Since coming to university, I've encountered several Christians who claim to be on "spiritual hiatus" - that is, while they haven't completely walked away from their faith, they've decided to take a break from it.
They stop reading their Bibles, attending church and small group, and really, they stop praying altogether. They don't necessarily go through a dramatic spiral down the road to drugs and alcoholism - in fact, a lot of the time, their lifestyle and surface values don't seem to change at all - but they just stop making the effort to center their lives around Christ, despite knowing that He's there. They don't renounce Christianity, become atheists, or reduce Jesus from God into a "good man" - they just don't want to deal with it.
As someone who's gone through a number of dry periods and struggles, I can understand the appeal of such an action. I liken it to getting a separation rather than a divorce or to avoiding an frenemy instead of cutting her out completely. Hypothetically, it's not as if I would reject God (or His existence) completely, I'd just be giving Him the cold shoulder until I found the heart to renew that relationship.
While I'm often tempted to take a break from God, I've never really been able to. I tell myself it's because there's a part of me that's still persevering, but to be honest, I don't think I actually have the guts to just bail, even temporarily. I go through long periods of time where I don't feel motivated to pursue God, be Christly, or to pray at all, but at the same time, I'm afraid of what would happen, and what I would discover, if I lived on my own. I don't know if I could live feeling as if I were alone in the universe or that there is no plan for my life anymore. I like knowing that God is in control, and that I will never be forsaken, but I often feel tempted to "take a break" because my walk feels extremely insincere.
I've always chosen to just persevere, but the older I get, the easier it becomes to just feel bitter and frustrated about my insincere efforts. Now I wonder if taking a break is really wrong - I mean, don't you take a break while exercising, studying, or writing a paper? Aren't breaks good for a refresher? Then again, perhaps the whole concept of taking a break applies differently to relationships, as it's never fun to hear "I want to take a break" from anybody. You don't take a break from being someone's child or parent; nor do you usually hear a friend say he/she wants a break from a friendship.
In the end, I find the idea of taking a break from God problematic as I can't reject, even for the time being, how God has worked in my life. God's revealed Himself to me over and over again in worship and prayer - well, not consistently - but enough times for me to acknowledge Him as a personal presence in my life. To reject God even after He's revealed the truth to me feels like blasphemy. At the same time, those good memories start to become fuzzy when I'm stressed out about things going on in my life now. Where is God now? When did my relationship with Him become less personal?
I once heard a pastor give a sermon about why we continue our walk at all, despite all the hardships. We shouldn't pursue a relationship with God out of mere gratitude for what He has done for us in the past, or what He did for us on the cross; we pursue God because we have faith in what's ahead. While I do feel grateful for how God worked in my life during better days, I know that memory isn't enough to sustain my spiritual life - I need the faith that God is there despite my comparatively dry spirituality now, and I need the faith to believe that He will eventually bring me out of it.
Would you ever take a break from your faith? Can this help one's spiritual life, or is it dangerous to risk walking away and never coming back?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Not my will but thy will be done
You were doing just fine until someone broke out the kiwi-flavored seltzer water. Then suddenly you were transported back to that time when the two of you were in the grocery store pretending the kiwis on the shelf were baby mice making squeaky-voiced professions of love to one another, all the while passersby surreptitiously giving you disapproving looks. The memory transformed the innocent beverage into an instrument of cardiac torture, and finding yourself on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown in the middle of The Simpsons, you excuse yourself for the safety of your own room, where you can indulge in a salty tearfest without any witnesses, except maybe for your roommate, who has learned by now to ignore you when you get like this anyway.
At first your friends were helpful. They listened. They were outraged on your behalf. They declared your utter innocence. They gave helpful suggestions. They commiserated on the incomprehensibility of the opposite sex. By now, though, they’ve moved on past the slight tingle of disappointment they felt at the breakup. It’s easy enough for them to stop thinking of the two of you in couple terms anymore, but you’re not there yet. You don’t feel like yourself without your — ugh — "ex" there anymore, but no one else is suffering from the same state of cognitive dissonance. You know it because they’ve given up plotting how to get your recalcitrant ex back. Gone are the schemes for the ultimate passionate reconciliation with your beloved, gone the blueprints of a deathtrap for the suspicious third party who might be the cause of all this woe. Now they’re saying things like, "I never did like the way your ex..." and "You can do so much better." But you loved the way your ex did it, or you are not even remotely convinced that you can do better, or what "better" in this case would even look like. You defend your ex and your friends can’t imagine why, so sooner or later you shut up. Your grief has gone from communal to isolated, and even though you no longer cry every day, you sort of wish you still could.
