My testing ground

I’ve never been married, and I have no idea what living in a married relationship would be like, but I think the living situation I’ve been in for the last few years may well be good preparation, should marriage one day come knocking on my door.

Some days I just have to ask God for patience and compassion, because it’s all I can do to bite my tongue and react in a kind and sympathetic manner. I have had to learn not to take remarks personally, overlook sarcasm directed my way, handle difficult situations without losing my temper, respond to unexpected outbursts with kindness, and generally learn to reschedule my life around another’s. Perhaps living with a spouse is not quite the same, but living with an elderly person who is losing her eyesight and very set in her ways has been an eye-opening, character-building experience for me.

I have lived with my grandmother for nearly three years now, and while I’ve always lived with other people (I’ve never lived on my own), I’ve never had a problem getting along with anyone until I moved in with my grandmother. This was a shock for me, because I love my grandmother dearly, and I’d never had any issues with her–until I shared the same roof with her. Suddenly, I realized even the littlest things were a huge deal to her, and I had to put up with a side of my grandmother I’d never really seen before. I learned from a cousin who lived with her previously that these “issues” were not just directed at me but her as well, so that made me learn to not take them so personally, but still, some days, it’s all I can do to bite my tongue, swallow my pride, and respond in a manner that totally belies my true feelings.

Like this morning. She is losing her eyesight, as I said, and I know this is extremely frustrating for her, and I do try to offer my help to her in any way I can and be as sympathetic as I can, but it still hurts me a bit when she takes her frustration out on me. I guess it’s only natural she should take it out on me, as I am around her more than anyone else, but it doesn’t make it any easier on me or take away the sting of her remarks.

I am not perfect by any means, and I know I have not always responded to my grandmother in the ways I should have, but I am learning, and I wonder sometimes if God is using this time of my life to really teach me patience, grace, and love. I’m suddenly seeing my own failings and shortcomings in a way I never have before, and I’m realizing that true love–God’s love–is always patient, always kind, doesn’t act unbecomingly, doesn’t seek its own, is never provoked, and never takes into account a wrong suffered. It’s one thing to spout those truths glibly from one’s mouth when quoting Scripture, but it’s an entirely different thing when one has to daily try to live them out.

So I am learning. Perhaps slowly, but hopefully by the time I leave my grandmother’s home I will be a better person than when I arrived. At least I pray so.

And if marriage ever does come my way, I hope, at the very least, that I have an inkling of just what it means to love someone else sacrificially…even when they take out their anger or frustration on you, even when they falsely accuse you, even when nothing you do seems good enough. Not that I hope for such a marriage–in fact, I hope and pray for the opposite–but I also know no one is perfect and no marriage is ever easy. Whenever you put two people in close proximity and relationship to each other, some friction, however small, is inevitable. And I guess it’s better I realize this now, and not later.

So may God continue to refine me in my current situation and teach me what real love is all about. Real love that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Imprisoned by the past

“Why can’t we just sweep all of that under the rug and let the past be the past?” So says an old man, pleadingly, angrily, to his daughter, who has, once again, unintentionally embarrassed him by reminding him of his past life.

A little while later, after being confronted by someone from his past, he is seen collapsing into a chair, his body convulsing with heart-rending sobs.

Both these scenes are from a BBC adaptation of Charles Dickens’ novel “Little Dorrit.” I am a huge Charles Dickens fan, and I just recently watched this masterpiece of a drama for the second time. However, this time the movie touched me in a way it hadn’t before, as I suddenly realized how much of myself I saw in one of the drama’s main characters–old Mr. Dorrit.

For anyone unfamiliar with the story, “Little Dorrit” tells the tale of a man, and his family (the Dorrits), who, after being stuck in a debtors’ prison for over twenty years, suddenly find freedom and wealth when they learn of an unclaimed inheritance. Transitioning from the bottom rungs of society to the very top proves to be a challenge for all of the Dorrits, but most especially for the father, Mr. Dorrit, who, having been accustomed to prison for so long, finds his newfound freedom, wealth, and “respect” exhilerating at first, but eventually more than he can handle.

