Rambling Thoughts of Truth

     They say that thousands of people around the world are dying for their faith. But, I am not. No, I come and go from work, on a bike, in a car, on foot, with complete confidence of my safety, but never do I stop to tell the people with whom I work about Christ. How can I? What if I did it at the wrong time and I offended them? What if they disagree, because who am I to tell them, I know perfectly well that I am no different… but then again, God never expected me to stop being human. And what about the fact that I have lived my life in a world that focused so much on helping others know Christ that I forgot that I am supposed to know Christ. And now I want them to know him, but I can’t forget…. They don’t understand. A Hindu leader once said that a truth repeated is no truth at all. In many ways that’s flat out false, if I tell you it rained today it won’t eliminate the fact that it rained, yet sometimes I think to a certain extent it’s true. I can tell you all I want to about my friends, but until you meet them face to face you will not know them. But, if I tell you about God, and then you go and meet Him, then you will know Him more, because you also know how He looks from other’s eyes.

The goal in my life stopped being to go out there and save the world, but today I was reminded of a passion to save the world. Yesterday, I was reminded my relationship with God comes first. Christians are like fire flies: we aren’t light itself, but we have moments when we light up and grow, and remind you of REAL light, God’s light.

Or maybe we’re more like windows. If we open up the curtains to our hearts, God will shine through. But the thing is, to do that you don’t have to have the name Christian. You need more. You need a relationship with Jesus, and the brighter He shines in your own life, the brighter He shines out the window. But here’s the tricky part, it’s not about opening the curtains of the window twenty four seven, it’s about opening the front  door to your house. Tears were driven to my eyes today because people are dying, but the only way that I can show them how the light works is if I open the door. (Oh, I don’t think this means you can’t keep your bedroom door shut if you need to, for you and God, or you and God and a few treasured loved ones, but that doesn’t mean you don’t let people in.) And what I mean by letting them in is this: you don’t judge them as people who are OUT. Yes, people who don’t know God are indeed out, but you and I have a limited perspective and it may drive us nuts that they aren’t worshipping God, but it is only ours to speak to the rock (see Numbers 20) not strike it when we strike it we stop our worship. God never said not to get angry or frustrated, but we are not God: Jesus was the one who dumped the market stalls in the temple, Peter only spoke in it. Yes, thousands are dying, thousands have to walk through life without knowing God at all, and thousands outright choose to disregard Him. Some choose to walk on the edge of heresy, others so close to the conservative line you have to wonder if they are Pharisees, but this remains: God can heal the heart. You never know who will turn around and help you, or who God is using.  God used an unbeliever to change my life forever. It is not ours to judge, but it is not ours to stay silent either. The Christian has been ordered to use their words to speak.

But your value will never come from sharing your faith or how well you wear the face of a “believer.” Ultimately our values come from God. Even growing in a relationship with Him won’t make us matter more. But the more we know God, the more we know about God the more we will grow to understand our own, and maybe then another’s value. But, I want you know God; not only as a tool to help you know that you’re valuable, that’s a byproduct…  

I have a friend who helps me write, I don’t love her only because she reads my work. But her reading my work has bound us together: the little comments and smiley faces and her defining my writing process as turning a cow into a giraffe  told me something about her.  She stepped into my life by reading my work, it was my choice about whether or not to get to know her. Then, after that I got to know her as someone much more complex, who is more than I will ever know: I have gotten a glimpse of this irrational tendency to make a million new friends, a person who doesn’t really stop to think but figures life out as she goes, and who desperately needs her quiet time in the morning.  And the thing is, I got to know God better through her, just as I came to understand her better through meeting her family. Now, my relationship with her does not depend on her reading my work… I don’t love her because I spent hours talking to her comments in my empty bedroom, but because of who she is. Her help with my writing just opened the door, and still carries on into our friendship as a rich element of love.  In a way, that’s how it is with the cross. I love the cross, that symbol of victory (take note of the fact that the cross is empty,) but the cross alone is not who God. 

I hope you get to know Him not only as your savior, but as your Lord. It is the beginning of eternal life, even if today is just as shadow of what is to come. It is the greatest and first commandment. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind and soul…” And by the way, it’s okay if we get discouraged, I don’t think getting to know God is easy. He doesn’t always do what we want, and we can’t see Him or touch Him and all I, at least, have is this vague feeling that He’s there or wants me to do something… but do not fear, it is not by Moses’ power that the red sea was opened, that he found a burning bush, or saw the back of God. God is “I AM,” and I wouldn’t be surprised if, like Moses, He revealed Himself to you if you ask. And like in the books of Moses, I wouldn’t be surprised if God reveals Himself to you even before you ask. Remember God’s promise, “I will be with you.” Not only to Moses and the Israelites, but also to the disciples, also to the Christians (Matt 28:20).  