In the stable moments it embarrasses you. You catch a glimpse of yourself looking good one morning and remember there’s more to you than that other person. You laugh with old pals over a silly escapade that doesn’t involve your ex at all. You find yourself enjoying the nice weather in a plain and simple way, and momentarily you’re actually enchanted with the prospect of going it alone. You start to recognize your own strength again. You think you’re getting somewhere at last. And then, as soon as you know what your worth is, you recall to mind the baffling fact that your ex doesn’t love you in all your strength and uniqueness and wit and stories and memories. And what good are all the things that make up you, if you are unloved by this one particular person?
Then you descend into the sap again. You write poetry and oh, it is so bad you can’t even believe you let yourself mark up a piece of innocent paper with such drivel. You start listening to Carole King songs and marvel at her profundity. You reread every single email your beloved ever sent you, even the one asking if you had an extra one-cent stamp handy — you couldn’t bear to delete it. You play "your song" over and over again, licking the tears off your face as the melody steamrolls through your heart and flattens it. You walk past the coffee shop where you had your first real conversation together, linger by the window, and dream up the imminent rainy night surprise rendezvous when you’ll reunite. A happy couple comes out giggling; you reel back, as though physically assaulted, and then push on through the sunny day that seems to mock your misery.
Then comes the big challenge. You have to face this person again, this person that you used to address by a whole dictionary of pet names and now is relegated to the bleak and empty category of EX. Just ex, the former, the past, the no longer, the never again. Ex marks the spot where your heart used to be. It’s been long enough now that you can keep yourself together. Your chin doesn’t wobble and your eyes don’t well up. Then a little voice inside you whispers conspiratorily, Death to dignity! Impale your pride! Throw yourself on the ground and beg for reconciliation! Offer anything you’ve got, nothing is too valuable, give it all away for free, the more melodramatic the sacrifice the better your chances! But you’re armed, thankfully, with that tiny bit of leftover self-respect that won’t impale your pride for anyone but God, and you hold out. You act carefree, lighthearted, cheerful, busy, ambitious. Your ex doesn’t suspect a thing. You leave, having had the better of the situation, and immediately you convince yourself that your ex is as wounded as you inside and your strength has only made matters worse. You think you should’ve gone crawling back after all, but instead you really ruined your chances. Your friends see that look of doubt on your face and come to your rescue. It was a narrow escape.
A few weeks slip by because you’re so buried in work to ease the pain that you don’t even notice the time passing. You think you should be recovered by now but you’re not. Someone offers the helpful calculus that half the length of the relationship is the amount of time it takes to recover. That discourages you, because it means you’re nowhere near through the grieving process yet. You try to deny your ongoing pain. You hide it well. You cry only in secret, only occasionally. You start burning the love letters, commenting on fresh possibilities, joking about your ex’s character flaws the way your friends did at the outset. It feels kind of OK. You can put on a tough front to soften the knots in your heart.
And then one day it happens. You crack. It hits you with the force of a revelation — all the things this person did wrong to you, all the lies, all the half-truths, all the leadings-on, all the hopes with no promises, all the promises with no fulfillment. You suddenly see that you have no vested interest in defending your ex’s character and so you snap to the other extreme: You take that heartless spawn of the devil apart scale by scale, analyzing every error, scrutinizing every fault, until you have mastered the situation. You explode into rage, well-controlled and well-concealed rage. You almost laugh at the calm you exhibit in that person’s presence, because all you want to do is reach for that tender throat and rip it out. You want to shout over the loudspeaker your catalog of every injustice committed in your whole relationship and the extraordinary cruelty of the breakup. Your ex can do no right, and after awhile your friends are the ones defending the helpless victim of your wrath, not you, and you get enraged at them too, even if you admit silently to yourself that they have a point.
The rage flames hotly, brightly, and briefly. It can’t sustain itself for very long. You exhaust yourself with the intensity of your hatred. Then all you have left is pity. You can’t hate all those flaws and unkindnesses anymore; your ex is just too pathetic for that. You don’t have the energy to despise. You wonder, with the slightest itch of condescension, how this miserable creature is going to make it through life and love in that state. In a rare moment of altruism, you wish you could help. Then you realize you can’t. You don’t really care.
Just as suddenly as you found yourself dumped, just as suddenly as you became angry, just as suddenly as you started to pity, now suddenly you find yourself indifferent. All right, there are those pangs of jealousy whenever you see someone else moving in on your former territory. The kiwi still makes you a little depressed. But your ex — you’re OK with saying that now — has lost the claim to your heart. It’s your own again. You can see your ex walk by without the desire to breathe poison in that direction; you can flirt with someone else without feeling guilty. Despite the occasional regressions, you know you’ve moved on.
