, but the top has been leveled, smoothed, and polished. It’s a beatiful picture of redemption. This rock would have had nothing but a formless, crude existence if its artist hadn’t come along with his or her touch of creativity, vision, and passion for it to take on a more beautiful identity. My instructor added that polishing a rock highlights the beauty of it’s details so much more than when it’s unfinished. I’m glad she shared that insight.
This hope for that polished edge is what my heart has been aching and pleading with God for. Being that I am starting a graduate counseling program in 2 days, I’ve anticipated and assumed that part of the process of my work will be this redemptive process, which I’m sure it will, but I wasn’t really expecting much to happen before then.
I went out, however, with some other MHGS students last night, and was taken back by God’s gracious hand in bringing so much redemption to my soul in my short time with them. I don’t really want to share too many details, but I want to at least give you a beat on what I experienced. I felt enjoyed and known. That’s the simplest way I can put it without revealing my entire heart, which I’m not comfortable doing right now. I have, of course, felt those things before, but there was something very unique about last night, and I want to honor God’s part in it. I had been praying and allowing my heart to ache with hope that He could bring something good to that place that had felt only pain for so long. He did in more than one way, which brings me to a point of awe and incredulity that he could care so much for so little… but, HE DOES!!
I’ve discovered that getting lost is way more fun when you’re not on a schedule and you’re not alone. Its fun to meander through new neighborhoods and find places you’d never know about if you stayed on the beaten path. Laughing about wrong turns and road names is only fun when someone else is in the car (did you know there is a road by Safeco field called Edgar Martinez Drive?). It is not, however, fun to be late for a job interview because you’re going South when you need to be going North (stupid construction detours). And it is not fun to be lost on Queen Anne hill when the sun is setting–it would be very easy to kill someone with sun glaring in your eyes like that. However, because of all this, I have adopted a new motto (I didn’t have one before, but its good to have one, right?): “When all else fails, find I-5.”
School starts on Monday. Somehow I’m feeling overwhelmed by that. I expected to be anxious and wrestless by the time the 31st rolled around, but even with a month to prepare for this change, I’m really nervous. A break from emotional challenges and significant responsibility has been an enormous blessing. I certainly needed it. However, after speaking with a lot of second-year students and stressing over a stupid writing workshop paper that isn’t even graded, the reality that this is going to be really hard work is really starting to set in. I have to step it up in a lot of ways, and while that is the challenge I came here for, it doesn’t mean I’m ready. A poem we read in my workshop says:
“Above the gazing crowd
The trapeze artist lets go of his swing,
And then, if his timing is right,
Seizes the other swing,
Without asking time to stop for him.
That is the flight into growth.” (Letting Go by ?)
I feel like the trapeze artist who has just leapt for the higher swing. I’m in that in-between, mid-air place, where I feel like everything inside my stomach is about to come hurling out and the fear that I am going to tumble quickly to the ground is robbing me of my excitement. I know this is part of the process, so it doesn’t kill my hope, but it is quite exhausting. I think I’ll go take a nap now.
