Fifty-three years of heaven or hell

I recently bought a book called Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality. I think the title is rather self-explanatory. It's all essays and reflections on the author's thoughts about different topics, like redemption, and tithing, and community and romance and the connection between faith and penguin sex. (Yes, you read that correctly. Go read it.) It's quite an amazing book, one that I will read over and over again and perhaps include in my musings many times. Only time will tell.

A couple of days ago I read the section about loneliness. I had no idea it would affect me quite the way it did, but it did. The author starts off describing being in love, how he thought about this woman all the time, and how he believes "love is a bit of heaven". I think any kind of love--romantic love, or parental love, or the love between a community--is a bit of paradise in itself. However, I couldn't understand why he started off an essay about loneliness with a description of a small slice of heaven. You don't either, but bear with me.

The author continues by describing how he is "a recluse by nature". He is introverted and prefers being alone, but recognizes that community is an essential and healthy part of life, of being human. He didn't always think that way. He had previously lived alone for six years, and it got to the point where he would leave events or church early because he didn't want to talk to people. People intruded his world and irritated him. He had purposely isolated himself because he was used to taking care of himself.

I can relate. I love people, but they are draining after a while. Whenever there is a large church event that takes up more than a day, like DTS or the church camping trip, I am always exhausted by the end because of all the people, and retreat to my bedroom for a long time after coming home. I love being around my friends and family, I love the noise and the laughter and the new memories being made. But I need downtime too, to recover.

But there's a darker side to this preference to being alone. I have always struggled with telling people what's really going on inside. It's so easy to be artificial and to put on a sunny smile and never cry and pretend everything is alright. It's frightening how easy it is.

I like helping out other people. I love giving advice and talking people through their problems. Yet I have such a hard time talking through mine. I've gotten much better with being open and honest, and I suppose I thought that was the end of the problem. But no, it still looms overhead and dwells in my heart. I have no problems encouraging others to be open and to trust, and yet I find it so difficult to take my own advice.

The problem used to be that I didn't know who to talk to. That's changed. It's almost overwhelming how many people are willing to sit and listen to me rant on and on. That's the good news. The bad news is that they all have lives, and that I am often reluctant to take them up on their offers to call and talk whenever I need. "Whenever I need?" I think to myself. What if I have a problem late at night when everyone is asleep? Then I'll not only have that problem, but will have the added problem of dealing with a potentially irritated friend.

I am always so afraid that I am irritating others with wanting to talk about my problems. There have been so many times where I have asked for help and couldn't receive it because it was a bad time for them, and I can't bear for it to continue.

Often there will be a specific person I'll feel inclined to talk to. A lot of times I'll hunt them down and talk to them. A lot of other times I won't get the chance. Either it's not the day we see each other at an event, or they aren't at the event, or things just happen and leave no time to talk. Or the talk happens all right, but there's either no time or there are constant interruptions from the talk I really crave to have. The talk I yearn for can so easily become hurried and superficial.

So I shut myself in. I swallow the urge to talk, make myself wait until I am around the people I really want to talk to, and then sometimes it never happens. I lose a chance to be vulnerable and to let someone in. And I lose a chance for someone to really get to know me.

There have been rare times when someone has seen through my mask.  Some people don't put up with my crap and chase me down to ask what's really going on. They care so much they don't let me run. They make me stand and confront the real problem. And I absolutely love it.

There's a lot of problems going on at the moment, and I've talked about it and asked others to pray. Everyone that's responded to me has been so sweet. Some have asked on their own how things have been going. And it blesses me.

But at the same time, I'm a little depressed. Yes, people care and have been inquiring as to how things are going... but no one has ever looked at me dead in the face and asked how things are going inside of me. All I've talked about has been informational news, but I've yet to really share everything going on inside. If someone came up to me and asked me "How are you feeling?" instead of  "How are things going?" I would probably collapse on my knees right there and weep. Actually, that would most likely make things pretty uncomfortable for both of us. But still, if you don't feel comfortable going to someone with tears and snot streaming down your face, maybe it's best if you don't speak about uncomfortable things at all.

Anyways. So like I said, I was reading the section about loneliness in Blue Like Jazz. In the middle of the chapter, the author inserted a short little cartoon, which you can view here: http://www.donaldmillerwords.com/images/DonAstronaut.pdf

Seriously, click that link. It's pretty crucial to my little rant here, and it's extremely short. I promise. Go back and click it, fool!

I'm assuming you've read it by now. Okay, so quick review: an astronaut gets in an accident and winds up drifting in space, orbiting the earth fourteen times a day. He's not going to die because he has a special suit that recycles his fluids. That becomes a blessing, and very quickly a curse. He orbits the earth, the earth where all his family and friends live, the earth he has lived in all his life before going to space. He may have had a wife who had anxiously awaited his return, and upon hearing of his supposed demise, had broken down in tears. He might've had young children. Still he orbits around his home planet. He sees it, seemingly within reach but so, so far away. He has all the time in the world to think about all he's missing, and how life could be if things hadn't gone so horribly wrong. He does this everyday for fifty-three years.