More time passes. You can rationalize the hurt a little better now. You summon up all your faith to your aid and teach yourself all over again that this is in the Almighty’s hands. God’s will be done, and if in the long run that means someone else for you, so be it. You marvel a little at a world where love is rejected and goes to waste. You wonder if it’ll ever be redeemed. You remember all that business about taking up the cross, how glorious and courageous it sounds on paper and in church, and then you realize that you’re doing it now and it’s not glorious and it doesn’t require courage because you don’t actually have a choice about it.
To make the best of it, you reflect on all the lessons you’ve learned. You know something new about communication, something new about the opposite sex, and something new about yourself. You don’t regret it, you say again and again. You’d do the same thing all over again, it was totally worth it, no remorse. But you know in the secret depths of your heart that no one could pay you enough to go through it again, and you won’t do it again, and you’ll keep your heart safe this time. And you wonder how much longer things have to go on like this.
At first your friends were helpful. They listened. They were outraged on your behalf. They declared your utter innocence. They gave helpful suggestions. They commiserated on the incomprehensibility of the opposite sex. By now, though, they’ve moved on past the slight tingle of disappointment they felt at the breakup. It’s easy enough for them to stop thinking of the two of you in couple terms anymore, but you’re not there yet. You don’t feel like yourself without your — ugh — "ex" there anymore, but no one else is suffering from the same state of cognitive dissonance. You know it because they’ve given up plotting how to get your recalcitrant ex back. Gone are the schemes for the ultimate passionate reconciliation with your beloved, gone the blueprints of a deathtrap for the suspicious third party who might be the cause of all this woe. Now they’re saying things like, "I never did like the way your ex..." and "You can do so much better." But you loved the way your ex did it, or you are not even remotely convinced that you can do better, or what "better" in this case would even look like. You defend your ex and your friends can’t imagine why, so sooner or later you shut up. Your grief has gone from communal to isolated, and even though you no longer cry every day, you sort of wish you still could.
In the stable moments it embarrasses you. You catch a glimpse of yourself looking good one morning and remember there’s more to you than that other person. You laugh with old pals over a silly escapade that doesn’t involve your ex at all. You find yourself enjoying the nice weather in a plain and simple way, and momentarily you’re actually enchanted with the prospect of going it alone. You start to recognize your own strength again. You think you’re getting somewhere at last. And then, as soon as you know what your worth is, you recall to mind the baffling fact that your ex doesn’t love you in all your strength and uniqueness and wit and stories and memories. And what good are all the things that make up you, if you are unloved by this one particular person?
Then you descend into the sap again. You write poetry and oh, it is so bad you can’t even believe you let yourself mark up a piece of innocent paper with such drivel. You start listening to Carole King songs and marvel at her profundity. You reread every single email your beloved ever sent you, even the one asking if you had an extra one-cent stamp handy — you couldn’t bear to delete it. You play "your song" over and over again, licking the tears off your face as the melody steamrolls through your heart and flattens it. You walk past the coffee shop where you had your first real conversation together, linger by the window, and dream up the imminent rainy night surprise rendezvous when you’ll reunite. A happy couple comes out giggling; you reel back, as though physically assaulted, and then push on through the sunny day that seems to mock your misery.
Then comes the big challenge. You have to face this person again, this person that you used to address by a whole dictionary of pet names and now is relegated to the bleak and empty category of EX. Just ex, the former, the past, the no longer, the never again. Ex marks the spot where your heart used to be. It’s been long enough now that you can keep yourself together. Your chin doesn’t wobble and your eyes don’t well up. Then a little voice inside you whispers conspiratorily, Death to dignity! Impale your pride! Throw yourself on the ground and beg for reconciliation! Offer anything you’ve got, nothing is too valuable, give it all away for free, the more melodramatic the sacrifice the better your chances! But you’re armed, thankfully, with that tiny bit of leftover self-respect that won’t impale your pride for anyone but God, and you hold out. You act carefree, lighthearted, cheerful, busy, ambitious. Your ex doesn’t suspect a thing. You leave, having had the better of the situation, and immediately you convince yourself that your ex is as wounded as you inside and your strength has only made matters worse. You think you should’ve gone crawling back after all, but instead you really ruined your chances. Your friends see that look of doubt on your face and come to your rescue. It was a narrow escape.
A few weeks slip by because you’re so buried in work to ease the pain that you don’t even notice the time passing. You think you should be recovered by now but you’re not. Someone offers the helpful calculus that half the length of the relationship is the amount of time it takes to recover. That discourages you, because it means you’re nowhere near through the grieving process yet. You try to deny your ongoing pain. You hide it well. You cry only in secret, only occasionally. You start burning the love letters, commenting on fresh possibilities, joking about your ex’s character flaws the way your friends did at the outset. It feels kind of OK. You can put on a tough front to soften the knots in your heart.
