Sometimes it feels much longer than four years; each year since seems like ages ago, let alone thinking about four. (And yet it kind of surprises me, too. It didn't take much for me to get to this point, after all. I've just been living.)
Last year, I was living in KH. I put a picture up on a wall of him.
The year before that, I was in Scotland. That was a strange year. Only one or two people there really knew what that day meant to me. It was a bit surreal to miss him and think about him when I was on the other side of the ocean from where everything happened.
The year before that I was a freshman at Calvin. I didn't know what to do or what to think. But a lot of people knew and I think that helped. Something about telling your story makes it real and valid.
So I guess that's why I feel such a need to keep telling it. (Someday I'll actually get around to writing a book... but as Frederick Buecher warned me, you don't ever really stop needing to tell it.)
This year, I miss my dad with a different kind of grief. I miss him with a different kind of maturity. The last four years have given me distance to see him as an adult and not as a teenage girl. I have a deeper respect for him and for his life. I can appreciate, now, what others have told me about him without immediately reacting (internally) "but you never saw the other side of him; what the cancer did to him, what we saw at home."
But there IS that side of things too, to remember. I spent a long time this weekend re-reading my blog from those couple of years. It was like reading about someone else's life. I almost felt intrusive, actually, like I shouldn't have been reading such personal thoughts--and yet they had been mine. Shame? Not quite. But grief all the same. I read into my own depression, grateful to see me come out of it after a few months, worried when I saw myself start to slip again-- four years have given me objectivity and a sense of what others must have felt like watching me.
The pain is still real, however; I actually started to feel the same things that my blog captured back then. That was a bit scary. That was the point that I wanted to pull away from reading, but I couldn't resist. It was addicting, but I could feel myself spiraling downward with my past self. (I'm recovered, don't worry.) I was able to email many of those old posts to myself and archive them in a safer place, too, so that I have access to the poetry I'd written back then. That part was worth it.
I'm headed back to Holland today, to see my mentor and have lunch with her, and also to visit the cemetery. It will be a good thing for me to do, especially since I have today off for Academic advising. (As a side note, I'm officially registered for my student teaching placement!) It will be good to remember.
And there is so much to remember.
Finally, on a day like today, here's a hymn to hold close.
The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.
Refrain
O love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints’ and angels’ song.
When years of time shall pass away,
And earthly thrones and kingdoms fall,
When men, who here refuse to pray,
On rocks and hills and mountains call,
God’s love so sure, shall still endure,
All measureless and strong;
Redeeming grace to Adam’s race—
The saints’ and angels’ song.
Refrain
Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.
Refrain
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
[Great] Expectations
I had a conversation with a friend last night about expectations. He told me that he doesn't have expectations for anything or anyone. Something about that statement was unsettling, and I've been trying to put my finger on it since.
I wonder if "not having expectations" could even be true. I'd challenge him on that, because I think we all have expectations whether or not we'd admit it. (For instance, if someone says they don't have any expectations for marriage, I'd read that to mean that they pretty much expect their marriage to fail. If someone has no expectations for a future, on the one hand it may mean they're open to anything, but how can they become better people if they don't expect to grow and change?)
What does it cost us to not have any expectations in a friendship or relationship? Trust, I'd guess. If you can't expect another person to call, or to hold up their end of things, how can you trust them? Either that or you develop apathy. Neither sounds like a very happy place to be.
There are risks with expectations that are too high, though. Then again, there are risks inherent in any expectations. But to abolish expectations altogether? I think that person would be resisting hurt, which is obviously impossible. C.S. Lewis reminds us that:
"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell." (from The Four Loves)
So what does it mean to have expectations, especially as a Christian? What does God expect of us? (Micah 6:8 applicable?) How do we develop healthy expectations for ourselves and towards others? Can we live with no expectations, or will we run into problems?
Any thoughts?
I wonder if "not having expectations" could even be true. I'd challenge him on that, because I think we all have expectations whether or not we'd admit it. (For instance, if someone says they don't have any expectations for marriage, I'd read that to mean that they pretty much expect their marriage to fail. If someone has no expectations for a future, on the one hand it may mean they're open to anything, but how can they become better people if they don't expect to grow and change?)
What does it cost us to not have any expectations in a friendship or relationship? Trust, I'd guess. If you can't expect another person to call, or to hold up their end of things, how can you trust them? Either that or you develop apathy. Neither sounds like a very happy place to be.
There are risks with expectations that are too high, though. Then again, there are risks inherent in any expectations. But to abolish expectations altogether? I think that person would be resisting hurt, which is obviously impossible. C.S. Lewis reminds us that:
"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell." (from The Four Loves)
So what does it mean to have expectations, especially as a Christian? What does God expect of us? (Micah 6:8 applicable?) How do we develop healthy expectations for ourselves and towards others? Can we live with no expectations, or will we run into problems?
Any thoughts?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
I wrote this poem four days before my dad passed away.
Terminal restlessness
His eyes see blue skies.
Must be nice; this morning's rainstorm
didn't help anything. There he goes again,
struggling to get up out of bed.