"Dream A Little Bigger Darlin'"

         Unpacking. Pulling out a suitcase and sorting books and clothes-dirty or  clean, winter  or summer. It’s the story of a college student. It’s the story of a missionary. Packing and unpacking.  As I settle into my home for the summer with piles of boxes on my other bed still and job searching I remember the decision I made for this summer: I will be where I’m at.
          I’m not really good at that: being where I’m at. Oh I complain when people bring cameras for future memories, but there’s always a notebook tucked into my purse to capture a moment. When I was little there was always somewhere else to be. When I was older I either had my nose stuck in a book or brain flying somewhere in a cloud of fantasy. But see, that’s the problem, my brain stayed in the clouds and it didn't learn how to guard my heart against the cold of reality; reality is like the weather, and you have to be ready for winter. The reality is that I’m not a very good writer. The reality is that change will come, no matter how hard you fight it. The reality is that life doesn't always go our way. These realities all knocked me off my feet because sometimes you have to wear a coat in winter.
            I hated winter in 2012, it was cold and windy and you couldn't be outside. But then in 2014 I had a class called “Winter Field Ecology” where I spent hours bundled up with wool socks, wool hat and two or three layers of pants, crunching through snow on snowshoes. Let’s just say I fell in love with winter. I had learned to face the cold. I’m learning to do that too with dreaming. I can’t hole my heart away in a house. Yeah, reality hurts but I can’t stop dreaming: I’ll miss the snowflakes landing on the branches of a white Pine. It’s time to put on my coat. 

It’s a speck in the distance, a stream of cloudlike fuel spills behind the jet. “Take me with you.” The thought flips by my mind. I’m called to be there, not quite words, more knowledge. Then the cognitive thought, “No, Mom and Dad are called to be there. I had the privilege of joining their calling, but that time is over now. I’m called to be here.” I look at the waist high snowbanks along the curving sidewalk; at a pile of snow blocking the three crosses on our campus.

 Miller library stands welcoming as I walk by it, big windows allowing light to poor inside. “I’m called to be here.” The realization sinks in again. I don’t always want to be here. I don’t want to deal with seemingly empty author debates or discussions of topics that, while valid, are rather useless for my life right now. I’d rather not have to face the constant stream of transition that follows me around, screaming that I only have ten weeks left before summer interrupts classes. And yet, I am called to be here. No, there are no Andes mountains here. The need or reason to not indulge does not stare at me in the face every day. But, I am called here. To this campus. To these studies. To these people. 

Pound Signs and Colons

                I was going to write this without revising. I failed. I got half way through my first draft and I said, “No that’s not good.” And so here I am, starting over. Rewriting:

                I use words that my friends use. I find myself doing things the way my Mom does them.   I love how a friend is not afraid to sit on the floor: I sit on the floor too. Another friend studies hard: I tried to be studious too.  I imitate people all the time.

But I never imagined that I would be imitated. Late Sunday night I pulled up a friend’s blog post and was completely surprised that she had captured my writing voice, and then turned it into her own. She even  used pound signs, a writing tool meant to block out scene changes. (She had given me a lot of grief over them, calling them, “silly.”)

Even in a section of writing where she strictly limited herself to my style, her quirky playful-self came out and I was relieved to see how it didn't rip away her identity. (She couldn’t avoid her beloved colons.  I rarely use colons; am only just beginning to adopt them, if look above I have three. This never would have happened without her. You might say I’m imitating her too.) 

She gave me one of the the best gifts or tributes she could make to my writing with her imitation. And just to add to it, she also offered a peak into her heart that night.

Imitation. A window into our hearts: God wants that.

If I, a human, feel so privileged to have someone imitate me, should I not remember that I am meant to be an imitator of Christ? After all, I was made in God’s image. I never quite thought of it that way before. I always thought we imitate Christ so that we could be perfect, like He is perfect. So that we could… improve and be better. I wondered if we would loose something of ourselves when we did it.  I knew it made Jesus happy as kid, but I never thought about why. I never thought that me thinking, What would Jesus do? might be an act of love.

 

Little losses

     I pack the ballet slippers tightly into my red suitcase. There they go, another loss.

