Pray for SPU

Someone opened fire on my campus.  

I grieve.

For the death of Paul Lee.

That my people have to face this tragedy.

I am angry.

At the shooter who killed Paul Lee and injured Sarah Williams and Thomas Fowler. 

At my society that produced this person.

I am grateful.

For John Meis, who took decisive action.

For the strength of my community as we support each other.

I chose to come to SPU after discovering my Grandma had a terminal illness.  I hoped that when tragedy struck I would be in a loving community.

Now, we collectively walk through the valley of the shadow of death. The truth of who we are is obvious.  In every building, on every lawn I see people being Christ to each other and I am proud to be here.


I pray.

For everyone grieving the loss of Paul Lee.

For the full healing of Sarah Williams and Thomas Fowler.

For the redemption of Otto Miller Hall.

For wisdom for the leaders who make the hard decisions as we move forward.

For grace and justice for the shooter and his family.  

For all unspoken prayers only my heart can say.

For grief to happen.

For peace to be felt.

For us all to find forgiveness.

I stand.

On the thresholds of my campus and declare that evil will not have the final word here.

In confidence that our God reigns.



Click here to support the victims and their families through SPU's "Rise Above" fund.

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.

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.

Journey

Only in Washington does one go to the beach dressed ready for the next snowpocalypse.

Rain jacket, hoodie, columbia fleece, and a scarf wrapped across my forehead, over my ears, around my neck and tied under my chin.

I trekked along the water, wind blistering my face.  Three times the hail stung my nose and bounced off my glasses.  I pulled logs across the sand to build bridges where little rivers connected to the ocean, too wide to jump across.  Remarkably, my socks stayed dry even as I dashed away from the waves rushing towards the shore.

I walked and walked and walked.  Then I realized I was at my beach with my family, and they were probably starting to wonder where I went.  I turned around and walked back, leaping over puddles, praying the cars who drove across the sand would see me, because with the scarf tied around my head, I could not hear them.

As I walked along the path, crossing the sand dunes and entered the little town of Pacific Beach once more, I stopped short of the coffee shop at the rainbow looming in the sky.

Most rainbows I've see are multi-color streaks, shooting into the air.  This rainbow was almost a complete arch, stretching across the sky.  I could see the beginning and the end, but the part in the middle was somewhat hazy.

I found it somewhat applicable to my life.  I know where I am, and I sort of know where I am going, but that part in the middle - the part where everything happens - it's still a bit hazy.

Dear Jesus, I pray that you would give me just enough rainbow, just enough road, just enough direction, so I can keep stepping forward. Help my plan oriented self be satisfied with that.

I love you,

Amen.

Clueless

I have no idea why I am going to Europe.

I am not saying I do not want to, but I really don't understand why!

Why would I leave the country when I feel like I have so much to contribute here?  Why should I spend extra money traveling the world, when I really should be cutting costs and saving money?  Why am I taking classes that do not seem to relate to my life calling? Why would God put me in this situation? Why, why why?

I do not know.

"...in the same way, no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God." -1 Corinthian 2:11b

Once again, I am left walking where towards the coordinates God has set for me, without any idea why.

To all who read this; if you ever catch me doubting if I should be going to/in Europe, remind me that I am a donkey.

Relinquish, the prayer ministry I am the administrative assistant for, hosted an event called Encounter Night: a chance for students to encounter God.  One room was set apart for private conversations with God, while some one led acoustic worship.  I sat in that room and told God all the reasons I should not go to Europe.  He directed me to Job 38.

Do you know that song, "Who has told every lightening bolt where it should go?  Or seen heavenly storehouses laden with snow?"  As I read those words (Job 38:22), the worship leader was singing them. Apparently, God really wanted to get my attention, so I kept reading.

Job 39:5-8 says this:

"Who let the wild donkey go free?  Who untied his ropes?  I gave him the wasteland as his home, the salt flats as his habitat. He laughs at the commotion in the town; he does not hear a driver's shout.  He ranges the hills for his pasture, and searches for any green thing."

I thought to myself, "How cool God!  You care enough for a donkey, a mere beast of burden, to give him a chance to enjoy himself!"  Then it dawned on me.  I am a donkey.  God has untied my ropes so I can wander France, Italy, and Switzerland without worrying about the things going on at home!

Granted, the things happening at home are likely to weigh heavily on my mind, but God will not make it any harder than I can handle.  He has instructed me to laugh and enjoy myself. 

Therefore, when I ask you why God would send me to Europe at a time like this, tell me I am a donkey, (which, ironically enough, is also called an ass) and God told me to go enjoy myself.  With any luck, that will squelch the doubts bubbling from my throat and remind me that God knows what he is doing, even if I am not permitted to understand it all. 

With any luck, I'll remember to thank you.  If I bite off your head instead, please forgive me; I'll try my best to be graceful.

Suffering, again.

I hate suffering.

Physical.

Mental.

Emotional.

All of it.

Paul was glad for his suffering.

Glad to suffer for the Lord.

Does it hurt less if you are glad for suffering?

I wish I could be glad for suffering.

But I am scared.

If I ask God to make me glad for suffering,

will it hurt?

Must I suffer to serve the Lord?

Or will fear hold me back?

God has a plan.

I will do his will.

But does that still mean I must suffer?