Where are you going, Dad?
Home.
10/24/04
I wrote this one when I went to buy my last father's day card for him.
card shopping
see me standing helplessly
in front of rows and rows of bright, cheerful
fathers day cards. struggling to find one that fits,
i glance inside one. no, absolutely not.
humor simply isn't appropriate, yet
anything too sentimental hurts more.
the rows and rows of friendly greeting cards
begin to blur as i fight back tears-- but see me
still try to find a single card with
which to say good-bye.
Terminal restlessness
His eyes see blue skies.
Must be nice; this morning's rainstorm
didn't help anything. There he goes again,
struggling to get up out of bed.
Where are you going, Dad?
Home.
10/24/04
I wrote this one when I went to buy my last father's day card for him.
card shopping
see me standing helplessly
in front of rows and rows of bright, cheerful
fathers day cards. struggling to find one that fits,
i glance inside one. no, absolutely not.
humor simply isn't appropriate, yet
anything too sentimental hurts more.
the rows and rows of friendly greeting cards
begin to blur as i fight back tears-- but see me
still try to find a single card with
which to say good-bye.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
I honestly don't know why I do this to myself.
Watching Finding Neverland made me cry. No one told me that the boys in the story lose BOTH of their parents. When the final credits appeared, I had tears rolling down my cheeks. Something about that last scene: the "I see her," did me in. I needed to hear my dad's voice. So I listened to his sermon on my computer about hope.
And then I looked for things I've written about him on my computer, and couldn't find any. So I went back to my blog-- my first Xanga-- and started browsing the archives. At first I could hardly stand my ridiculous high school drama writing style, but then I could see a change in my writing as I found an authentic voice; poetry emerged that I can't match even today.
And then started the emotional journey, following the highs and lows of late 2003 and into 2004. I forgot about so many things; there are details about PSA counts, having fluid in his lungs, the weakness and complaints of pain. I saw the depression again. There's some reliving of the past in reading those posts; I ache for the self that had become so lost in grief. It's hard to read them.
Yet there's something about the routine of reading these things year after year, with the anniversary or holidays, that needs to be done. I have to remember. I don't have a choice. And I don't want to forget or lose these things. Each post that talks about my dad somehow I email to myself, so that I have it and can do a simple search for these things instead of paging through looking for the poetry.
But I could really use a hug.
Betsy
Here is an example of a poem I wrote in high school (not one of my best)
[Thursday, December 11, 2003]
look. see that girl in the long white dress?
holding onto her father's arm?
that's the person i almost was.
her father's hair is combed back,
yet streaked with lighter hairs,
but walks proudly with a long stride.
mine... my father has grey chemo hair, matted and thin.
his steps are slow and short, while he pauses to catch his breath.
a year, maybe. maybe longer, perhaps shorter.
he will never see a church dressed in candlelight,
a young woman and a young man comitting their lives to eachother...
no. that is just a dream, one that we both had when i was young,
but as unrealistic as a fish growing wings.
yes, see that girl with her father?
that's the girl i almost was.
And then I looked for things I've written about him on my computer, and couldn't find any. So I went back to my blog-- my first Xanga-- and started browsing the archives. At first I could hardly stand my ridiculous high school drama writing style, but then I could see a change in my writing as I found an authentic voice; poetry emerged that I can't match even today.
And then started the emotional journey, following the highs and lows of late 2003 and into 2004. I forgot about so many things; there are details about PSA counts, having fluid in his lungs, the weakness and complaints of pain. I saw the depression again. There's some reliving of the past in reading those posts; I ache for the self that had become so lost in grief. It's hard to read them.
Yet there's something about the routine of reading these things year after year, with the anniversary or holidays, that needs to be done. I have to remember. I don't have a choice. And I don't want to forget or lose these things. Each post that talks about my dad somehow I email to myself, so that I have it and can do a simple search for these things instead of paging through looking for the poetry.
But I could really use a hug.
Betsy
Here is an example of a poem I wrote in high school (not one of my best)
[Thursday, December 11, 2003]
look. see that girl in the long white dress?
holding onto her father's arm?
that's the person i almost was.
her father's hair is combed back,
yet streaked with lighter hairs,
but walks proudly with a long stride.
mine... my father has grey chemo hair, matted and thin.
his steps are slow and short, while he pauses to catch his breath.
a year, maybe. maybe longer, perhaps shorter.
he will never see a church dressed in candlelight,
a young woman and a young man comitting their lives to eachother...
no. that is just a dream, one that we both had when i was young,
but as unrealistic as a fish growing wings.
yes, see that girl with her father?
that's the girl i almost was.
Write to Think.
Some people think to write, but I write to think. In other words, I have no idea what this post will be about; I write in order to find out what's going on in my head.
So today I went to Real Food Cafe (highly recommended) and caught up with an old friend, Seth K., over breakfast. He went to Alaska with his family this past summer for an extended roadtrip and had a bunch of great stories about it. I was actually pretty jealous! And we talked about my summer, too, and a little about the school year. I'm really glad this guy and I are still friends, since we worked together last Fall and then I didn't see him much spring semester.