Even as he moves among the elite in society, travels Europe, and does his best to “fit in” with those of the upper-class, he is continually reminded of his humble, painful days in the prison. Mostly by his youngest daughter Amy–known affectionately as “Little Dorrit”–who finds it difficult to give up her humble ways and become a proper “lady of leisure,” but also by former friends and aquaintances who knew him during his stay in the prison. Finally, toward the end of the story, his mind begins to crack, as paranoia sets in and he begins to imagine everyone is mocking him and talking badly of him, and at last, he loses his mind completely and then he dies.

There are other happier parts to the story, thankfully, but Mr. Dorrit’s storyline, as tragic as it is, is what struck me most profoundly, for although I’ve never been in an actual prison, I, like Mr. Dorrit, know what it’s like to live daily in the prison of my own mind, which, even once it finds freedom externally, can never forget the past–especially when people from the past continually return to refresh painful memories and reinforce old lies. It’s like an analogy I once was told about elephants: once they are trained via chains to remain standing in one spot, even when those chains are removed, they still stand there, unwilling to run away, convinced in their scarred minds that the chains are still there.

This, unfortunately, is the reality of anyone, like myself, or a fictional Mr. Dorrit, who has gone through tremendously painful, humiliating, and/or traumatic experiences. As Richard Lovelace put it so eloquently in his poem “To Althea, from Prison:”

“Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone, that soar above,

Enjoy such liberty.”

So much, at least externally, has changed for me for the better recently. Like Mr. Dorrit, I’m tasting freedom for the first time in many areas of my life. Outwardly, most would say I am doing well. But true freedom is never found in external circumstances. True freedom only really happens in one’s mind and spirit. The cruelest, darkest prisons are not physical ones, but the ones imposed in our own minds. As Lovelace says, a mind “innocent and quiet” could take even an actual iron-barred prison and find peace there. I envy those with such unscarred, peaceful minds. Minds not continually haunted by memories of a painful past. Minds not tormented by a past that one wishes every day one could forget. Minds not continually reminded of the person one used to be by people from that past who continue to reject and turn a cold shoulder, seeing you always as “that person.”

Like Mr. Dorrit, there are days, especially after running into people I used to know, when I retreat somewhere and simply weep. Weep in agony that, no matter how hard I try to escape my past, no matter how much I change, no matter how affirming close friends and family are, no matter how well some aspects of my life may be going, all it takes to send me spiraling downward is a confrontation with those who hurt me in the past and continue to hurt me with their coldness and disregard. I know I shouldn’t let these people get to me. I try to remind myself of all those who have built me up instead of torn me down, but my mind much more easily believes the negative over the positive. Like the elephant, I know that, in reality, my chains are gone. But in my mind those chains are never really gone. And when others treat you as if those chains are still there, it’s even easier for the mind to believe that somehow one can never truly escape. That one is forever imprisoned by one’s past.

I know in Christ I am supposed to be free. I know all about “renewing one’s mind.” I know, at least intellectually, that I am loved by Christ–that no matter my past, no matter how others perceive me and treat me–I am who He says I am, and not who others say I am.

But still I struggle. And I believe I struggle because my painful past involves a cult-like church and many hypocritical Christians who, instead of loving and reaching out to a lonely, broken, hurting outcast, contributed to her pain. And who, even to this day, when I should come across them, turn away from me as if I somehow have the plague. Like Mr. Dorrit, I just want to say, why can’t the past be left where it is? In the past? Why must it continually thrust its ugly face into my own via the voices of those whose looks alone tell me all I need to know about myself? “You’re unloveable.” “Something’s wrong with you.” “You’re wicked.” “You’re not godly enough.” “You’re messed up.” “Once an outcast, always an outcast.”

The mind is a cruel prison. A cruel prison I long to escape from. And I keep trying to escape. But, like Mr. Dorrit, I’m so accustomed to my imprisonment, that freedom itself is a scary, overwhelming thing that I’m not sure I would know how to handle.

I hope I don’t succumb to paranoia one day and lose my mind completely (though I’ve felt I’ve come close before)–I hope the end to my story is a happy one and not a sad one–but, as of now, I don’t know how to break free of my mental chains. I don’t know how to handle those reminders of my past (mainly people) that keep me locked up behind bars thicker and stronger than ones of actual iron.