And then one day it happens. You crack. It hits you with the force of a revelation — all the things this person did wrong to you, all the lies, all the half-truths, all the leadings-on, all the hopes with no promises, all the promises with no fulfillment. You suddenly see that you have no vested interest in defending your ex’s character and so you snap to the other extreme: You take that heartless spawn of the devil apart scale by scale, analyzing every error, scrutinizing every fault, until you have mastered the situation. You explode into rage, well-controlled and well-concealed rage. You almost laugh at the calm you exhibit in that person’s presence, because all you want to do is reach for that tender throat and rip it out. You want to shout over the loudspeaker your catalog of every injustice committed in your whole relationship and the extraordinary cruelty of the breakup. Your ex can do no right, and after awhile your friends are the ones defending the helpless victim of your wrath, not you, and you get enraged at them too, even if you admit silently to yourself that they have a point.
The rage flames hotly, brightly, and briefly. It can’t sustain itself for very long. You exhaust yourself with the intensity of your hatred. Then all you have left is pity. You can’t hate all those flaws and unkindnesses anymore; your ex is just too pathetic for that. You don’t have the energy to despise. You wonder, with the slightest itch of condescension, how this miserable creature is going to make it through life and love in that state. In a rare moment of altruism, you wish you could help. Then you realize you can’t. You don’t really care.
Just as suddenly as you found yourself dumped, just as suddenly as you became angry, just as suddenly as you started to pity, now suddenly you find yourself indifferent. All right, there are those pangs of jealousy whenever you see someone else moving in on your former territory. The kiwi still makes you a little depressed. But your ex — you’re OK with saying that now — has lost the claim to your heart. It’s your own again. You can see your ex walk by without the desire to breathe poison in that direction; you can flirt with someone else without feeling guilty. Despite the occasional regressions, you know you’ve moved on.
More time passes. You can rationalize the hurt a little better now. You summon up all your faith to your aid and teach yourself all over again that this is in the Almighty’s hands. God’s will be done, and if in the long run that means someone else for you, so be it. You marvel a little at a world where love is rejected and goes to waste. You wonder if it’ll ever be redeemed. You remember all that business about taking up the cross, how glorious and courageous it sounds on paper and in church, and then you realize that you’re doing it now and it’s not glorious and it doesn’t require courage because you don’t actually have a choice about it.
To make the best of it, you reflect on all the lessons you’ve learned. You know something new about communication, something new about the opposite sex, and something new about yourself. You don’t regret it, you say again and again. You’d do the same thing all over again, it was totally worth it, no remorse. But you know in the secret depths of your heart that no one could pay you enough to go through it again, and you won’t do it again, and you’ll keep your heart safe this time. And you wonder how much longer things have to go on like this.
Friday, August 22, 2008
A Phelpsian affair
Phelps baby dominated the pool at the Olympics to sweep eight olympic gold medals. I am very much aware how stale this news must be and the world probably is groaning at the slight mention of the name Michael. Honestly, I know jack about sports or Phelps. However, I, like all helpless and desperate species from venus who knows how to glee at his amazing body and salivate non stop on how good he looks in his speedo also possess sudden urges of creavity to write more about this man named Michael Phelps. God created land animals on the sixth day, rested on the seventh, and created Michael Phelps on the eighth. I hear his saliva is the cure to cancer and water magnetically resists his godly presence (it's how he can swim so fast). Years ago, Phelps discovered the meaning of life, but reportedly forgot to write it down. Chuck Norris often has nightmares of Michael Phelps.
The American who has the face of a donkey and the body structure of a sea mammal dethroned Ian Thrope, the Australian with the camel face and the body of an extraordinary sea animal, by breaking world records and splashing the waters in the Beijing Olympic pool to such tsunami heights the world has not seen. Phelp's Sunday Gold also marks the end of a world record - that of Mark Spitz's seven gold medals won 36 years ago at the1972 Munich Olympic Games.
Many Americans celebrated jubilantly with Phelps on that fine Sunday morning. Many Americans (and many foreign supporters world-wide) have been following Phelp's quest closely since the beginning. Eager and loyal "Phelps Phans" worldwide gleefully celebrated every stroke, every qualifier, every gold medal and every world record. Indeed there has been many - Phelps has set a world record in every finals event he participated in save one. Even in that singular 100-meter Butterfly final that Phelps did not set a world record in, Phelps gave a nothing-less-than-spectacular performance. Phelps trailed behind then-leader, Milorad Cavic from Serbia during both laps of the race and only caught Cavic at the end of the wall by a mere 1/100th of a second for a hair-splitting photo finish.How does Michael Phelps do it? How does a man beat 7 world records in one week and literally washes away (pun intended) the competition? Rivals and Olympic ethics personnel have cried foul play.