Speaking of friends, I'm so glad that Debbi and I continue to be good friends. We have been since, oh, 8th grade or so, depending on how you look at it. She's living across the hall from me this year--conveniently enough, and totally unplanned!--which is funny since we'd been roommates for nearly 3 years before now. :) She and I were laughing about the good ol days and reminiscing about freshman and sophomore years in the dorms, hehe... It's good to have long term friends.
While I was going through emails in an old email account, however, I ran across some contacts that are close to my heart but I haven't talked with them for a long time. That was a bit sad. I still remember standing on the shores of Lake Yellowstone in the summer of 2006 and realizing how significant Heaven had become to me simply in the way we shall all be reunited. Until then, I didn't really have that deep longing. I have friends literally all over the world, many who I've come to know but won't see again, and I hope and pray I'll see them in Heaven soon. I miss them.
Isn't it strange, though, how we make such an effort to stay alive? My friend Eric N. (my ex) and I went out for drinks the other night and talked about how we always sing about going to Heaven "soon and very soon" in church, and yet we all spend thousands of dollars maintaining our health and staying alive and fighting cancer. It's not a contradiction since God calls us to make good use of our time here, and yet it seems like one all the same. It's hard to know sometimes how to respond to those types of questions.
The other day I watched The Kite Runner and I found the scene of Amir's father's death moving. It startled me a little bit because I had a moment of anxiety about death, about how strange it is and how little we know. (Shouldn't death be considered the final frontier? Literally, lol, no pun intended--rather than outer space?) And then when I sing "In Christ Alone" and it's being played well, I almost always get tears in my eyes at the last two verses. I think of my dad entering Glory when I sing the words: "Then bursting forth/ In glorious day," which is usually accompanied by a great drumroll, and I have this image of light bursting with brightness and my dad walking out of his aged, cancerous body into a new one. (I know the verse is talking about Christ, but it is also true for us, I believe.) And then, of course, the final verse:
"No guilt in life/ No fear in death/ This is the power of Christ in me/ From life's first cry/ To final breath/ Jesus commands my destiny/ No power of hell/ No scheme of man/ Can ever pluck me from his hand/ Till he returns/ Or calls me home/ Here in the power of Christ I stand"
What's absolutely incredible is that I sang this song hours after I found out my dad died, in Friday Hymnsing at Calvin. I sang it with my best friends and my mom, with tears pouring down our cheeks as we celebrated my dad's life and his new life in Heaven. That's one of my strongest memories, ever. The song lines "Sorrow and Love mingled down" captures it perfectly for me.
My heart skipped a beat while I was thinking about this, and my throat got a little choked up. The anniversary of his death is next Tuesday--October 28--and I'm going back to Holland for the day. I'll be having lunch with my mentor, Heidi D., and visiting the cemetery. I miss my dad. A lot. Although that part of my life seems so surreal-- it happened, but my life is so different now.
And yet, going to the wedding Sunday was hard for me. Especially when Jeremiah, Ben and Michael? sang "It is well with my soul" and I had just been thinking about that in relation to my dad. Jordyn was fortunate to have her grandfather around to walk her down the aisle, but I don't know what I'll do. I've thought for a long time that I would simply walk down by myself. I wish I could have my father-daughter dance. It's like those brides who have their father take it for granted, when those who can't have their daddy there long for it more than anything. Maybe. I don't know.
It IS well with my soul, however. I loved my daddy, and I miss him, but I have his inheritance: my love for ministry and for the church. That was a gift that the Holy Spirit imparted to me that I simply cannot shake off. Not that I really want to.
I have so many people I love. So many who are not here; and yet we have a hope for Heaven. (How good to discover that these are the things in my mind and in my heart right now!)
Blessings, friends. Blessings near and far.
Betsy
So today I went to Real Food Cafe (highly recommended) and caught up with an old friend, Seth K., over breakfast. He went to Alaska with his family this past summer for an extended roadtrip and had a bunch of great stories about it. I was actually pretty jealous! And we talked about my summer, too, and a little about the school year. I'm really glad this guy and I are still friends, since we worked together last Fall and then I didn't see him much spring semester.
Speaking of friends, I'm so glad that Debbi and I continue to be good friends. We have been since, oh, 8th grade or so, depending on how you look at it. She's living across the hall from me this year--conveniently enough, and totally unplanned!--which is funny since we'd been roommates for nearly 3 years before now. :) She and I were laughing about the good ol days and reminiscing about freshman and sophomore years in the dorms, hehe... It's good to have long term friends.
While I was going through emails in an old email account, however, I ran across some contacts that are close to my heart but I haven't talked with them for a long time. That was a bit sad. I still remember standing on the shores of Lake Yellowstone in the summer of 2006 and realizing how significant Heaven had become to me simply in the way we shall all be reunited. Until then, I didn't really have that deep longing. I have friends literally all over the world, many who I've come to know but won't see again, and I hope and pray I'll see them in Heaven soon. I miss them.