I can only hope and trust that the grace of God will somehow do what I cannot do. And that someday I will possess a soul, and mind, that is completely free and, with the angels soaring above, able to “enjoy such liberty”…

On Pat Robertson & being apalled

I don’t normally comment on current news, events, or goings-on in the Christian world on this blog, but after reading the following articles regarding some statements by a well-known Christian “leader”–and watching the accompanying videos–I feel compelled to share some thoughts.

The articles and videos can be found here and here.

Hopefully any discerning Christian with half a brain agrees with me that the time has come for dear Pat Robertson to step down, step aside, and stop opening his mouth. Men like him are just one more reason American evangelical Christianity has become such a laughingstock to the world. If we are mocked and persecuted for the sake of the gospel, that’s perfectly acceptable, but to be mocked and ridiculed because someone claiming to be one of us keeps opening his mouth and saying absolutely ludicrous, chauvinistic, and un-Christlike nonsense is totally unacceptable. This man does not represent Christ. And I wholeheartedly disagree with 99% of what came out of his mouth.

Should a woman, by the power of the Holy Spirit, forgive and love her cheating husband? Absolutely. But overlook it? Absolutely not. Diminish it, because, as Robertson says, “he’s a man” and “all men tend to wander”? Absolutely not. Take responsibility for it? Because, somehow, it must be her fault he cheated? Absolutely, unequivocally, most resoundingly not!

Why anyone listens to this man and gives him credibility is beyond me. For any so-called “man of God” that essentially says it’s ok for a man to cheat on his wife and that it’s the wife’s fault he cheats in the first place should be seen for what he truly is: absolutely deluded. And certainly not a “man of God.”

Pat Robertson just gives the perfect example, and provides one more reason, why I am so disgusted and disillusioned with so much of what passes for “Christianity” these days.

If only people out there calling themselves Christians would stop looking to mere men for advice and spiritual direction. Stop putting all these fallible, sinful men up on pedestals and expect them to tell you how to act and behave. Get out your Bible. Read it. Pray. And seek out those who do the same. Put Christ first. Not man. Christ is the only One we can really trust.

I wish the people at the megachurch I serve at would do this. Much to my disappointment, both of my fellow ESL teachers basically defended the pastor of the church, who, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, is being accused of sexual misconduct. I also saw news interviews with some of the congregants, who defended him as well, some giving him all the praise for “saving them.” Yikes. Wake up, people. Never look to man to save you. And if you think this pastor “saved” you, you need to start reading your Bible. Only Jesus saves.

I guess all of this hullabaloo–both with Pat Robertson, and with the pastor at my local megachurch–just goes to show how biblically illiterate and undiscerning much of American Christianity is nowadays.

How incredibly, tragically sad.

Why am I not surprised?

So apparently the rumors were more than just rumors.

Soon after I started attending a local megachurch earlier this year, I was informed there were rumors of spiritual abuse and immorality going on within its leadership, so, feeling troubled in spirit, I did my own research, found out these allegations had some basis in fact, and then promptly quit attending the services. However, I had already made a commitment to serve as a volunteer ESL teacher at the church, so I decided to stick with that at least, and over the last couple weeks I have taken on my own ESL conversation class. I like my fellow teachers, and I have enjoyed getting to know some of the students as well, most of whom are Hispanic. Overall, my ESL experience so far has been positive.

However, there have been signs, hints, and even some recent drama I’ve witnessed that has highlighted to me that underneath the “polished” exterior of this church, there are indeed some questionable and troubling things going on. Earlier this week, a local TV news station, after conducting its own investigation, broke the story that the pastor of this megachurch is being accused of sexual misconduct. He is now under investigation by authorities in another state, where he is accused of sexual relationships with underage girls. Apparently, he is not yet under investigation by local police, but many former church members and other leaders in the community are calling for an investigation and his resignation.