However, considering the scrutiny of the 2008 Beijing Games' atmosphere of fair play and the extensive Anti-Doping Committee, medical doping and use of anabolic steroids are most likely out of the question. Journalists have tried to gain footing into the mystery. Some cite Phelp's impressive 6ft 4 inch frame, his large plate-like hands, and his gigantic size 14 feet. Even Phelps himself has admitted that he eats over 12,000 calories each day, six times the 2,000 calorie intake needed by the average man.
Well, as the world remain stupor to Phelp's victory at the Olympics pool and go about speculating about his sea animal abilities, all I care about is that I love Michael and want to have his illegitimate gay-sea-animal baby. Let's call our baby Sunday Lavender Nemo Phelps, shall we?
The American who has the face of a donkey and the body structure of a sea mammal dethroned Ian Thrope, the Australian with the camel face and the body of an extraordinary sea animal, by breaking world records and splashing the waters in the Beijing Olympic pool to such tsunami heights the world has not seen. Phelp's Sunday Gold also marks the end of a world record - that of Mark Spitz's seven gold medals won 36 years ago at the1972 Munich Olympic Games.
Many Americans celebrated jubilantly with Phelps on that fine Sunday morning. Many Americans (and many foreign supporters world-wide) have been following Phelp's quest closely since the beginning. Eager and loyal "Phelps Phans" worldwide gleefully celebrated every stroke, every qualifier, every gold medal and every world record. Indeed there has been many - Phelps has set a world record in every finals event he participated in save one. Even in that singular 100-meter Butterfly final that Phelps did not set a world record in, Phelps gave a nothing-less-than-spectacular performance. Phelps trailed behind then-leader, Milorad Cavic from Serbia during both laps of the race and only caught Cavic at the end of the wall by a mere 1/100th of a second for a hair-splitting photo finish.How does Michael Phelps do it? How does a man beat 7 world records in one week and literally washes away (pun intended) the competition? Rivals and Olympic ethics personnel have cried foul play.
However, considering the scrutiny of the 2008 Beijing Games' atmosphere of fair play and the extensive Anti-Doping Committee, medical doping and use of anabolic steroids are most likely out of the question. Journalists have tried to gain footing into the mystery. Some cite Phelp's impressive 6ft 4 inch frame, his large plate-like hands, and his gigantic size 14 feet. Even Phelps himself has admitted that he eats over 12,000 calories each day, six times the 2,000 calorie intake needed by the average man.
Well, as the world remain stupor to Phelp's victory at the Olympics pool and go about speculating about his sea animal abilities, all I care about is that I love Michael and want to have his illegitimate gay-sea-animal baby. Let's call our baby Sunday Lavender Nemo Phelps, shall we?
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Starbucks sweetness...
Four weeks ago on the night before I went to Mull, I had a dream about him. It was a recurring dream that I had been having for about three months. It was not a pleasant dream in any regard and it always left me with a worthless feeling. The dream was that he worked at Starbucks and it went like this: I’m sitting at a table when I hear his voice behind the counter. I turn around and see him although he doesn’t see me. Terrified, I get on my hands and knees and crawl out of the store, carefully making sure that he doesn’t see me. When I get outside, I cry uncontrollably until I wake up. The dream is vivid and frighteningly realistic. It takes place at the same Starbucks store that I go to almost every day. It’s the same Starbucks where I go to be a tool and order pretentious espresso drinks and “chai tea” lemonades. It’s the same Starbucks where I go to hang out with all the other jackholes with laptops and write, study, blog, look cool, listen to easy-listening adult contemporary music and partake in other forms of postmodern coffeehouse douchebaggery.
It’s the same Starbucks where I go to escape real life because Starbucks is the only place in the real world that does not remind me of him. So when I first had this dream three months ago I felt angry and upset that he had infiltrated my only haven. Furthermore, I felt defeated because the Universe wasn’t going to let me forget him in real life or in the dreamscape.
However, the dream I had before my trip to Mull was different. It began the same way with me sitting at a table and hearing his voice. But when I turned around I saw him and Andrew (a guy I see frequently at Starbucks) arguing over the tip jar. The only thing from their argument that I remember being said was Andrew retorting, “…because it’s a real five-pound note.” When I woke up I felt a mixture of emotions. I was frustrated for having dreamed about him again. I was confused for having dreamed about a guy who I had only a mild crush on (Andrew). I also felt a newfound respect for authentic five-pounds note. But most shockingly was that, for the first time, I woke up from a dream about him without feeling depressed.