Isn't it strange, though, how we make such an effort to stay alive? My friend Eric N. (my ex) and I went out for drinks the other night and talked about how we always sing about going to Heaven "soon and very soon" in church, and yet we all spend thousands of dollars maintaining our health and staying alive and fighting cancer. It's not a contradiction since God calls us to make good use of our time here, and yet it seems like one all the same. It's hard to know sometimes how to respond to those types of questions.
The other day I watched The Kite Runner and I found the scene of Amir's father's death moving. It startled me a little bit because I had a moment of anxiety about death, about how strange it is and how little we know. (Shouldn't death be considered the final frontier? Literally, lol, no pun intended--rather than outer space?) And then when I sing "In Christ Alone" and it's being played well, I almost always get tears in my eyes at the last two verses. I think of my dad entering Glory when I sing the words: "Then bursting forth/ In glorious day," which is usually accompanied by a great drumroll, and I have this image of light bursting with brightness and my dad walking out of his aged, cancerous body into a new one. (I know the verse is talking about Christ, but it is also true for us, I believe.) And then, of course, the final verse:
"No guilt in life/ No fear in death/ This is the power of Christ in me/ From life's first cry/ To final breath/ Jesus commands my destiny/ No power of hell/ No scheme of man/ Can ever pluck me from his hand/ Till he returns/ Or calls me home/ Here in the power of Christ I stand"
What's absolutely incredible is that I sang this song hours after I found out my dad died, in Friday Hymnsing at Calvin. I sang it with my best friends and my mom, with tears pouring down our cheeks as we celebrated my dad's life and his new life in Heaven. That's one of my strongest memories, ever. The song lines "Sorrow and Love mingled down" captures it perfectly for me.
My heart skipped a beat while I was thinking about this, and my throat got a little choked up. The anniversary of his death is next Tuesday--October 28--and I'm going back to Holland for the day. I'll be having lunch with my mentor, Heidi D., and visiting the cemetery. I miss my dad. A lot. Although that part of my life seems so surreal-- it happened, but my life is so different now.
And yet, going to the wedding Sunday was hard for me. Especially when Jeremiah, Ben and Michael? sang "It is well with my soul" and I had just been thinking about that in relation to my dad. Jordyn was fortunate to have her grandfather around to walk her down the aisle, but I don't know what I'll do. I've thought for a long time that I would simply walk down by myself. I wish I could have my father-daughter dance. It's like those brides who have their father take it for granted, when those who can't have their daddy there long for it more than anything. Maybe. I don't know.
It IS well with my soul, however. I loved my daddy, and I miss him, but I have his inheritance: my love for ministry and for the church. That was a gift that the Holy Spirit imparted to me that I simply cannot shake off. Not that I really want to.
I have so many people I love. So many who are not here; and yet we have a hope for Heaven. (How good to discover that these are the things in my mind and in my heart right now!)
Blessings, friends. Blessings near and far.
Betsy
Sunday, October 19, 2008
I'm so glad I'm a part of the family of God.... :)
I know I already posted today... but one more thing.
I've been thinking more about Monroe Community Church and what it has meant to me in the past six weeks. I would definitely consider it my church home and everyone there my church family.
Not only does it feel wonderful to be connected on Sunday mornings, and increasingly connected during the week, something else has changed too. It startled me to realize it.
For the first time for as long as I can remember, I am content with living in Michigan.
And it's all because of MCC!
If you know me, this is significant. I have itchy feet syndrome; I can never stay in one place long without feeling anxious to travel again. I also have said countless times that I have no emotional attachment to Michigan. (Which is still probably true, but...) I feel as though I'm engaging in genuine community for the first time in all the years I've lived in Michigan.
I've found my place in a genuine, warm and welcoming community before;
the first time was when I showed up at Glasgow WestEnd Vineyard Church my first Sunday in Scotland and continued to be a part with them for the whole fourteen weeks. I felt like family immediately and my heart is still with them. I often think of them on Sunday mornings, especially during the sacrament of communion. It was there that I started to appreciate diversity within the church, because we had so many people from so many nations.
I also found it when I was in Southern California this past summer. Again, I was immediately immersed in that same kind of Spirit-led, warm embrace of a healthy church community. I learned so much about what it means to belong and yet also about to take part in and step up to leadership.
So here I am, in Grand Rapids, finding it right where I couldn't find it before. Something deep in me, an ache or a longing, has somehow been satisfied. Not to say that MCC doesn't have its flaws or areas of growth-- but it's my church now. I still remember when some girls from Calvin visited, and I recognized them and said "Hey! Welcome to my church!" without even thinking about it. :)
But what's different? Besides the fact that I had never been to MCC before this year, a few things stand out:
1. I actually love the Church, so I can love this church.
--> Jubilee Fellows was influential in this. I've grown more in love with Christ's Church and have come to see her as a beautiful creation, and yet I understand how we often miss the mark as the Body. It really is a relationship between us (as individuals) and the Church, and between Christ and the Church.