Don Miller, the author of Blue Like Jazz, was bothered by this story, which one of his friends had made up and wanted to write about. He says, "I imagined myself looking out my little bubble helmet at blue earth, reaching toward it, closing it between my puffy white space-suit fingers, wondering if my friends were still there. In my imagination I would call to them, yell for them, but the sound would only come back loud within my helmet. Through the years my hair would grow long in my helmet and gather around my forehead and fall across my eyes. Because of my helmet I would not be able to touch my face with my hands to move my hair out of my eyes, so my view of earth, slowly, over the first two years, would dim to only a thin light through a curtain of hair and thatch... Within ten years I was beginning to breathe heavy through my hair and my beard as they were pressing tough against my face and had begun to curl into my mouth and up my nose. In space, I forgot I was human. I did not know whether I was a ghost or an apparition or a demon thing."

This is surely what hell must be like: "...a place where a person is completely alone, without others and without God... And what is sad, what is very sad, is that we are proud people, and because we have sensitive egos and so many of us live our lives in front of our televisions, not having to deal with real people who might hurt or offend us, we float along on our couches like astronauts moving aimlessly through the Milky Way, hardly interacting with other human beings at all."

This story more than bothers me. It terrifies me. Everything I fear is wrapped up in one little story: being completely alone, without people. Without God. Absolutely no rescue. Loved ones thinking you're dead. Everything you love being tauntingly close. Being driven insane from the loneliness. It's a frighteningly accurate description of what it's like to feel disconnected from those that physically surround you. And it's a frighteningly accurate description of how I've been feeling lately. Because even though I don't watch television all that much, I am still that proud person. And I have the terrible thought that something similar might happen to me, if I don't purposely reconnect myself with others who do indeed care.

Lately I've complained to God, "There are people who have stories of getting phone calls or visits from others, out of the blue, that suddenly turned their whole perspectives around. Why isn't anyone doing that with me? My phone is completely silent. There are no personal kind questions in my emails. No one can sense my loneliness. No one has come up to me asking what's wrong."

Interestingly enough, He took the time to answer. "You have a community all around you... it's YOUR job to take the initiative to connect yourself."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa... I'm supposed to tell them about it myself? Instead of them just magically sensing it and chasing me down?"

"Yeah."

"Shut up..."

I think it's a good disciplinary action though. God sure knows what He's doing, and what's best for me. Gone is the time where I had no idea who to talk to. Now I know a bunch of people to talk with, and instead of unintentional loneliness, I have purposely not told anyone what's really going on. Because I'm afraid of being dismissed and pushed to the side as unimportant. It's a lie Satan has been screaming and whispering at me for years.

I know it's a lie. And I hate that I succumb to it so easily, so mercilessly.

"Loneliness is something that happens to us, but I think it is something we can move ourselves out of. I think a person who is lonely should dig into a community, give himself to a community, humble himself before his friends, initiate community, teach people to care for each other, love each other. Jesus does not want us floating through space or sitting in front of our televisions. Jesus wants us interacting, eating together, laughing together, praying together. Loneliness is something that came with the fall.

If loving other people is a bit of heaven then certainly isolation is a bit of hell, and to that degree, here on earth, we decide in what state we would like to live.

...I should be living in community... I should have people around bugging me and getting under my skin because without people I could not grow--I could not grow in God, and I could not grow as a human. We are born into families, and we are needy at first as children because God wants us together, living among one another, not hiding ourselves under logs like fungus. You are not a fungus, you are a human, and you need other people in your life in order to be healthy."

I don't want to be a fungus. I don't want to live fifty-three years of hell. I want to be a human who chooses to love others and, somehow, allowing myself to be listened to and loved even though it can hurt. It often feels so scary that sometimes floating around in space seems like a better plan.

But I know it's not. God has a much better plan for me and for all of us, and while it most certainly involves Him most of all, it also involves other people.

I choose fifty-three years of heaven.

Teacups and puberty and Wikipedia, oh my!

Have you ever heard the story of the teacup speaking about the potter? If you haven't, check it out:

http://www.turnbacktogod.com/story-teacup-speaks-about-its-potter/

Basically the teacup explains the ordeal it has to go through in order to be transformed from a lump of clay into a beautiful teacup. I won't explain much more than that because I went to the trouble of making a link and you should go to the trouble of clicking and reading because after all, you did go to the trouble of reading this blog. (And I imagine there are many troubling things in this blog... for goodness sake, we've discussed rotting cow heads, wall-peeing, and many other topics before.) Anyways, Tammy told me this story last month and it stuck with me. I went home, researched it, and bookmarked it. You know things are serious when I bookmark a webpage.

I love this story. I can relate to it.

And I hate this story. I can relate to it.

Things have been rather painful lately. Actually, that might be a bit untrue... things have been painful for a couple of years now. The past two years--starting two summers ago--hold all kinds of painful memories. I'm not saying they are bad years. I'm just saying they are full of pain. And while it's not pleasant to consider, it's where maturity began to grow. Rapidly. Perhaps too rapidly, I often think.