I’m not a dream interpreter so I don’t know if dreams mean anything more than what they are. If they do, then what they mean is something that I’ll never understand, and I’m fine with not knowing what transcendent meaning lies underneath whatever I think about when I’m sleeping. But, this dream affected my life probably a lot more than it should have. It was an episode of transient happiness. As a despondent individual who struggles with finding real happiness, transient happiness, despite how inane or mundane it is, gets me through a day.
People around me seem genuinely concerned that I have dreams like this. I’m generally perceived as someone who cannot “get over” someone from the past and people would like to see me “move on” and find someone else to bother. I can certainly understand the spirit of their sentiment because I know that these people have nothing but my best interests in mind. I genuinely want real happiness, but I know that I don’t deserve it. Finding love is like playing the lottery. The lottery is designed to allow regular schmucks like me and you a chance to win a shitload of money. However, no one plays the lottery because they need the money, but people play because no one will deny that a little extra money will make them happy. Everyone would like to win a million dollars, but most people don’t go out of their daily routine to pursue a million dollars.
Some people play the lottery for the big jackpot, while some people play just to win whatever amount of money they can get. Furthermore, no one deserves to win the lottery. It’s fun to play, and if you win then that’s just an added bonus. If I play the lottery, I play for the jackpot. If I win a million dollars, I’ll take it but I know I don’t really deserve it. If I find love and if love finds me, I’ll take it but I know I didn’t do anything to deserve it. If you agree with me on this, you’ll probably say something supportive. If you disagree with me, then you’ll probably say something like, “That’s just YOUR opinion and you’re trying to pass YOUR opinion as fact!” I don’t care if you’re one or the other. A great man once said, “Don’t believe anyone who praises you, and don’t believe anyone who criticizes you. If you allow other people’s opinions to affect how you view yourself, you’ll never do anything.”
Since that dream I’ve hang out with Andrew more often than not and I’ve realized that he's the only guy I’ve ever met who has the potential to be better than him. For years I’ve been wishing on every star in the Southland sky for this moment to happen. Maybe dreams can come true?
I’m kind of bummed I've to go back soon though.
It’s the same Starbucks where I go to escape real life because Starbucks is the only place in the real world that does not remind me of him. So when I first had this dream three months ago I felt angry and upset that he had infiltrated my only haven. Furthermore, I felt defeated because the Universe wasn’t going to let me forget him in real life or in the dreamscape.
However, the dream I had before my trip to Mull was different. It began the same way with me sitting at a table and hearing his voice. But when I turned around I saw him and Andrew (a guy I see frequently at Starbucks) arguing over the tip jar. The only thing from their argument that I remember being said was Andrew retorting, “…because it’s a real five-pound note.” When I woke up I felt a mixture of emotions. I was frustrated for having dreamed about him again. I was confused for having dreamed about a guy who I had only a mild crush on (Andrew). I also felt a newfound respect for authentic five-pounds note. But most shockingly was that, for the first time, I woke up from a dream about him without feeling depressed.
I’m not a dream interpreter so I don’t know if dreams mean anything more than what they are. If they do, then what they mean is something that I’ll never understand, and I’m fine with not knowing what transcendent meaning lies underneath whatever I think about when I’m sleeping. But, this dream affected my life probably a lot more than it should have. It was an episode of transient happiness. As a despondent individual who struggles with finding real happiness, transient happiness, despite how inane or mundane it is, gets me through a day.
People around me seem genuinely concerned that I have dreams like this. I’m generally perceived as someone who cannot “get over” someone from the past and people would like to see me “move on” and find someone else to bother. I can certainly understand the spirit of their sentiment because I know that these people have nothing but my best interests in mind. I genuinely want real happiness, but I know that I don’t deserve it. Finding love is like playing the lottery. The lottery is designed to allow regular schmucks like me and you a chance to win a shitload of money. However, no one plays the lottery because they need the money, but people play because no one will deny that a little extra money will make them happy. Everyone would like to win a million dollars, but most people don’t go out of their daily routine to pursue a million dollars.
Some people play the lottery for the big jackpot, while some people play just to win whatever amount of money they can get. Furthermore, no one deserves to win the lottery. It’s fun to play, and if you win then that’s just an added bonus. If I play the lottery, I play for the jackpot. If I win a million dollars, I’ll take it but I know I don’t really deserve it. If I find love and if love finds me, I’ll take it but I know I didn’t do anything to deserve it. If you agree with me on this, you’ll probably say something supportive. If you disagree with me, then you’ll probably say something like, “That’s just YOUR opinion and you’re trying to pass YOUR opinion as fact!” I don’t care if you’re one or the other. A great man once said, “Don’t believe anyone who praises you, and don’t believe anyone who criticizes you. If you allow other people’s opinions to affect how you view yourself, you’ll never do anything.”