I can’t say I’m totally surprised by this heart-rending news, given the fact I had my suspicions beforehand, but suddenly I feel myself thrown into an undesirable and uncomfortable position. And I’m not quite sure yet how I will go about handling it. For now I plan to continue with the ESL–even though just walking into the church building makes me feel a little sick to my stomach–for I’m not one to drop a commitment, and I know the ESL students still need teachers and have nothing to do with the drama going on in the leadership. But I feel very, very troubled in my spirit, knowing now what’s going on at this church, and I’m also suddenly wondering how much the pastor of the affiliated Spanish congregation, who kind of oversees the ESL program and who I’m ultimately accountable to, knows regarding the scandal, and if he is himself perhaps somehow involved, since he is part of the church’s leadership. I’ve only interacted with him a few times, and up until recently he wasn’t even all that friendly to me. I’m trying not to judge when I don’t know all the facts, and I hope and pray the Spanish pastor is innocent in all of this, but my eyes are wide open now and I suddenly wonder who I can trust.

I wonder too how my fellow ESL teachers are responding to this unpleasant situation. I may find out tomorrow evening, as I teach my first ESL class since the scandal became public. I’m praying for grace and the courage to speak the truth in love and stand by my convictions should conversations about the scandal come up. I know many at this church are blindly devoted to the pastor and defending him against the allegations, but being a relative newcomer, and naturally wary of “celebrity pastors,” I have no such allegiances and hope the pastor, if guilty, would repent and step down. I don’t know where my fellow teachers stand on the issue, so all of this should make for some interesting discussions and interactions in the weeks ahead, especially if the pastor is ultimately found guilty and charged with sexual crimes.

How did I get myself into such a mess? All I was trying to do was reach out, connect and serve. And suddenly I’m thrown into just one more example of a church that has lost its way and looks nothing like Jesus. I’ve talked about my disillusionment with the church–well, I think I’m past disillusionment now. Not much surprises me anymore. But I have to say that, as sickened and saddened as I am by what’s going on at this church, I can also honestly say I know, but for the grace of God, there go I. I am no better than this pastor, or anyone else in the leadership. I too am a sinner. But it’s the fact that I know I’m a sinner that drives me to Jesus, realizing how much I need His empowering grace to keep me from falling. So I pray that, if indeed these allegations against the pastor, and others in the leadership, are true, that all of them would repent, seek forgiveness, and turn to the only One Who can cleanse and restore them. Maybe, as some are suggesting, God is using this public scandal to “clean house” at the church. Because, despite the problems with the pastor and other leaders, this church does a lot of good for the community–a lot of good that other churches simply aren’t doing.

I don’t know what part I am to play in all of this. I don’t know if God wants me to continue on with the ESL program beyond the commitment I’ve already made. If I had my way, I’d get out now. I feel like running, not walking, to the nearest exit. But I also believe in keeping my commitment and serving others, and maybe God has some other purpose for me being involved with this church right now. Or maybe not. I guess I just have to wait and see. And pray that, whatever happens, He will enable me to stand on the side of truth, no matter what it costs me.

We never suffer alone

Sometimes just knowing one isn’t alone and that others have it even worse than you do is enough to bring comfort and hope in the midst of the deepest of deepest agonies.

Two weeks ago, feeling overwhelmed with despair at my situation, I sped down a darkened interstate after midnight, just driving and driving, crying my eyes out and pleading with God to speak to me. To at least let me know He understood and cared about my pain. I drove for over an hour to a nearby city and finally turned around and headed home, feeling sleepy…but God was silent. Or at least it seemed He was. Although I heard no voice from heaven, I did see two curious sights on my midnight journey. I drove past two crosses beside the highway. One, on the way, was lit up in front of a building; the other, which I passed on my way back, was simply a string of lights in the shape of a cross sitting near the highway. I don’t know if these were “signs” from above–God’s way of simply saying “I’m here”–but I wondered. I especially wondered the next day.

The next day I went and saw my counselor, still feeling down, and I confessed this spur-of-the-moment emotional collapse that propelled me down the interstate in the wee hours of the morning. Of course, she wanted to know what caused this breakdown. I felt that tugging again, to spill one of my deepest, darkest, most shameful secrets–one that I have borne in silence my entire life, and one that has caused me excruciating pain. I told a few other people a while ago, including my last counselor, but none of these people seemed to know how to reach out to me or help me deal with it. So I feared spilling my guts once again. But, as scared as I was, I agreed to share what was troubling me one more time. Via writing. I’ll take another chance, I thought.