I feel very much like the woman in John 16: "When a woman gives birth, she has a hard time, there's no getting around it. But when the baby is born, there is joy in the birth. This new life in the world wipes out memory of the pain. The sadness you have right now is similar to that pain, but the coming joy is also similar. When I see you again, you'll be full of joy, and it will be a joy no one can rob from you. You'll no longer be so full of questions."

Alright, so at the moment I'm feeling the childbirth pains of that woman. Friggin' terrific. Here I am, having never been intimate or even close to intimate with another person, and yet I'm already experiencing labor pains. In a way I can sympathize with Mary. You know, young virgin girl who suddenly explodes like a pimple due to the squalling baby Jesus inside of her. She didn't ask for it. God believed that she could handle it, and helped her to.

I didn't ask for labor pains either. I never asked to have a metaphorical baby Jesus inside of me. Well sure, I've asked Jesus to be in my heart and to work inside of me.... but COME ON, I never asked for labor pains.

And you know what else Mary and I didn't ask for? Stretch marks.

Ugh. Stretch marks are awful. They're cowards, you know. They sneak up and spring on you all at once, and no matter how hard you wrestle with them (and no matter how much lotion you may use), they still get on your skin. Literally. And then you bear the battle scars unless you do happen to find a suitable lotion. But Mary didn't have cocoa butter or laser treatments. She just had stretch marks.

The truthful, always reliable Wikipedia says, "Stretch marks are often the result of the rapid stretching of the skin associated with rapid growth or rapid loss of weight. Stretch marks may also be influenced by hormonal changes associated with puberty, pregnancy, muscle building, etc."

Ah, here's the connection you've been trying to make in your head. Stretch marks often occur during pregnancy, right? So those that feel labor pains (now I'm speaking metaphorically--anyone, male or female, can experience these), are also the ones that have exploded like a pimple due to the new life inside of us God has planted. When I say we explode like pimples, it means we grow rapidly.

Growing rapidly has different meanings here. Stretch marks come from "changes associated with puberty, pregnancy, muscle building."

Puberty, meaning the time of growth from child into adult. Pregnancy, the time of a growth inside of us. Muscle building, the time of exercising and becoming stronger.

Are you starting to see something God wants us to realize? Because I am. Just now. And I'm the one writing the dang thing. I sat down to write something entirely different and God has completely turned it around into something way cooler than I had in my head. Let's see where this tangent goes, shall we?

 I believe that as true followers of Christ, we all must go through puberty, pregnancy, and muscle building. Again, "there's no getting around it". It's like an initiation. We must, or we aren't true followers. We all must grow up, mature, and become stronger from there. It's that easy, and that hard.

I'd have to guess that my spiritual puberty lasted from early childhood to about the two years ago I mentioned. That was a time of learning stories from the Bible, then learning what they really meant, learning the basics about God, learning that He loves us and cares for us and thinks we're beautiful and worthy, and learning the slightly more complicated stuff.

Then two years ago began the pregnancy stage. That's when the seed God had planted inside of me started to grow. I learned to live a life as a follower of God, instead of just saying I was. I learned to be kinder, even to people who weren't to me (or at least, I learned to keep my mouth shut, which was probably a kind, if not the kind thing to do). I learned to be bolder about what I believed, instead of shrinking away with embarrassment. I learned to deal with life situations that were becoming increasingly more and more difficult, and to rely on a God that wanted to deal with them for me.

And I guess I can go ahead and knock out part of the muscle building stage because I've truly learned and grown a lot spiritually. I have a long ways to go, but I've come a long ways too. I'm exercising daily the life that God wants me to live and the things He wants me to do. I'm not always thrilled about it... heck, I'm not usually thrilled about exercising anyways... but I'm becoming more willing to strain a little harder and hold weights a little longer. Still, there's a long journey ahead, as the brilliant, revolutionary John Pinette talks about here:

You see any connection between his struggles at the gym and our struggles with muscle building for God? Yes, we are muscle building for God. I like putting it that way. It's like He's our trainer, and He's encouraging us along as we sweat things out. He wants us to be spiritually fit and healthy. He may require us to do some exercises that look absolutely humiliating in front of other people, but come on, He doesn't want us to look like the Kool-Aid man. I don't want to look like the Kool-Aid man. I want to be a dancing member of God's kingdom. And I'm sure no matter how much we complain or how embarrassing we may look while working out at His gym, He won't turn to drugs and alcohol or open a candy store.

At the moment I'm going to focus my attention on the labor pains. I've gotten used to the pregnancy stage. Not comfortable with it, (how is any pregnant person truly comfortable?) but I got used to it.

Now there's labor pains. And I'm thinking the same thing any rational person in labor probably thinks: "OMG IT'S COMING IT'S COMING OWWWWWWW IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS NFFGDGDBREBGQWHTOIESKVBDF,MMVLVKNFGHNMG.,NJHGCNCG"

Here's the thing... and this here will express the sobriety inside of me about this whole situation: it hurts. It hurts. I know there's joy coming, and I know it will not be robbed from me... but it hurts. I never imagined I could feel so much pain and still be able to function and breathe and live. I feel vulnerable, as my feet are up in the air on stirrups and God is looking over at me to see how I'm doing. Waiting to see how I will react, if I will retaliate by trusting He will do everything right... or if I will scream and curse His name for doing this to me.

