The Misnamed Trio

And suddenly, in a flash, I could relate to the three men in the fiery furnace. 

You probably know them as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, though their mother's refer to them as Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah, but almost nobody knows that now. 

Here is what I used to think: King Nebuchadnezzar--let's call him Rupert--crafted an idol of himself and demanded everyone bow down to worship it.  The Misnamed Trio refused, because they only bow down to God. Rupert threw them into a furnace that burned so hot, the guards who threw them in died (my Sunday school teacher's always emphasized that).  But suddenly, Rupert saw FOUR people in the furnace, and one was super shiny.  He told the men to exit the furnace and realized they served the real God because even their eyebrows were still in tact.

If you have ever run the propane too long before starting the barbecue, you know how easy it is to lose your eyebrows.

I always thought this meant I should never bow down to a big golden statue.  And if someone tried to throw me into a furnace, God wouldn't let me die.

Then - something changed.  Like a crack of lightening (in the middle of a prayer meeting) I related to Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah. 

These were three guys who loved Jesus.  Then Rupert, the most powerful worldly force around, (Daniel 2:26-40) tells them to worship his statue.  They refuse.  They are persecuted.  God shows up.  Amazing.

I ask myself; what is Rupert telling me to worship above all else?  What does the world say I should dedicate the majority of my time and attention to?  

Myself.  

And I do.

I am a proud person.  I was afraid of praying for humility for a long time because God would probably make me look like a fool.  I couldn't risk what the lover of my soul might do to me if I became vulnerable like that.

Then I talked to Pastor Bonnie, who is so wise.  Humility, she said, is realizing it is not all about you.

Game changer. 

I can absolutely live a life that is not all about me.  I think.

I reject Rupert's plans for my time and attention.  I'm going to mess up.  Now you know and that could be good or bad.  Though since it isn't all about me, you may not even consider it once the post is over.

It is going to be rough, but God will show up.  And I will come out of this with my eyebrows fully intact.

Please Jesus, let me keep my eyebrows.

Not the Best?

This post in honor of "Butter my Biscuits," a long-standing camp volunteer with a very different name he uses in real life. He suggested the idea of "Beta Man," who doesn't see the need to give 110% all the time.

"Try your best."

Teachers, parents, posters, notebooks, greeting cards, and advertisements all encouraging the same mode of operation: your best.

My best self is friendly to everyone, parallel parks successfully on the first try, and cooks the bacon to perfect crispness every single time.

My best self socializes well, always does her homework before midnight, and never drips marinara sauce on her mint capris.

My best self is an excellent communicator, wakes up without the snooze button, and daily eats a proper serving of fruits and vegetables.

My best self is not me.

I tried to be my best self for a while.  Then I got tired of always trying, and reverted to "real me." Real Me has thoughts, feelings, and needs that ruin the Best Self image.  To say the very least, Real Me has marinara sauce on my mint capris.*

That isn't to say that I am no good.  I am, in fact, glorious.  The Ultimate Creator crafted me from the salt of the earth with the tips of his fingers; how could I be less than remarkable?

So - is "best" what we are really supposed to strive for?  Nope.  I think we should shoot for "genuine." The True Self.

My True Self usually needs to shimmy the car three or four times before I successfully wiggle into a parallel parking spot. But does that really matter?

Being your True Self is not an excuse to let all your selfish tendencies run wild.  Nope.  True Self is about embracing who you were created to be.

I was not created to skip class and turn in my papers late.  I was created to glorify My Maker.

And since My Maker said to go to college, stay in college, and take an extra year, than I had better do it to the best of my ability.



Shoot.  Usually, by the end of these things I feel like I've figured something out, but there I'm still trying to be "the best."

Dear Jesus,
What exactly should I be thinking about this now? Please help.
Amen.


*I inexplicably find myself eating spaghetti every time I wear my mint capris.

Why College?