2. I'm committed to MCC-- right now and in the near future.
--> Besides the fact that church hopping is exhausting, I had such good experiences with picking a church and sticking with it for 10+ weeks. Even though Rosewood was in a way involuntary, it still worked the same-- you learn to love a place and grow with a church if you plan on staying around for a while. Right before I left California, I made a list of goals for myself to do once I came back to Michigan. Finding a church home for the year was one of them, and in parentheses right above it was "Monroe Community Church???" Little did I know that God would have been planning so much for me.
3. I'm serving, investing and networking.
--> Networking is something I learned the value of when I was in Scotland, although at first it was out of sheer necessity. It was either find people or be lonely for 4 months. I learned the immense value of remembering someone's name and talking to visitors because they knew who I was and took care of me, which makes being in a small church a plus! So I'm learning to do the same. Serving is important, because it allows opportunities to surface that weren't there before. Teaching and helping with SFN at Rosewood was huge for this. So many of my good friends in Bellflower and also at MCC are in leadership somehow-- and that is a wonderful type of person to surround yourself with. Investing is a little different, because it's focused on the future. It's asking the question "how can this community grow?" and taking initiatives to be a part of that change. For instance, I'm going to Rehoboth, New Mexico, next January with MCC, and I'm already hoping to get involved with some of the planning and leadership.
4. ?????? Something to do with my heart & God's call.
--> I don't know how to explain this last bit. What's different than the places I've been to before is that God has brought me to MCC for a reason, or for many reasons. If you could plot the last year of my life on a continuum, you'd see a drastic contrast and drastic growth between my faith from October of 2007 to now. I see now what a state my heart and faith had been, and how joyless I was when it came to the precious love of Jesus. After a very healing summer internship, in which I regained some social skills in engaging with community and how to surround myself with healthy Christians, what I needed most was a place to continue that. God brought me to MCC, and I've found exactly that: a place to continue growing. That's why I have never felt so at home in Michigan until now.
And that's also why, even though I suspect that when I graduate in Dec'09 I'll be moving out of state, if God called me to stay in GR for a little longer, I wouldn't mind in the least bit. :)
Praise God from whom all blessings flow!
Praise Him, all creatures here below!
Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts!
Praise Father, Son & Holy Ghost!
Amen.
Just a tiny glimpse-- a few "family photos" of MCC.
I love that in the short time (6 weeks!) I've been at MCC, I've been out to eat with people after church a few times, i've been to a birthday party, a stamping party, a wedding, and a small group movie event; i've also gone kayaking and played an intense game of pingpong in the sanctuary; not to mention that i brought snacks one sunday and helped with hospitality, helped out with harvestfest, and babysat for the pastors' kids and i'm planning on going on a mission trip with them. Whew! I've been busy! :D
I've been thinking more about Monroe Community Church and what it has meant to me in the past six weeks. I would definitely consider it my church home and everyone there my church family.
Not only does it feel wonderful to be connected on Sunday mornings, and increasingly connected during the week, something else has changed too. It startled me to realize it.
For the first time for as long as I can remember, I am content with living in Michigan.
And it's all because of MCC!
If you know me, this is significant. I have itchy feet syndrome; I can never stay in one place long without feeling anxious to travel again. I also have said countless times that I have no emotional attachment to Michigan. (Which is still probably true, but...) I feel as though I'm engaging in genuine community for the first time in all the years I've lived in Michigan.
I've found my place in a genuine, warm and welcoming community before;
the first time was when I showed up at Glasgow WestEnd Vineyard Church my first Sunday in Scotland and continued to be a part with them for the whole fourteen weeks. I felt like family immediately and my heart is still with them. I often think of them on Sunday mornings, especially during the sacrament of communion. It was there that I started to appreciate diversity within the church, because we had so many people from so many nations.
I also found it when I was in Southern California this past summer. Again, I was immediately immersed in that same kind of Spirit-led, warm embrace of a healthy church community. I learned so much about what it means to belong and yet also about to take part in and step up to leadership.
So here I am, in Grand Rapids, finding it right where I couldn't find it before. Something deep in me, an ache or a longing, has somehow been satisfied. Not to say that MCC doesn't have its flaws or areas of growth-- but it's my church now. I still remember when some girls from Calvin visited, and I recognized them and said "Hey! Welcome to my church!" without even thinking about it. :)
But what's different? Besides the fact that I had never been to MCC before this year, a few things stand out:
1. I actually love the Church, so I can love this church.
--> Jubilee Fellows was influential in this. I've grown more in love with Christ's Church and have come to see her as a beautiful creation, and yet I understand how we often miss the mark as the Body. It really is a relationship between us (as individuals) and the Church, and between Christ and the Church.
2. I'm committed to MCC-- right now and in the near future.
--> Besides the fact that church hopping is exhausting, I had such good experiences with picking a church and sticking with it for 10+ weeks. Even though Rosewood was in a way involuntary, it still worked the same-- you learn to love a place and grow with a church if you plan on staying around for a while. Right before I left California, I made a list of goals for myself to do once I came back to Michigan. Finding a church home for the year was one of them, and in parentheses right above it was "Monroe Community Church???" Little did I know that God would have been planning so much for me.