Because in all honesty, I've not been too happy with God lately. In fact, I've been pretty furious with Him. I know in my heart that He doesn't make things happen, He allows it, but that doesn't stop me from being angry. And while I'm ashamed to be angry, I'm also not. I know He's alright with my anger. I know He's alright with me screaming with pain and senseless rage. He's the parent who loves their child, even when they are rebellious and acting out because they are stuck in that miserable corner of not being a child and yet not being an adult. He's the groom who plants a seed inside of the bride. He's the midwife who is waiting to bring new life--and with it, new joy--into the world. He's the trainer who encourages and builds us up and applauds when we flex our improving muscles.

There have been times I've broken down in bitter tears and I want to say something, I am just longing to tell God exactly how I feel, but I can't speak from weeping so hard, and all I can say is, "It hurts, God, it hurts."

And He says, very gently, "I know, Ashley. But not yet."

Not yet. How I hate those words. And yet how true I know them to be. If we got exactly what we wanted, when we wanted, we would be destroyed and the child would never come out fully developed. I'm so thankful God doesn't jump through hoops and do everything I want. I'm so thankful God has and will continue to mature me, even though it hurts.

Something else on the Wikipedia page for stretch marks caught my eye: "They are caused by tearing of the dermis, which over time may diminish, but will not disappear completely." The stretch marks experienced through puberty, pregnancy, and muscle building will ALWAYS stay with us. We can't undo it. We shouldn't try to undo it. Even the best cocoa butter and the best of Satan's work can't undo it, if it occurs the right way.

I can't help but wonder how long this labor will go on. Honestly, all I want is to see the face of the child. I just want to see the results of the pain, the teacup at the end of the torture, the joy that no one can rob.

"How long, Lord, must I wait?"
"Never mind, child. Trust Me."

If you've stuck with me this far, thank you so much. I appreciate it more than you realize.

Beware of the friend-zone, my friend.

Have you ever had that good friend who you've known for years and years on end, and they had feelings for you but you never thought of them as more than that good friend who you've known for years and years on end?

Or on the opposite side of the spectrum, have you ever had that good friend who you've known for years and years on end, who you had crazy intense feelings for but no matter what you did they never thought of you as more?

I've been a part of both situations. There have been several guys who I've known seemingly forever, who have had crushes on me for several years and I never noticed a thing... or even noticed them to be someone who even thought of me that way. Oops. And then there has been one situation where I liked one of my guy friends for... how long did it last... I don't know, five years?

It was agony, let me tell you. I did a lot of things for him. For years I went out of my way to speak with him, to make him laugh, to listen, to be close by. I often dreamed about what it would be like the day he realized I was the perfect girl, the love of his life. It never happened, but I had hope that one day I would emerge from the friend-zone in his mind.

False hope, it turned out to be. It was indeed the hope that makes the heart sick--the kind of hope that is blind and which turns out to be fruitless because the only thing that keeps the hope alive is a mere wish that things will magically change because you want them to, not because there is any sort of reality behind it.

It took a long time for me to realize that he didn't like me, that he had no intentions of liking me, and that there was absolutely no point in liking him anymore. It was sickening, to be sure. And I did cry a little. But oddly, there was relief in letting those emotions for him go. More than relief... it was like a heavy burden--one which had developed over time, so slowly that I had never noticed it--had been taken off my shoulders. For the first time in years, I felt quite free. Happy, too... because now it could be just me and God.

That was months ago. And I wouldn't have posted this online for all to see except the fact that I'm finally realizing something that I should've realized then. Better late than never, though.

What if... okay, wrong way to start out that sentence. I'm pretty sure God feels this way, but I'll still say it as a rhetorical question. What if... this is similar to how God feels about us? What if He loves us unconditionally for years and years, before we were even born, no matter what we've done or what we do or what we're going to do? And what if we just think of Him as someone in the friend-zone?

There's no question as to if He loves us that way. He does. He loves us more than we can fathom, He loves us so much He sent His son to shed blood for us.

But I think a lot of us only view Him as a friend. I know I do. I tend to view Him as someone I've known for years, as someone I've grown up with, as someone who has become a great friend in more recent years. God is someone I trust (most of the time), someone I talk to and confide in, someone that I enjoy spending time with. I have a great friendship with Him.

But I haven't been in love with Him. To fully be in relationship with God, we must not only be great friends with Him but we must be deeply in love with Him. I never understood that until very recently. We must be completely in love with Him.

Thinking about it, it's hard to understand why I've never loved Him before. Why not? He's done so much for me that it's astonishing--He always makes me laugh. He's given me worth and beauty just because He made me. He's listened to everything I say. He tells me the truth even if I don't want to hear it. He protects me. He guides me. He has a wonderful plan for me, far better than anything I can imagine (and I have a pretty good imagination). He's healed me in places where I was deeply hurt. He's forgiven me for everything I've done and everything I will do. He's forgiven me for neglecting to think about Him and for not being obedient. He's always been there to sit with me, either silently or not so silently.