    I have to just move on. I pick up the suitcase. I'm in the airport of life. Every one's rushing and hurry to get somewhere.  

    I run into another loss.

    I shove a long berry colored dress in there too. It won’t zip. I have to sit on it.

    I hear voices. Flight 789 is boarding. I look down at my ticket. “ Flight 917, Gate E 15.” I’m in gate “A.” It will be a long while before I get there.

    I keep going, but I have to stop again. I’ve run into another loss and I can’t carry it in my hand. It goes into the front pocket.

    It’s probably fifty pounds now. If not more.  

    The pilot  texts me, "It's okay to check it."

    But that would take time, and then I can't keep moving.  I’d have set the suitcase on the scale and weigh it.  I'd have to remember how much it hurts.

    This is not a big loss. It’s a just a carry on full of little ones. There's no reason to mourn it. I'm only one who thinks it's heavy. No one died. These are just wants. I have something better, I know that.

    But the wheels keep rolling behind me.
            
                                            My arm is starting to ache.
               
                                                                     It's holding me back.

The Link

      Deisal pricked my nose as I looked out of our  fourth floor window and watched a blond woman and two light skinned men stop in front of the Chuchucara restaurant. They hoisted dark blue and deep green climbing backpacks. I don’t think I’d like to be a tourist, everyone would watch me.  The irony of the thought hit me, and I started laughing. I had been the gringa all my life. People already stared at me. It wouldn’t be any different during the European tour I dreamed of.

      

     I never used to pay special attention to the darker skin or hair of the Ecuadorians. The Quichuas were just the people my dad worked with. Dad’s students were normal people.  They were different, they wore wool ponchos and black dress pants. But it was normal that we were different. I didn't really understand how strange they would seem to Americans.  Sometimes I hated my white skin because  sometimes it stopped the darker Quichua kids from really talking with me, especially as I got older and simple games like tag no longer helped us to understand each other as normal people.

      I’ve been in America for the last two years. (It’s been three years since I looked out the window in our Latacunga apartment.)  I came back for the summer before my senior year in highschool, and except for a short visit, I haven’t been there since.  Memories were fading. I was beginning to wonder if I was losing Ecuador, until Dad pulled out old videos and we watched some of the Sundays he and I had taped. For the first time, I saw my world from an American’s eyes. Dad looked like something from an old movie with his blue checkered shirt, black mustache, and old round-squared glasses. He stood behind a big white podium and preached.  Quichua women might have come up before to sing for a special occasion. Maybe one of the mothers had been nursing uncovered while singing. The air would have been cold. There would have been no carpet, the floor was either dirt or cement. The pews were unfinished-wooden benches. How rustic that seems compared to the heated, polished churches in North America. How desolate and needy. No wonder  I struggle with our sometimes careless attitude about money!  Memories of a life before American culture- shock slowly slipped into my mind as I recognized my Spanish voice and then, when the camera turned to a white girl standing amongst a crowd of dark haired people, I realized, God let me be part of His miracle. 

   

  My parents are under supported and have been slowed by the inability to find housing.  We are in a time of transition, but I cannot help but wonder at the privilege we have been given, and they still have. They are one of the only missionaries reaching to the yet-to-mature Quichua church who is still just emerging from hundreds of years in slavery. Many have come and gone, but few have been able to last this special, rejected people. Nineteen years into the work, thirty years into pursuing missions… my parents are looking to keep showing Christ’s love the Quichua people by investing into the life of one pastor at a time. They're just two normal people, a link in the “telephone game,”  that shares God’s love to hundreds. 

Battle of Horizons

        Grey clouds lurk on the horizon, a wall in the east that is slowly fading away. I wade through a puddle and tepid water swishes against my sandals.  The grass is sagging after the weight of the torrents. In the west, the sun pours through the wall, a golden glow on the opposite horizon.  It grows brighter and brighter, and a gentle crimson dances along the dissipating clouds. I look from one horizon, with its dark menacing sky to the other's brightening dance. The world trembles in between. Maple trees are laden with raindrops.  The cracked sidewalk is dark with rain. But then a bird chirps, and Heather and Lauren are laughing. I stop. I stare at one sky, and then the other. I stand suspended between the two worlds, a memory of a storm that came through mingles with the hope of what will be. The dark description of pain, and  a gentle, quiet beckoning,  the comforting sound of waves along a beach; or wind in tall Eucalyptus trees calling, “Come and find rest.”