Deborah Rodriguez was a beautician living in Michigan. Dissatisfied with her life, she joined an aid team going to Afghanistan.

The rest of her team - Doctors, dentists, and nurses - had obvious parts to play.  But what could a hair dresser possibly do?

As her book, Kabul Beauty School tells, she could do a whole lot. Sharing her skills, she taught classes of women how to do hair, nails, and make up. With these skills, the women provided for their families and earned positions of respect in their households and communities.

With the technical skills of a hair dresser she turned around the lives of hundreds of women.

When I was in Haiti, I met an American woman who went to Haiti to pour concrete.  While she was there, the Haitians asked her if she could teach some kids.

And when I met her, she had been teaching for the last two years with no plans to quit. A high school diploma plus construction experience, and she was doing important work in a place that needed her.

I went to High School Camp a few weeks back, and a speaker came who had traveled the world with YWAM.  22 countries, 6 years, and who knows how many lives changed for Jesus?  He just graduated High School and started going.

So - what the heck am I going to college for?

I really just want to help people, but is college making me over qualified?  I mean, what good is a communications and sociology degree to people who need to learn to make a living?

Or maybe the opposite is true: maybe I'm under qualified.  I don't know anything useful to anyone.

I've been wandering the whirlwind of options for life after graduation: Haiti, , Fulbright, Peace Corps, Masters Degree, Kenya, Masters Degree and Peace Corps, Fiji, Teach for America, DTS, Starbucks Barista...and I can't help but wonder why all of this "education" is going to matter.  

If I wasn't so certain God wanted me in college, I'd be out of here in a heartbeat. But God's got a better plan. I'll try hard to be patient and wait.

Memoirs of a Newbie: High School Camp

I have never worked with high school students before.  Spending a week as a cabin leader this August was like learning a foreign language when you're already in the country, with a broken jaw.

My eight girls arrived Monday afternoon.  I woke up Tuesday morning and groaned, thinking: I'm still here! 

Lesson #1: Always seek advice from people who have been there before.  

Ten minutes of conversation with a 8-year cabin leader veteran told me everything I did wrong the day before. Mentality corrected, I lead the worst morning devotions ever.

Lesson #2: Never stop praying.

So, I started praying.  I prayed during lunch. I prayed during the all-camp game. I prayed while swimming. I prayed during dinner. I prayed during worship, hearing the burdens of some of my precious girls.

Breakthrough.

God took Rachel, Rachel's problems, and Rachel's emotions and set them aside.  When my strong girls broke and their hurt leaked out, my empty space soaked it up.  Helpless, hurting, we waited for Jesus. 

Lesson #3: The Holy Spirit will always come.

Tumbling from my lips in the shape of words, God came to bring hope. 

And the hurt siphoned away. And peace came.  

And for the rest of the week, I prayed.

Except Thursday.  Thursday I spent the afternoon swing dancing and playing on lake toys with a group of people only to happy to make sure I had a marvelous time. 

Lesson #4: God likes to have fun too.

My initial terror gave way, and I had a fantastic week.  No, I am not proficient in grades 9-12.  But God will always be around to build bridges across language gaps, and all will be well for it.

Insatiable

That bigger and better we all long for

That feeling I've always wanted

The ultimate sense of happiness, peace, joy, belonging--

I wont find it here.

It is eternity tugging at my heart

Pulling my soul from its deepest roots

Stirring the depths of every human

"He has also sent eternity in the hearts of men." (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

That deep, insatiable yearning

will not be met here.

Yet, I will not despair.

I rest in faith stronger than hope.

Eternity will come.

I know I will be satisfied.

Sometimes I Feel like a Pillow

Somedays I feel like a  pillow.
The place people go when they've no where else to be.
The reliable safe heart always ready for a cozy memory.
A dependable place to cry or pound angry fists.