All this and more God does for me. And really, there's no reason for Him to make the effort. This is the dude who made the stars and the earth and the sky and the sun and the ocean and the mountains and all the intricate things of the universe. Sounds pretty intimidating, right? And yet all He wants is me. Us.

The more I think about it, the more amazed I am that I've placed God in the friend-zone for so long. For heavens sake, why have I done that?? No person could ever do all those things for me. Not even the best spouse in the world could come close. The best spouse in the world wouldn't have the strength to do that all the time, anyways.

I can feel my world shifting. I can feel my perspective changing, the same sort of thing that happens when you look at someone you know with fresh, new eyes. I can feel something happening inside of me, in my soul and my heart and my mind and even in my very skin. I can feel myself falling in love with God. The God who loved me first, who has always been with me through the years, who has never wavered from my side. The God who has never changed but who I'm suddenly viewing in a new way.

An hour ago I was lying in bed at the end of a very long and revolutionary day, pondering all of this. "What can I do for God?" I thought. "What can I do to share this love I'm feeling, the joy I'm finding in the knowledge that it will forever be mutual? What can I do to spread this to other people so that they can find this great love too?"

And an answer came. You could write about it.

"Um, now? It's midnight. I'll do it tomorrow."


Or you could do it now, while it's fresh in your mind.

The things I do for love. I turned on the light, opened my laptop, and settled down for a long period of writing that has now lasted an hour and ten minutes. I am now officially tired. My butt is sore, my legs are stiff, I have to pee, and I am beginning to feel brain constipation take over.

But you know what? I have a God that is completely worth all that and more and who deserves to be the love of my life, dang it.

Hopefully this is first of many ways I can share that love. Because you're the love of His life too.

And I bet He's not a bad-looking fellow, either.

Be Satisfied With Me

Relationships have been on my brain lately. By that, I mean two things--both the human relationship between a husband and a wife, and the relationship between ourselves and God.

I've discussed both with multiple people. Whenever I ask married people questions about marriage, whether it be theirs specifically or in general, I often get a curious stare that says "Why are you asking? You don't need to worry about this stuff yet." My response to that is "You don't know that. Neither do I. I might as well start asking now before I KNOW I have to worry about this stuff."

My frustration with all this relationship nonsense began March 25th. I remember it because it was the Sunday before my birthday and this occurred while my mom, stepdad, younger brother and I were going out to eat for a birthday dinner that evening. And I remember the date because it was the last Sunday of the month, and every last Sunday of the month my church has an evening service at six. Anyways, there was a specific moment that day in which my frustration peaked, and it was while I was in the car, waiting outside of Outback Steakhouse for my family to arrive.

That day, I had thought and thought about relationships until my head ached. And the more I thought, the angrier I became. I had read and heard so much advice about relationships and marriage that it all at that moment threatened to overcome and smother me. There was so much to think about that I had begun to feel like there was too much to remember to be worth it. Then there was the matter of relational coldness I had witnessed in my own family and outside it. I thought to myself, Who needs relationships? Who needs people? It wasn't worth it to have a relationship and have a family. Only destruction would come out of it.

Something snapped inside of me. There in the car, I made a well-planned, flawless decision that was in no way marked with hasty rage. I literally threw up my hands (don't worry, I was parked, remember?) and yelled to God, "I WILL NEVER GET MARRIED! I WILL NEVER DATE, AND I WILL NEVER START A FAMILY!"

And that, I decided, was that.

Honestly, I don't know why it came as such a surprise that God would interfere, but it did. And He did.

So I had dinner with my family and made it in time for evening church. Worship went on, communion went on, everything went well and expected.

Wanda, one of the women from the church, stepped on stage to speak. She gave her testimony and told us about her life, her previous marriages, how she came to know Christ. It was very well-told and eye-opening, getting to hear her story.

Then she started speaking about how she came to marry her husband she has now, the husband that God picked out for her. And this is where things became interesting for me.

The first time she talked to him, she knew that he was her husband. He didn't know it at the time, but eventually God told him the same thing. And here's the thing that was different than her previous relationships... this time, she had God. She loved God. She loved God so much she wanted to embrace Him. And God told her that this is exactly what marriage is--when you love God so much that you yearn to hold Him, and so He gives you someone to hold.

My brain circuitry fizzled and blew out. All I could do was sit there and gape at her. In my mind's eye, I could practically see God looking at me with a huge smirk and saying in a rather smug tone, "Marriage doesn't sound so bad now, huh?"

I've thought about that particular saying many times since then. The funny thing is, I've often thought it before but not quite in such official terms. What I mean is.... there have been so many times I've complained to God "It's so hard to love you when you aren't tangible and when I can't see you or touch you or hug you..."

"That's why I give you other people," He replies.

I've just never thought of it in a marital concept before. But it makes sense that God would give us a particular person to be intimate with, to share everything with, and to have every right to hold and who has the right to hold us too. It wouldn't mean a lot if we did the same with every single person that crossed our path... it wouldn't be meaningful and special at all. It wouldn't be a special and unique and ultimately loving relationship... the same relationship we have with God.