3. I'm serving, investing and networking.
--> Networking is something I learned the value of when I was in Scotland, although at first it was out of sheer necessity. It was either find people or be lonely for 4 months. I learned the immense value of remembering someone's name and talking to visitors because they knew who I was and took care of me, which makes being in a small church a plus! So I'm learning to do the same. Serving is important, because it allows opportunities to surface that weren't there before. Teaching and helping with SFN at Rosewood was huge for this. So many of my good friends in Bellflower and also at MCC are in leadership somehow-- and that is a wonderful type of person to surround yourself with. Investing is a little different, because it's focused on the future. It's asking the question "how can this community grow?" and taking initiatives to be a part of that change. For instance, I'm going to Rehoboth, New Mexico, next January with MCC, and I'm already hoping to get involved with some of the planning and leadership.
4. ?????? Something to do with my heart & God's call.
--> I don't know how to explain this last bit. What's different than the places I've been to before is that God has brought me to MCC for a reason, or for many reasons. If you could plot the last year of my life on a continuum, you'd see a drastic contrast and drastic growth between my faith from October of 2007 to now. I see now what a state my heart and faith had been, and how joyless I was when it came to the precious love of Jesus. After a very healing summer internship, in which I regained some social skills in engaging with community and how to surround myself with healthy Christians, what I needed most was a place to continue that. God brought me to MCC, and I've found exactly that: a place to continue growing. That's why I have never felt so at home in Michigan until now.
And that's also why, even though I suspect that when I graduate in Dec'09 I'll be moving out of state, if God called me to stay in GR for a little longer, I wouldn't mind in the least bit. :)
Praise God from whom all blessings flow!
Praise Him, all creatures here below!
Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts!
Praise Father, Son & Holy Ghost!
Amen.
Just a tiny glimpse-- a few "family photos" of MCC.
I love that in the short time (6 weeks!) I've been at MCC, I've been out to eat with people after church a few times, i've been to a birthday party, a stamping party, a wedding, and a small group movie event; i've also gone kayaking and played an intense game of pingpong in the sanctuary; not to mention that i brought snacks one sunday and helped with hospitality, helped out with harvestfest, and babysat for the pastors' kids and i'm planning on going on a mission trip with them. Whew! I've been busy! :D
It is well with my soul.
Today was a gift. I have a deep happiness right now, a restful kind.
I was honored to go to a wedding today for a couple of friends of mine. I know them through Monroe Community Church, and Eric W. asked if I'd go with him. The wedding ceremony itself was beautiful, Jordyn and Dan are so clearly in love, and Dan even got choked up when reading the vows he'd written. So sweet. :)
Me with the bride and groom :)
The reception was at The Bob, which was such a cool place to have a party!! The appetizers were yummy and the music was great. One thing that was so amazing, though, was when a few of the guys sang "Peace Like a River/It is well with my soul." I couldn't believe they sang it; just this morning I had been singing it to myself. Going to a wedding in October is a little hard when I miss my dad so much, but that song is a comfort. I had a deep feeling that I'd be hearing it again, and half expected it to be on the radio on the way to church or to sing it at MCC. I definitely didn't expect to hear it, seemingly out of the blue, at the reception! Something about it was deeply confirming for me, though I can't quite place why. It just gave me peace and freedom to just be.
It was so wonderful to see the sunset tonight, too. It seemed to echo the refrain once more:
It is well (it is well)
With my soul (with my soul)
It is well, it is well,
with my soul.
I was honored to go to a wedding today for a couple of friends of mine. I know them through Monroe Community Church, and Eric W. asked if I'd go with him. The wedding ceremony itself was beautiful, Jordyn and Dan are so clearly in love, and Dan even got choked up when reading the vows he'd written. So sweet. :)
Me with the bride and groom :)
The reception was at The Bob, which was such a cool place to have a party!! The appetizers were yummy and the music was great. One thing that was so amazing, though, was when a few of the guys sang "Peace Like a River/It is well with my soul." I couldn't believe they sang it; just this morning I had been singing it to myself. Going to a wedding in October is a little hard when I miss my dad so much, but that song is a comfort. I had a deep feeling that I'd be hearing it again, and half expected it to be on the radio on the way to church or to sing it at MCC. I definitely didn't expect to hear it, seemingly out of the blue, at the reception! Something about it was deeply confirming for me, though I can't quite place why. It just gave me peace and freedom to just be.
It was so wonderful to see the sunset tonight, too. It seemed to echo the refrain once more:
It is well (it is well)
With my soul (with my soul)
It is well, it is well,
with my soul.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
A quote to ponder
I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.
--Clarissa Pinkola Estes
This quote, first found on a friend's blog, fascinated me. The word "stories" jumps out at me, especially as I'm taking a Teaching of Writing course and have been doing a lot of thinking about writing and stories, especially when it comes to developing student voices.
Some questions I thought of:
What does it mean to "let stories happen to you"? Is this easy or hard to "let" them happen? What do you have to do for this to be possible?
The speaker says to "work with them." How can writing your story do for you? For others?