So I took the chance. And her reaction, like those before her, took me by surprise. There was no rejection. No judgment. Only compassion. And even admiration that I had been able to cope as long as I have with this incredible source of pain. She called me “resilient.” But more than simply showing me kindness and being a listening ear, she has begun to give me practical ideas and suggestions on how to deal with my pain. No drugs were pushed on me. No magical prayer that would supposedly “heal” me. For the first time, someone has given me more than “fluffy” or “overly spiritual” advice. She tends to be very practical, and I really like this about her. So, at her suggestion, the first thing I did was some searching on the internet, and I discovered that, wonder of wonders…I am not alone in my pain. This shocked me. It also saddened me, because, after reading some people’s horror stories, I now realize, as bad as I’ve had it, some have had it even worse.

This was such an eye-opening experience for me. To simply no longer feel alone in one’s pain–to know there are others out there who can empathize–is such an amazing comfort. One of the things that has driven to me to such feelings of despair is feeling like no one else out there could possibly relate. And it has been this feeling of “aloneness” that has led me to hide my pain for so long. I’ve always thought I was the only one. Now I know I’m not.

God hears. He sees. He knows. And for the first time in my life, I feel He has given me a concrete source of hope. I can’t explain how liberated this makes me feel. I don’t know what the next steps for me are, and I’m still a bit frightened, but I have a courage to face this I’ve never had before.

Maybe there is a way out for me. It won’t be easy. I still have many obstacles to face. But, praise God, I am no longer in this fight alone. To suffer is one thing. To suffer alone–completely alone–is a million times worse.

No matter how “scary” or “intimidating” or “shameful” one’s secrets are, what I’m learning is that holding onto one’s secrets and not bringing them into the light is far more scary. It is only in the light that healing comes. Not everyone will understand. Some won’t know how to deal with your pain. Some will reject you for it. Some will give you bad advice. But persevere. Trust God. Let it into the light. Own it. Accept it. Face it.

It’s only there that healing comes. Never, ever feel like you must suffer alone. Because, in reality, none of us really does.

True Love and the blessing of disillusionment

I’ve been thinking a lot about him recently. I wonder where he is. I wonder how he’s doing.

I’ll never forget him. I’ll never forget the few short weeks I knew him and how, within such a short span of time, he immeasurably touched and enriched my life. I’ll never forget the warm, sun-splashed afternoon we sat on a bench underneath a blue Brazilian sky, conversing in Portuguese, sharing Jesus with each other. Being in his presence was like being in the presence of Christ Himself. He talked Jesus, he breathed Jesus, he emanated Jesus. His whole life revolved around Jesus. He had a glow about him, and though he wasn’t the most handsome man in the physical sense, I never met a more beautiful man in my entire life.

I still haven’t. And now in my mid-thirties, as I find myself still single, and navigating uncertain waters with the opposite sex, I can’t help but think of this beautiful man I once knew, over six years ago. I know God lets certain things happen for a reason, and He brings certain people into our lives for only a season, so I trust Him that He knew best in only allowing a temporary friendship to occur between me and this young man, but I can’t help but wonder “what if,” had circumstances been different. By the time I parted ways with this young man, I was beginning to fall for him, and I’m quite sure, had our time together been prolonged, a relationship other than friendship would have developed. The lengthy embrace we shared upon his departure, witnessed by many others, set tongues a-wagging, as others teased me afterwards, “So, what’s up with you and so-and-so?”

At the time I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that as soon as he was gone, I missed him terribly. I ached for him. I missed his sweet smile, his notes of encouragement to me, and most of all, the way I saw Jesus in him. Although I later wrote to him, I never got a reply. He didn’t have e-mail or any other way of keeping in touch with him, so as the years have passed since then, I’ve simply been left to wonder what happened to him, and whether, living thousands of miles away from me, he ever got my letter at all.