Since that dream I’ve hang out with Andrew more often than not and I’ve realized that he's the only guy I’ve ever met who has the potential to be better than him. For years I’ve been wishing on every star in the Southland sky for this moment to happen. Maybe dreams can come true?
I’m kind of bummed I've to go back soon though.
The bittersweet pill of Grace
I have a friend whom deep down "I wish was dead!". This has been going on for well over 5 months now. you maybe somewhat baffled as to why I hate him so much or that I could hold onto so much resentment for so long. we are both church-goers and were congenial to one another before. But then something happened. Something just snapped. In the eyes of one, a crime was committed that was so heinous that the other, seemingly, can never be forgiven.
I know I'm not perfect, but I never thought that I could be so bad that I would hate someone so much. I have nothing but wished I could have more love for this guy and would like nothing better than for me to let go of this rage toward him and live in peace.
See, I don't claim to have a perfect understanding of God's grace, but it is something that He reveals to me more and more as I live. At the same time He is (quite painfully) showing me just how imperfect I am and how my friend may be perfectly justified in calling me out on my character flaws - which makes His grace all the more awesome in my eyes. And I'm also learning that in response, I can do nothing that allows me to boast, "Hey, look at all this grace I have! I must be really special to God - unlike YOU!" In fact, it should be more the opposite response of "hey, this grace stuff is enormous! And it's all for... me?"
I think that one of the greatest demonstrations that you have an understanding about God's forgiveness of you is to forgive others as well. This is contrasted in the parable of the unforgiving servant where a wealthy man's servant was forgiven of a debt he could never realistically repay, but then the servant turned around and would not forgive another who owed him a relatively paltry sum.
Colossians 3:12-15 says:
Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.
I am convinced that if you find yourself saying that you can "never forgive" someone for something they did, you truly don't have any idea of how much you were forgiven... from what you were forgiven... how pointless and empty this life would be without His grace. Are you sure you knew what you were getting into when you signed up for this "Christian life" stuff?
Colossians 3:3 says: For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.
It doesn't say... "For you just needed a little help..." or "For you had a personality makeover..." or "For you took a break..." It says that you DIED. So why are you trying to resuscitate the anger and bitterness that you were a puppet to before you met Christ?
And the thing about bitterness is that it doesn't hurt anyone but the one who is bitter. Let it go. You have been saved by a tidal wave of grace - how can you withhold your teaspoonful? Whatever crime someone has committed, is it so bad that it was not covered by the cross? Does the sinner need all of God's grace plus a little of yours in order to be redeemed?
I will close with a quote. It's about how, for Christians, there is never an occasion that prohits one from showing another grace. I agree completely. I know it's hard to put into practice, as I am very petty sometimes as well. But I have to believe that this is one way we Christians must live differently than the world. Or else, what's the point?
You will never be called upon to give anyone more grace than God has already given you. - Max Lucado
Do you struggle with bitterness? Are there any people in your life that you have yet to "make things right" with?
I know I'm not perfect, but I never thought that I could be so bad that I would hate someone so much. I have nothing but wished I could have more love for this guy and would like nothing better than for me to let go of this rage toward him and live in peace.
See, I don't claim to have a perfect understanding of God's grace, but it is something that He reveals to me more and more as I live. At the same time He is (quite painfully) showing me just how imperfect I am and how my friend may be perfectly justified in calling me out on my character flaws - which makes His grace all the more awesome in my eyes. And I'm also learning that in response, I can do nothing that allows me to boast, "Hey, look at all this grace I have! I must be really special to God - unlike YOU!" In fact, it should be more the opposite response of "hey, this grace stuff is enormous! And it's all for... me?"
I think that one of the greatest demonstrations that you have an understanding about God's forgiveness of you is to forgive others as well. This is contrasted in the parable of the unforgiving servant where a wealthy man's servant was forgiven of a debt he could never realistically repay, but then the servant turned around and would not forgive another who owed him a relatively paltry sum.
Colossians 3:12-15 says:
Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.
I am convinced that if you find yourself saying that you can "never forgive" someone for something they did, you truly don't have any idea of how much you were forgiven... from what you were forgiven... how pointless and empty this life would be without His grace. Are you sure you knew what you were getting into when you signed up for this "Christian life" stuff?