I don't believe in soul mates. I don't believe that there is one person we are chemically designed to be with. I don't believe that there is strictly one person for another one person. I lean more towards the concept of  "we never marry the 'right person'... rather, they become 'the one' when we marry them, when there is complete commitment towards them." This would make it easier to understand why all kinds of different people--Christ-followers, non-Christ-followers--are able to stay together for all of their lives. It's all about commitment. At the same time, I don't believe we could marry just anyone.

Anyways, I don't quite believe that there is a specific person designed for us, and I don't quite believe that we could marry anyone we want to. Some people are obviously more compatible than others. And here is where God is involved. I believe that God knows each and every one of our hearts, and that He knows what each person needs and the right timing for them. And then He begins to work and see who would bring out the best in this other person. Sometimes we need several people to work with before we get it right, and other times we get it right the first time.

I'm not going to pretend to know everything. Obviously I don't. In fact, I've got a headache right now from trying to wrap my head around it so much. I know that God knows everything in our future before it even happens, I know He knows who we will all marry, yet I don't think He made only ONE SINGLE PERSON to be compatible with. I don't know. This is all just me rambling. Maybe I'll find out someday, huh?

All I know is, God keeps track of us. He lets us know when someone isn't good for us, when someone is only there to prepare ourselves for a spouse, and when we find our future spouse. Even though I don't believe in the one person thing, I believe He specifically tells people "Yeah, go ahead and get married, you'll move mountains together" or "No, don't do it, the thought of you two together makes me physically ill." I believe He lets both people know if He'll bless their future together or not.

So recently I felt a strong pull on my heart to talk to Wanda. I pulled her aside last week and we had a long talk about marriage. I told her about my screaming in the car and how I thought I had the last word in not getting married. She said "Are you kidding? Marriage is a wonderful thing! I can't see why anyone wouldn't want to get married." (Personally, I can see some pros and cons to both the married and single life, but that's just my own cynicism.) Her enthusiasm about marriage was refreshing to hear, as opposed to the world around us which grimaces at the very thought.

Anyways, she emailed me a document on Monday. (Today is the Sunday after.) Since then, I have read it countless times, printed it out to keep at my bedside table, and have printed it out for multiple people too. It's something I want to share with everyone, because it's blessed me and it's something everyone should know anyways. It's tough to hear and tougher to do, but at the end is a promise of the relationship we all dearly want.

And it's this.

Be Satisfied With Me

 Everyone longs to give themselves completely to someone

To have a deep soul relationship with another,

To be loved thoroughly and exclusively

But God, to a Christian, says:

Not until you are satisfied, fulfilled, and content with giving yourself totally, and unreservedly to me;

with having an intensely personal and unique relationship with Me alone,

discovering that only in Me is your satisfaction to be found,

will you be capable of the perfect human relationship that I have planned for you.

You do not want to be reunited with another until you are united with Me exclusively of any other desires or longings. I want you to stop planning, stop wishing, and allow Me to give you the most thrilling plan existing, one that you cannot imagine. I want you to have the best. Please allow Me to bring it to you.

You just keep watching Me, expecting the greatest things and keep experiencing the satisfaction that I am. Keep listening and learning the things that I tell you. You just wait, that's all.

Don't look around at the things others have gotten or that I have given them.

And when you are ready, I'll surprise you with a love far more wonderful than any you'd dream of. You see, until you are ready, and until the one I have for you is ready (I am working even at this moment to have you both ready at the same time),

Until you are both satisfied with Me exclusively and the life I prepared for you, you won't be able to experience the love that exemplifies your relationship with Me, and this is the PERFECT LOVE.

And dear one, I want you to have this most wonderful love. I want you to see in the flesh a picture of your relationship with Me, and to enjoy materially and concretely the everlasting union of beauty, perfection, and love that I offer you with Myself.

Know that I love you utterly,

I AM GOD!

BELIEVE IT AND BE SATISFIED

Plants

I found this quote just now and it made me laugh out loud. So I thought I'd share it...

“He had heard about talking to plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, and thought it was an excellent idea. Although talking is perhaps the wrong word for what Crowley did.

What he did was put the fear of God into them.

More precisely, the fear of Crowley.

In addition to which, every couple of months Crowley would pick out a plant that was growing too slowly, or succumbing to leaf-wilt or browning, or just didn't look quite as good as the others, and he would carry it around to all the other plants. "Say goodbye to your friend," he'd say to them. "He just couldn't cut it. . . "

Then he would leave the flat with the offending plant, and return an hour or so later with a large, empty flower pot, which he would leave somewhere conspicuously around the flat.

The plants were the most luxurious, verdant, and beautiful in London. Also the most terrified.”

― Neil Gaiman, Good Omens

Is it cruel that I would love to grow gardens with that tactic?

CULTURAL!

So there's a Chinatown in Houston, and Mom and Kyle (my little brother) and I go there occasionally to get our oriental fix. We really miss the Asian food we used to eat all the time in California, with our Asian family... the vegetables, the cookies, the pastries, the dumplings, and all kinds of stuff that are delicious but that I don't know the names of. Where we lived in California was freakin' Asianland, so all the food we loved was right there. I never realized how much I took it for granted until years after I moved to Texas.