Only God knows. And I trust that God knew what He was doing in cutting short my relationship with this man. But I’ve been forever altered since meeting him. I was “spoiled,” as it were, with a taste of something so heavenly and beautiful, that I know now I could never truly love a man unless he captures my heart the same way this young man did. For better or worse, this man has become my standard. Like most single Christian women, I long to get married one day, I long to find “the one,” but I also refuse to compromise, or “settle,” simply in order to be with someone. Some may say I’m being too picky, and I run the risk of never finding anyone, but marriage is not something I take lightly, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my mistakes with men is that it’s better to be single than with the wrong person.

The reason all of this is at the forefront of my mind right now, and hence spilling forth onto my humble little blog, is because I find myself, quite unexpectedly, confronted by not one, but two men, who seem to have some interest in me. Both these men attend the little Spanish church I’ve gotten involved with, and both are also involved with the ESL classes I’ve begun to help out with, so I see them on a regular basis now, but I’m not quite sure how I’ve managed to attract both of them, unless it’s simply because there are a dearth of single, available Christian women in their immediate circles. So maybe it’s simply because I am “fresh meat.” In any case, I’m finding myself suddenly wrestling with my own desires when it comes to the opposite sex and crying out to God to enable me to act honorably and appropriately with both of them. I have purposely not dated anyone in over five years now, as I’ve been going through too many personal struggles to be in a good place emotionally to be with someone, and I question whether, even now, I am ready to be with someone. Only a couple months ago, a friend’s wedding sent me into a brief spiral of self-pity, as I wondered if such happiness could ever, one day, come my way.

Thankfully, I’ve snapped out of self-pity, and my sudden predicament with these two men has been a good wake-up call for me. It’s the old flesh vs. spirit battle going on within me, as I recognize how vulnerable I am, and how, as much as I’d love to be in a relationship, I also know I don’t want to be in a relationship merely to be in a relationship. And this is why I keep thinking back to my friend in Brazil several years ago. And then it’s like I see everything clearly again, and I remember what matters most to me. It’s not merely the external. It’s not merely being a Christian. It’s something far deeper. When I look at a man, I want to be drawn to him because I see Jesus in him. Not some religious, superficial version of Christianity, but a real, vibrant, passionate faith, that governs every aspect of his life, and overflows in his behavior and conversation. I saw this in my Brazilian friend, and it drew me to him like a moth to a flame. Nearly every conversation I had with him centered around Jesus, and being around him always left me feeling convicted in my own walk with Christ and wanting to know Jesus like he did.

But as I ponder all this, remembering that very special man, and praying for wisdom and discernment in my current guy friendships, I’ve begun to realize that not only should I be maintaining my standard when it comes to guys, but I should be focusing on becoming the same sort of woman such a godly man would seek out. And while this causes me despair sometimes, when I look at myself, and see all my weaknesses, past sins, and current state of brokenness, I know there is Someone Who can fix me, and He’s the One I’ve run from so often, hid from, and even been angry at. But still He stands at my door and knocks. And I feel like, right now, He is knocking louder than He ever has, and although it’s downright frustrating for me to have to continually walk by faith and not by sight, and I have come so close to losing that faith many times, I have to say with Peter, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

I have nowhere else to go but to Jesus. Even when my life doesn’t make sense. Even when faith doesn’t make sense. Even when the pain cuts so deep I wonder if He actually sees or cares or feels what I feel. But as I begin to realize no human relationship will ever truly bring me fulfillment, and I realize everyone will hurt or let me down at some point, it becomes more and more evident I’ve been placing my faith and trust in all the wrong things. The church is not my source of happiness. People are not my source of happiness. A husband should never be my primary source of happiness. I’ve discussed this before, but I’m learning the blessing of disillusionment in my life. Oswald Chambers, in his classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest, talks about this disillusionment with great insight and eloquence:

“Refusing to be disillusioned is the cause of much of the suffering of human life. And this is how that suffering happens–if we love someone, but do not love God, we demand total perfection and righteousness from that person, and when we do not get it we become cruel and vindictive; yet we are demanding of a human being something which he or she cannot possibly give. There is only one Being who can completely satisfy to the depth of the hurting human heart, and that is the Lord Jesus Christ. Our Lord is so obviously uncompromising with regard to every human relationship because He knows that every relationship that is not based on faithfulness to Himself will end in disaster. Our Lord trusted no one, and never placed His faith in people, yet He was never suspicious or bitter. Our Lord’s confidence in God, and in what God’s grace could do for anyone, was so perfect that He never despaired, never giving up hope for any person. If our trust is placed in human beings, we will end up despairing of everyone.”