Always forgiving.
Always accepting.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow,
Neglected for something better.
The snot stains from your grief become repulsive.
The lumps from your fist too disconcerting.
And really - the case was never that attractive anyway.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow,
Shoved into the closet
Mixed with ugly sweaters
and shrunken winter jackets.

And there I take the tears
And there I take the anger
And there I'm not wanted
But there I'm left to be.

Until,

She comes.

Or rather,

I go.

To hands big enough to hold the world.
They squeeze me,
Knead me,
And ask why I stayed away so long.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow
Fresh.
Full.
And ready for my purpose.

Again: Grief

It's like a ship
Far away on the horizon
An unremarkable
Shapeless
Black smudge
Slowly growing larger
Until an outline is discernible
Details slowly coming into view
The clean lines
The rigging
The flag
Until finally,
In sharp focus, it appears.
The name.
The Identification.
The reason for the smudge.
It is Grief
Again returned to the harbor
Raising its weary head
Forever to taunt me
Forever to linger
Like a ship on the horizon.

I Wear a Size Sexy

What if, instead of sizing clothes with numbers, we used compliments.

"I wear a size infatuating."

"Hmmm...Gorgeous isn't fitting quite right there, how about you try it in a va-va-voom?"

"Do you have these jeans in boodylicious?"

No one could complain about their size!

"Shoot! Radiant is too small. Now I'm a size exquisite."

I know it wouldn't solve all of the body image problems in the world.  Learning to love the way you look takes more than a dress in size beautiful, but claiming women of all sizes as attractive could be a step towards winning the mind game of impossible beauty standards.

So, the next time some one asks, I think I'm going to tell them: "I wear a size sexy."

I Need a Black Voice

I've been volunteering with an awesome organization in South Seattle that tutors kids after school.  I have gone twice a week for the last quarter, and love it so much I've been hired on for the summer.

When I'm there, I'm typically the only white person in the room.

I don't have a problem with being the only white person in the room.  I went to a minority majority high school, and overcame the false notion that "all black people will shoot you" a long time ago. I don't think the kids treat me any different because I'm white--except for suggesting sunscreen when it's hot.

But there is this one thing.  Let me explain:

Ms. Charlene and Abbey left me in charge for a bit so they could pick up the church van.  No problem, I can handle being the only adult in the room.  I do it all the time.

Everything was going great until I looked up from helping Joseph with his poster to see Ryan running around in his socks.

"Ryan, aren't you supposed to be wearing shoes in here?"

"Ms. Charlene said it's fine."

I knew for a fact it is not. "I'm pretty sure you are supposed to be wearing shoes."

"Nooooo!  Abbey said it was okay!"

I rolled my eyes and gave up.  I haven't quite seemed to convince Ryan that I'm an authority figure, and even thought it wouldn't help matters, I didn't feel like having the battle without back up.

A little later, Abbey came in.

"Ryan, I need you to put your shoes on please."

He immediately put his shoes on.

Now it is true that Abbey has been working with Ryan for much longer than I, so he probably respects her authority more than mine.

But there's another difference.

Several of my black friends talk about the need for a "white voice."  They change the way they speak in certain situations to give themselves credibility.

Likewise, I think I need a black voice.

According to the stereotype, for a woman to speak passively and meekly is to be white.  I don't do it naturally. Ever since I was a kid, my parents have told me to stop talking like I know everything. So, I pose statements as questions, "um" and "awe," and try to "speak gently," etc.  I know I often fail miserably with people I know well, but in certain situations, it's the only type of language I can seem to muster.

With my white church kids, it isn't really a problem.  It's a speech code they all understand and can adhere too.  But my South Seattle kids?  It's a completely different ball game.  Their speech codes are different and I need to change to fit their kind of talking.

So, I think I need to learn a black voice.

Thoughts?  I am definitely open to advice here!

Safety Net

A few weeks back I went to a movie with somebody dear to me.  Western Washington still clung to winter, and and night fell early even though it was spring break.  Out of the darkness a woman approached:

"Do you have any money to spare? I'm hungry."