When we go to Chinatown, we immediately go to the Chinese bakery to buy different types of bread I love and some coffee cake stuff. Then we walk to a Chinese restaurant where Mom orders all her favorite foods and I scarf down my bread and whatever Mom hasn't eaten. Then we head to the grocery store where Mom buys dumplings and other food that don't matter because I only have eyes for the cookies/crackers I've loved as a child. We load everything up, and then full and happy, we drive back home.

I'll never forget the first time I went to Chinatown. I had the bright idea to play a game called "Count The Asians" and Kyle enthusiastically (a little too much so) joined in. I even had my phone out, keeping track of the numbers on the notepad. Because believe it or not, there are a lot of Asians in Chinatown.

I think I gave up after 70 or so Asians. Kyle bravely continued until close to 200.

 Last time Mom and I went a couple of weeks ago while Kyle was at school. Oh man, he was upset! He wanted to come with us so badly... haha, sucker!!! I mean, just kidding Kyle, we'll bring you back something. (We did--while wandering around a store, Mom found a clock with Snoopy in hockey gear and bought it for Kyle's next birthday.)

So we arrived in Chinatown, and head through our usual parking lot. I was looking out the passenger window, looking out at all the stores and the dog on the parking lot and the Tapioca House and--wait,  a dog? I did a double take, but at that point we had completely passed it.

"DID YOU SEE THAT?" I said to Mom.

"See what?" she asked, mystified.

"That dog!"

"What dog?"

"Mooooooooooooooooooooom, can you turn around? Look at it!"

 So she turned around in the parking lot and drove back the way we came. I'm sure I was pretty inconspicuous, the way my face was pressed up against the glass. And then... yes! We saw---

You know how when dog owners need to run inside a store, they'll usually leave their dogs in the car with the window cracked for air? This owner must have looked at them with haughty derision and decided "Not me!" Instead, they had left their dog outside in the REAL air. Seriously, the dog was just chillin' there on the parking lot next to the car. Don't worry, the dog was on a leash... the problem was, the rest of the leash was locked in the trunk.

HUH?? I'm really hoping the owner didn't just drive off without putting the dog back inside the car. But it's Chinatown, dogs aren't expected to be treated well there.

(I reserve every right to make fun of Asians since I am very much one. That's what I like about being multiple ethnicities... I get to make fun of all kinds of things.)

Mom saw the dog this time, and burst out laughing. We stopped right in front of it, I cranked the window down, and very subtly took a picture.

You know what I like about my mom? Not only did she stop to let me take a picture, but she dug around her purse for her phone, handed it to me, and told me to take a picture on that too.

Anyways, we went through our usual ritual of going to the bakery. The funny thing is, my mom has known the old woman who is always at the counter for years. Every time we walk in, the woman jabbers away in Chinese to my mom about how pretty she thinks I am, and what a great relationship Mom and I must have. It's kind of embarassing, but she's a nice lady.

We continued on our journey to the Chinese restaurant. We sat down, Mom orders her usual ten plates of food while I unwrap my bread and begin my blissful eating. Mom and I chatted about different things, the waiter came and went, food started disappearing as quickly as they came.

Halfway through the meal, my attention was drawn towards the music playing overhead. Huh, it sounded strangely familiar... I hadn't heard this song in forever, what was it? I strained my brain, trying to remember. Suddenly the woman in the song started singing and I immediately realized what song was playing. Simultaneously, as I recognized it, I choked on my food. Mom looked at me quizzically as I burst into laughter, probably spraying food everywhere.

The song was "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas. For the uncultured out there, it's PRETTY inappropriate and it's all about a woman's.... figure. I've never been a fan; in fact, I question how this song came into existence in the first place.

Honestly, it was absolutely hilarious to me that half the people in the restaurant probably didn't know enough English to understand the lyrics.

What made it better was when the waiter came over, looked at me (practically crying at this point), frowned, and asked Mom in Chinese what was so funny.

She shrugged and responded, "I don't know, I think it's the song."

Only in Chinatown... well, I'm very much sure this would happen in Nicaragua too.

For those that miss

I feel that all of my recent blogs have been so serious. I keep meaning to write something light-hearted, but honestly, it keeps sliding out of my head! Plus I don't think anything can compete with the series of "for Jules" posts, about strange things witnessed in Nicaragua.

Unfortunately for anyone who might be hoping for something comical, you're at the wrong post. However, I have an idea for my next post inspired by a visit to Chinatown in Houston recently. I'll try to write that tomorrow, or even tonight if I write this one quickly enough.

Not too long ago, I was browsing on Facebook. One of my Facebook friends is in New York (she is from Texas too), for college I believe. She wrote on her most recent status, "I want to go home." Very simple, very straightforward, yet containing so much emotion. And the more I think about it, the more my heart goes out to her.