This insight not only gives me hope for myself, but for those in my life who have wounded me deeply, as I call on God’s grace to forgive them completely, knowing that “they know not what they do (or have done).” So while disillusionment is unpleasant, and sometimes downright excruciating, perhaps God is using it for good in my life. And when it comes to my desire for a husband somewhere down the road, He’s showing me that even that desire should never take precedence over my desire for Him. Because no matter how godly a man may be, he is still a man, and prone to sin, failure and weakness, just as I am, and to place my happiness upon his shoulders is unreasonable and burdensome. I would never want a man to do the same to me (because I have had a man do that to me, and it was suffocating).

So I’m doing my best to lean upon Jesus right now, even as I feel the tug of temptation, and the whisperings and longings of a woman’s heart. I’m thankful for the friend I once knew, who showed me what a truly godly, totally-in-love-with-Jesus man looks like, and I know I could never “settle” for anything else in a relationship, but I also realize I would never have been drawn to him in the first place if it wasn’t the beauty of Christ I saw shining through him.

And that’s when it hits me. It’s not a mere man I’m longing for. It’s Christ Himself. And so, even as I think on that beautiful friend, and remember the precious time I spent with him, I’m ultimately pointed back to Jesus Himself, the truest Lover of my soul, Who is far more beautiful, and will never let me down nor let go of me.

Reflections on Easter

It’s Easter. Or Resurrection Sunday. Or whatever one prefers to call it.

I should be happy, joyful, remembering that Jesus is alive, and all He did for me. I should feel more than I do on a day like this. Instead, I feel dead inside. I’m struggling. Wondering some moments how I can keep on going. Wondering what’s so wrong with me and will things ever get better. Wondering why church feels as dead as I feel inside.

I went to three services today. I went to an outdoor sunrise service first thing this morning with a friend of mine. It was a bit chilly, but the wooded scenery was nice and the service was sweet and short. I couldn’t really get into the spirit of things, however, or pay too much attention to the sermon, because a little field mouse decided to show up and distract those of us sitting near its little hideaway in a crevice of the rock bench in front of us. He was a cute little thing, and kept poking his head and beady eyes out of the crevice to look at us. He apparently wanted to get out, but we kept scaring him back in, till, at last, near the end of the service, he got bold enough to make a mad dash for it. He scampered across the ground toward our rock bench, where apparently he found another crevice to hide in. But what a commotion and distraction he caused. It was kind of funny, actually. Those of us who enjoyed his antics affectionately labeled him our “church mouse.”

After the sunrise service, and a yummy breakfast served at the church, I joined my friend for the regular early-morning service, and while it was nice, it just felt like the same ho-hum routine church service. It just felt like all of us were going through the motions, and I admittedly nearly dozed off a couple times. After it was over, it was still fairly early in the morning, so on the spur of the moment, as I drove toward home, I decided, after phoning my sister, to join her at her church service. This service, at a Presbyterian church, felt “deader” than the Baptist one I went to earlier. I looked around me at the well-dressed congregation, and I realized that there was a time I would have felt somewhat at home there (I used to attend this church many years ago), but no longer. I suddenly missed the little Spanish church, with its poorer folk, and its livelier music and sermons. I felt as if I were attending a funeral at the Presbyterian church. Oh the songs were good–good, solid hymns, most of them–and the sermon was good and doctrinally sound. But there was no life there. And I felt lifeless sitting there.