The phrase "Water them with your blood and tears and laughter" is pretty profound. What imagery does it evoke in your mind?
How does the metaphor "Till they bloom" affect how you read this quote?
What do you think the speaker means when she says "Till you yourself burst into bloom"?
What other features of this quote are effective or memorable? What makes it inspirational?
(As a side note, this particular woman is fascinating in herself. I'm fairly certain that I encountered her book Women Who Run with the Wolves in a feminist studies class at a community college in Illinois when I visited a friend there. Here's her biography via Wikipedia)
I think my Sequenced Writing Assignment might just be taking a different twist now.
Betsy
--Clarissa Pinkola Estes
This quote, first found on a friend's blog, fascinated me. The word "stories" jumps out at me, especially as I'm taking a Teaching of Writing course and have been doing a lot of thinking about writing and stories, especially when it comes to developing student voices.
Some questions I thought of:
What does it mean to "let stories happen to you"? Is this easy or hard to "let" them happen? What do you have to do for this to be possible?
The speaker says to "work with them." How can writing your story do for you? For others?
The phrase "Water them with your blood and tears and laughter" is pretty profound. What imagery does it evoke in your mind?
How does the metaphor "Till they bloom" affect how you read this quote?
What do you think the speaker means when she says "Till you yourself burst into bloom"?
What other features of this quote are effective or memorable? What makes it inspirational?
(As a side note, this particular woman is fascinating in herself. I'm fairly certain that I encountered her book Women Who Run with the Wolves in a feminist studies class at a community college in Illinois when I visited a friend there. Here's her biography via Wikipedia)
I think my Sequenced Writing Assignment might just be taking a different twist now.
Betsy
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
October. Again.
This part of the year sucks, on so many levels.
(As if midterms and papers and general stress wasn't enough,
my heart aches for the dad who should still be around. I miss him.)
Prayers, please.
Edit::
Okay, let's expand on that a little more.
October is hard, because the anniversary of my dad's death is not a single event, as a car accident might be. His death, after all, was long and drawn out; he was dying for much longer than the moment he died. That means that October is really an anniversary more than just October 28. And if we're talking technicalities, my grieving began sometime in March five years before that, and the fact that I didn't even know he had died until the next day, or that the funeral was November 1. There are lots of reasons that the anniversary is a broad concept.
For some reason, I had it stuck in my head that four years ago, October 7 must have been a transitional day for my family. I have no idea if that's true or not, but it could be. This "random" day could represent the randomness of his sudden turn for the worse. I unexpectedly found myself coming home for lunch and staying home for the rest of the day. School became secondary to home life, and I skipped more days that month than were even allowed for in any other circumstance. I remember having to drive to Family Fare in the middle of the day to pick up a pain reliever for my dad because we had run out; driving past my high school to get there, with my mom's credit card and instructions on which type to get, was a moment of growing up. All of my peers were in English class or math class or doing homework in study hall-- and there I was, grappling with mortality, grief, and the inevitability of loss. And yet I had to do it with strength and dignity. Time blurs together, so I don't quite remember if it was before or after having to pick up pain meds, but I also remember having Pastor Todd come over to review the plans for the memorial service. I remember my dad was sitting in the big brown recliner, placed next to the stairs (why there?) with a chair pulled up alongside for Todd. My dad carefully went through all of his handwritten notes that he'd prepared for this very occasion-- scripture passages, songs, and other notes about who would do which parts--the family joke is that my dad would have even written his own message if he'd had enough time. I remember being there, watching that, being in a surreal state of mind. This couldn't really be happening, after all.
And yet it was. I'm still haunted by the physical appearance of my dad's body near the very end; the deterioration to a state of infancy. The transparency of his skin, the sparse gray hair, bones prominent in his arms and ribs. The single white tshirt he wore underneath a sheet while sleeping long hours in the hospital bed in the living room. Hospice coming in regularly, speaking in low tones about how long he may or may not have left.
And then there are the humorous moments; playing settlers of catan at the dining room table for hours with my siblings as we watched and waited together. It was a time of bonding-- I don't know that we've ever spent that much time together since.
But there were heartbreaking moments every day, signs of death at every hour. The realization that my dad would no longer eat another meal the day my mom had to quietly explain to my grandma that no, dewey would not be having any soup. The courage it took for people to come and see us, to see him. Terminal restlessness-- a euphemism for literally going crazy.
Time is a strange thing. I'd never been so convinced of it until after that month. Time crept by, it was standstill. All life on earth stopped while our family waited silently for death to perform his duty. Never has my life seemed to be so disproportionate time-wise. Those three or four weeks might as well have been years. How to explain it? Time is not regular intervals, something that is quantified. It is only qualitative.
I suppose that's what October is still for me-- a time that stops and waits for death to come. I find myself anticipating the 28th with some trepidation. Each day is a pilgrimage to the memories I have of my dad-- both of his healthy life and of the struggles in my family during his sickness.