It feels like I've spent my whole life missing people. Growing up, I lived in California but flew back and forth to Texas to visit family. That's how I met the church I'm a part of now, and how I met many close friends. And it was hard, having wonderful friends and family in two different states that I loved. I will always remember how frustrated I often was, and how much I wished it was possible for everyone I loved to be in one place.

That was bad, but it got so much worse in Nicaragua. It's one thing to miss some people all the time while simultaneously being in the company of other people that you've missed too. But it's a rude awakening to suddenly be in a foreign country, away from everyone. That doubles the size of people you miss, and the amount of pain, the amount of missing.

"We miss you so much," the Kolbs and I were told all the time. While it's great to hear, it's also a melancholy thing. Everyone only missed a few people--we missed everyone.

A. A. Milne, the author of Winnie the Pooh, writes “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” Yeah, inspiring. It makes you feel better when you think of it that way. But you have still said goodbye to them, and it still hurts regardless.

And so it kind of does something deep inside of me, thinking about my friend who wants to go home. The feeling is all too familiar. It's painful, when you're gone and sitting there wondering what everyone is doing and what they are talking about and what inside jokes and memories are being made and what good times are you missing out on and are they thinking about you at all. It's incredibly painful, especially if you have nothing going on at your end. Every Sunday morning, I'd look at the time and think about what people at church were doing. I'd do the same on Wednesday evenings, when youth group always occurs. I'd think, "Oh, worship will be going on there. I wonder who's playing. Now they'll be doing ministry time, now they'll be playing games, now they'll be doing a sermon, now..."

It gets easier as you get to know more people around you and begin to gain a busier schedule. It's no less painful, just easier to bear.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to have a mourning pity party here. This post was completely spontaneous and in fact, I didn't even realize I had all of this inside of me until I sat down to write. It's just... soothing to write it down. To record it.

I began counting down the days on the calendar until my flight home. By that, I mean I started counting just a few weeks into my almost three month stay. Preston and Carrie noticed, and when I was asked about it, I explained that it was somehow comforting to pinpoint a number of days.

One day, Carrie sat down and asked me, "Are you happy here? Because you're counting down the days."

I looked at her, bewildered. "I'm not counting down the days until I leave. I'm counting down until I get to see everyone again."

And man, I was diligent about that. We didn't have a calendar until two months into my stay, so I made my own calendar at the back of my journal. I'd write down what happened each day, little reminders, and faithfully crossed out each day before going to sleep. I counted the days backwards so I knew how many days were left.

Sometime in August, I was told about a youth event that was going on at church the day I was meant to fly back to Texas. It started Friday evening on September 23rd, lasted all night, and went on until Saturday evening the next day. I was scheduled to fly in at about noon, Saturday September 24th.

I got a brilliant idea. I would show up Saturday afternoon and surprise everyone! Chris Nelson, one of the youth leaders who had informed me of the event, became my accomplice. I explained my plan to him and he promised to send information about the schedule so that I'd know when to arrive. He didn't tell anyone else, and I didn't either except for Tammy (to make sure it was alright) and Jessica Knox (she asked if I was going and I wasn't going to lie). Actually, I take that back. While I told hardly anyone in Texas, I told just about every Nicaraguan who could understand English about my plan. I was just a little excited.

God bless my parents, they were so understanding. I was hesitant to ask my dad and stepmom, because I didn't want to deprive them from family time. It took a while to gain the courage to ask permission for my plan. Wonderfully, they said yes. I almost fell over with the laptop when I heard their agreement to my selfishness. Then came the matter of how I was going to get to the church and back. "Should I drive myself over there?" I asked Aunnie (my stepmom).

"We'll all go together," she replied.

Somehow, things became more bearable after confirming the plan. I was so excited to go through with it that I made a point of telling a lot of people how sorry I was that my flight was that day, and that I couldn't make it to the event. Sure, there was a little guilt after they expressed their disappointment, but... they'd see.

Whenever things got hard, I'd think about the upcoming reunion and my spirits would lift. I often lay on my air mattress at night and imagined what it would be like, walking through the doors unexpectedly. I imagined a brief moment of shocked silence, and then yelling and the flurry of bodies hurling themselves at me for a hug. It was such a sweet daydream.

I'm going to get to the point and fastforward to that moment. Fresh from Nicaragua, with newly red hair, a beach tan, and a shirt that advertised the Managua Vineyard Church, I leaped from the car and marched through the church doors where everyone was inside the Fellowship Hall, playing games. I walked right in, and stopped, looking around with a broad grin at all these people that I had missed.

It was just how I'd imagined. The moment of silence, the silence being broken by friends bellowing my name. The image of friends running at me, and the sensation of being knocked around, held, and ultimately dog-piled. That entire afternoon and evening was amazing. Being back with everyone, knowing how loved and missed I had been, was priceless. Even now, the memory makes me smile and feel warm inside. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Hell, I'd go back to a foreign country again, gladly, since I know how great the reunions are upon the return.

So yeah, missing hurts. Going to new places is always tough. There's always people to miss, and to leave behind. But there are always people to meet, and there are always people everywhere to make you feel lucky to have such hard goodbyes to. And after all, no one said it was easy to be loved.