I turned away and told her no.

Stepping into the building, my purse felt like lead.

I had $12 cash in there.

I wish I could say that I went back outside and handed her the money, but I didn't.  We were running late, I didn't want to get left without a ticket, and I didn't want to explain myself to my companion.

Essentially, I placed more value on the first few minutes of previews than the woman.

I took my seat and watched my movie, feeling horribly guilty.

Later, mediocre movie over, settled at home, I expressed my guilty conscience.

"I can't believe I didn't give her any money.  I still feel terrible about it."

"She probably would have spent it on drugs or alcohol."

"But you don't know that.  She might have had a family to feed.  She might not have eaten today."

"Why risk it?"

I thought for a minute.  "Because if I was ever homeless, I'd want someone to give me the benefit of a doubt."

"But your middle class background says you'll never be homeless," the one who is dear to me responded, then she changed the subject.

I don't have the research handy to tell you the details on why this is true.  But it is unlikely I will ever be homeless.  The middle class is raised with the speaking habits, manners, and values held in high esteem by the privileged people in America.  Our upbringing provides a comfortable safety net of potential employers and established family connections to halt a descent into poverty.  We are privileged to be less likely to end up homeless than the people from lower classes.

Exasperated, the voice in my head retorted: Just because I was lucky enough to be born in a middle class family with white parents and white grandparents who have all been able to get good jobs for most of my life - does that mean I shouldn't care?

No, it doesn't.  Not at all.

God gave me certain privileges, and I strive to be conscious of how I use them.

White Woman Hair

I love volunteering in the kids classes at my church.  Class size varies, discipline issues vary, over all spirituality varies, but I can put up with all of that stuff if it lets me be with the kids.

On a recent Sunday morning, a fifth grade Latina girl came up to me unexpectedly and said:

"Ms. Rachel!  You have such beautiful hair!"

I looked into her beautiful brown eyes and thought to myself: do I really have beautiful hair?  Or have you be socialized to believe that blonde hair, blue eyes, white skin is beautiful?  Do you think you are beautiful? Why is being beautiful so important to us anyway?  I want you to know that you are more than just beautiful, but an intelligent, capable young woman worth so much more than how you look.

But of course, you cannot necessarily say that to a fifth grade girl, in church, in the middle of the memory verse game.

So, I told her thank you, and we went back to playing.

If I could go back again, I would have told her she was beautiful too.  Affirming her worth--even if I didn't agree with the source--is far more important than the sociological factors that make her need that.

I just had so many words jumbling around in my head that the right ones couldn't seem to squeak past my lips.

Even though I spent the rest of the morning looking for reasons to compliment her on how well she participated and telling her how beautiful she was, I'm not sure it really helped.

I was so disappointed in myself.

Remembering Haiti (with Jack Kerouac)

Photo by Maureen Patricia: View from Girls' Balcony

So in Haiti when the rain comes down and I sit on the worn white-tiled balcony watching the bright, bright lightening over the church and glimpse all the lush land that drinks in the sudden torrent across Hispaniola, and all that dirt drowning, all the people immune to the immensity of it and in shacks I know by now the children must be sleeping in this land where they celebrate beds, and tonight the thunder will roll, and don’t you know that God is Kilroy?  the affluent world must be donating and throwing their money covers the country, which is just a way of hiding the total struggle that ravishes the land, drenching the dust, wrapping the tents and the cardboard shacks, and everybody, everybody knows nothing’s going to happen to anybody besides the tattered tarp of temporary home, I think of Flore, I even think of orphaned Flore, the girl I couldn’t leave, I think of Flore.

Written to imitate the following passage from On the Road by Jack Kerouac:

"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty."

I did this for a class, but Haiti has been on my mind so much I felt inclined to share.  Maybe this will make you think of Haiti too, and you pray for the beautiful people there.