Colossians 3:3 says: For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.
It doesn't say... "For you just needed a little help..." or "For you had a personality makeover..." or "For you took a break..." It says that you DIED. So why are you trying to resuscitate the anger and bitterness that you were a puppet to before you met Christ?
And the thing about bitterness is that it doesn't hurt anyone but the one who is bitter. Let it go. You have been saved by a tidal wave of grace - how can you withhold your teaspoonful? Whatever crime someone has committed, is it so bad that it was not covered by the cross? Does the sinner need all of God's grace plus a little of yours in order to be redeemed?
I will close with a quote. It's about how, for Christians, there is never an occasion that prohits one from showing another grace. I agree completely. I know it's hard to put into practice, as I am very petty sometimes as well. But I have to believe that this is one way we Christians must live differently than the world. Or else, what's the point?
You will never be called upon to give anyone more grace than God has already given you. - Max Lucado
Do you struggle with bitterness? Are there any people in your life that you have yet to "make things right" with?
Friday, August 15, 2008
Why - is it so hard to recover?
My sister reminded me of how difficult it really is to "recover." My sister often called me an "impatient patient", and she was always right. It is hard to be patient with recovery because - quite frankly - you have to put up with a lot of crap.
You're stuck with people shooting off polished Christian platitudes, telling you to "Cheer up!" when they have no idea how much you're hurting. You have people who are angry with you for being unable to help them in their times of desperate need, even though both they and you realize that this is a completely unreasonable sentiment. You begin to suspect well-wishers of ulterior motives... that perhaps their encouragements are merely ways for them to feel better about themselves, as if they had done you a great favor by lavishing pity upon your poor and pity state.
You use your pain as a crutch and excuse to avoid your responsibilities and you hate those who call you out on it. You are frustrated with people because they just don't understand what you're going through... even though deep down inside, you are really just frustrated with the fact that you are weak weak weak weak weak.
While recovering from my own emotional pain, I wrote this e-mail to a friend who was also in the process of recuperating:
Recovering is tough. I know it was for me, and mine wasn't even that serious of a surgery or condition. My mind often flips back and forth between the present and the future: the present condition of being helpless and weak (which goes against with every feminine instinct in my body), and the anxiety over an uncertain future.
Since high school, I aspired to do medical missions somewhere in the boonie-lands of Africa or China or Oklahoma or similarly backwards country (i was in high school! young, naive and carried lotsa wild dreams)... and all of a sudden, I found myself unable to even help myself. All those dreams and visions and hopes put into doubt are still cast in doubt. It's been tough sometimes; realizing that you're weak is always tough. But looking back over the past five months, I don't think anything else could have been better for me. This "sickness" was the first step in breaking my addiction with myself, my own achievements and my belief in an infallible self. It forced me to face many sins in my own life.
It made me realize that the flurry of seemingly productive activity I engaged in was really just a smoke screen to distract me from a lot of problems and fundamental dissatisfactions with myself.I can't say that I've "fixed" all, or really any, of these things... but I'm learning to struggle with them once again.
If nothing else, I have learned that God is far wiser and stronger and kinder than we give Him credit for. Tragedy is never tragedy if Christ dwells within us, for our suffering only serves to make us more like Him. It has been one of the most painful, but beautiful, lessons that I've learned so far.So! Sage advice? Don't rush to get back into "the thick of things" so quickly. Listen, and listen carefully for the whispers of the divine.
You may never get the chance to listen like this ever again. One tune that was stuck in my head during my stay in a limbo state was a little chorus to a song. It goes, "I am alive in this moment; in this moment I am found. I am alive in this moment; in this moment I belong." The essence of patience is, as Henri Nouwen once put it, having "hope for the moment". Grasp that, and the moment is yours forever.
As the other "patients" I see who get sicker and sicker, I've developed more profound respect for those who persevere in recovery with joy and endurance. I've found that the people who complain the most are usually the ones with the most superficial problems. The most admirable people I know are those that maintain hope for the moment despite overwhelmingly grim circumstances.
Hope for the moment comes at the cost of the pleasure of indulgence in self-pity and self-loathing. Hope for the moment comes from humility and the recognition that this injury, this sickness, this handicap is merely an accurate reflection of the truly broken state of my heart... and that in Christ there is the indefatigable power to heal. It is a frightening and fearsome recognition because it demands that I lay aside the crutch of my pain and fall into the arms of something intangible and uncertain and something wholly other than myself.
Perhaps you are in a situation of transitions, of tortured waiting, of changes and healings or hurtings that take place "in-between". How are you coping, and how can we transform these moments of frustration, anxiety, and waiting into moments of hope? What does that hope look like?
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