I hate the remembering--but I must. I can't look away; it's intrinsic to who I am. Which is why I must keep telling my story. It's why I still hunger for this to resolve itself in a book. Maybe then my anxious writerly heart will have some sense of peace and closure. After all, I have been convicted to write a book for the last ten years-- ever since I was eleven years old and found out he was diagnosed with cancer. Even then, I knew that it would be a story to tell.
Ultimately, though, it comes down to this: I miss my dad. He was an incredible person, and I wish I could have loved him better. So much I failed to appreciate until now--even years later-- when I see what kind of gifts and inheritances he gave me. An appreciation for the outdoors and a passion for ministry are just a few of the things I carry from him. I long to hear his voice again, to embrace him in a big bear hug, to spend a few hours playing card games--like we used to. I miss my daddy. I especially miss him when I anticipate the future, and wish I could talk to him about my dreams and goals. I know without anyone telling me that he'd be proud-- but I wish I could hear it from him.
I miss you, dad. I will not forget.
Betsy
(As if midterms and papers and general stress wasn't enough,
my heart aches for the dad who should still be around. I miss him.)
Prayers, please.
Edit::
Okay, let's expand on that a little more.
October is hard, because the anniversary of my dad's death is not a single event, as a car accident might be. His death, after all, was long and drawn out; he was dying for much longer than the moment he died. That means that October is really an anniversary more than just October 28. And if we're talking technicalities, my grieving began sometime in March five years before that, and the fact that I didn't even know he had died until the next day, or that the funeral was November 1. There are lots of reasons that the anniversary is a broad concept.
For some reason, I had it stuck in my head that four years ago, October 7 must have been a transitional day for my family. I have no idea if that's true or not, but it could be. This "random" day could represent the randomness of his sudden turn for the worse. I unexpectedly found myself coming home for lunch and staying home for the rest of the day. School became secondary to home life, and I skipped more days that month than were even allowed for in any other circumstance. I remember having to drive to Family Fare in the middle of the day to pick up a pain reliever for my dad because we had run out; driving past my high school to get there, with my mom's credit card and instructions on which type to get, was a moment of growing up. All of my peers were in English class or math class or doing homework in study hall-- and there I was, grappling with mortality, grief, and the inevitability of loss. And yet I had to do it with strength and dignity. Time blurs together, so I don't quite remember if it was before or after having to pick up pain meds, but I also remember having Pastor Todd come over to review the plans for the memorial service. I remember my dad was sitting in the big brown recliner, placed next to the stairs (why there?) with a chair pulled up alongside for Todd. My dad carefully went through all of his handwritten notes that he'd prepared for this very occasion-- scripture passages, songs, and other notes about who would do which parts--the family joke is that my dad would have even written his own message if he'd had enough time. I remember being there, watching that, being in a surreal state of mind. This couldn't really be happening, after all.
And yet it was. I'm still haunted by the physical appearance of my dad's body near the very end; the deterioration to a state of infancy. The transparency of his skin, the sparse gray hair, bones prominent in his arms and ribs. The single white tshirt he wore underneath a sheet while sleeping long hours in the hospital bed in the living room. Hospice coming in regularly, speaking in low tones about how long he may or may not have left.
And then there are the humorous moments; playing settlers of catan at the dining room table for hours with my siblings as we watched and waited together. It was a time of bonding-- I don't know that we've ever spent that much time together since.
But there were heartbreaking moments every day, signs of death at every hour. The realization that my dad would no longer eat another meal the day my mom had to quietly explain to my grandma that no, dewey would not be having any soup. The courage it took for people to come and see us, to see him. Terminal restlessness-- a euphemism for literally going crazy.
Time is a strange thing. I'd never been so convinced of it until after that month. Time crept by, it was standstill. All life on earth stopped while our family waited silently for death to perform his duty. Never has my life seemed to be so disproportionate time-wise. Those three or four weeks might as well have been years. How to explain it? Time is not regular intervals, something that is quantified. It is only qualitative.
I suppose that's what October is still for me-- a time that stops and waits for death to come. I find myself anticipating the 28th with some trepidation. Each day is a pilgrimage to the memories I have of my dad-- both of his healthy life and of the struggles in my family during his sickness.
I hate the remembering--but I must. I can't look away; it's intrinsic to who I am. Which is why I must keep telling my story. It's why I still hunger for this to resolve itself in a book. Maybe then my anxious writerly heart will have some sense of peace and closure. After all, I have been convicted to write a book for the last ten years-- ever since I was eleven years old and found out he was diagnosed with cancer. Even then, I knew that it would be a story to tell.
Ultimately, though, it comes down to this: I miss my dad. He was an incredible person, and I wish I could have loved him better. So much I failed to appreciate until now--even years later-- when I see what kind of gifts and inheritances he gave me. An appreciation for the outdoors and a passion for ministry are just a few of the things I carry from him. I long to hear his voice again, to embrace him in a big bear hug, to spend a few hours playing card games--like we used to. I miss my daddy. I especially miss him when I anticipate the future, and wish I could talk to him about my dreams and goals. I know without anyone telling me that he'd be proud-- but I wish I could hear it from him.
I miss you, dad. I will not forget.
Betsy
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