Maybe that’s what’s missing in most churches these days. Maybe that’s what’s missing in me. Life. On a day like today, I should be filled to overflowing with life, remembering the One Who gives me eternal Life. But instead I feel numb and dead. And nearly every church I walk into feels numb and dead as well. As much as I hate to say it, and as much as many Christians here in the US like to “complain” about it, I think a good dose of persecution would be a good thing for the American church. Persecution would awaken us out of our slumber and awaken my own dead, cold heart. Sometimes (ok, often) I wish I’d been born in a different country, where life is harder, and where persecution is normal. I envy Christians in Africa, China, Indonesia, and other parts of the world who truly understand what it means to follow Christ, because of the suffering they endure. I don’t envy their suffering, of course, but I envy the joy and abundant life they seem to possess, even in the midst of their sufferings.

My own life has been full of suffering, though of a different sort, and while there are days when my pain seems too much to bear, and I don’t know how I can go on, at other times I am grateful for it, because without it I think I would survey life on a more superficial level. There’s something about being stripped of everything you hold dear that really “wakes” you up, as it were. You realize money isn’t important, looks aren’t important, intelligence isn’t all that important, possessions don’t matter…nothing matters but your very soul, and it stands naked, like every other soul in the world, before a holy, loving, and righteous God, Who could snuff it out in an instant if He chose to. Before Him we are all equals, and before the Cross we are all equals.

So how is it, on a day like today, that symbolizes life–Real Life–that I feel so lifeless, and the Christianity I see around me appears lifeless as well? Jesus has to be more real than a Sunday school lesson or a dry, doctrinally sound sermon. If He is truly alive, then I should feel alive as well. I’m sick of religion. I’m sick of lifeless, mediocre Christianity. I’m sick of my own lifeless heart. I’m sick of being sick.

I watched part of The Gospel of John movie the other day–the last part, which portrays the Last Supper and Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection–and it made me cry. It made me wish I had been there, over two thousand years ago. It made me want to see Him, face to face. And it made me more aware of the contradictions and hypocrisy in my own life. Because, if I truly believe Jesus is as alive now as He was then, and that He’s with me, then why don’t I live as if He is? Why don’t most Christians? We profess one thing with our lips, and yet live as if we have no idea what we’re talking about.

He’s alive. As much now as He was then. So why am I so dead inside? And why is the church so dead?

I’m just rambling. But I’m simply fed up. Fed up with myself and the church.

On a day that symbolizes Life, that’s what I find lacking and want so much. I just want Life. Abundant Life, as Jesus promised.

I have a dream…

I have a dream.

A dream of a beautiful church. A church where rich, poor, black, white, prep, goth, beautiful, not-so-beautiful, broken, whole, American, Asian, African and every other nationality and ethnicity worship together. A church without partiality. A heterogeneous church. A church made beautiful by its diversity and yet made one by the indwelling Spirit of Christ. A church where the only head is Christ, not a single man labelled a “pastor”–a church where truth and love are not mutually exclusive–a church where no one is marginalized or “slips through the cracks”–a church where discipleship is a way of life–a church where the Spirit is allowed to move freely–a church that is neither hyper-charismatic nor cessationist–a church that doesn’t water down the Gospel–a church that is worship-driven, and not entertainment-driven–a church that seeks out the lost and broken–a church where, most of all, Christ is glorified, and not man.

This is my dream. But, sadly, in the worldly and divided church that makes up most of Western Christendom, I recognize this dream most likely will never be a reality. And I also recognize I am just as much a part of the problem as anyone else. But as I deal with my own issues, and seek to become the more godly woman God wants me to be, I’ve become more and more frustrated at my inability to find a church where at least a few of the above qualities are exhibited. I know, in this fallen world, and within a church made up of saints who still sin, there will never be such a thing as a “perfect” church, and I don’t seek a “perfect” church–but I continue to wrestle with so much disillusionment when it comes to the modern, Western church.

I realize my background of growing up in a nearly-cult-like church that left me deeply scarred still influences how I perceive the church, and what I feel it should look like, but in the thirteen years since I left that negative environment, I’ve struggled to find a church where I have truly felt at home. I have felt like an “outsider” within the Body of Christ for most of my life, and while I’ve questioned over and over if this is entirely my fault or not, lately I’ve begun to wonder if my perspective as an “outsider” is God’s way of giving me more of a heart for other “outsiders.”  Maybe, just maybe, instead of seeing my difficulties as a curse, I should instead see them as a blessing in disguise. Maybe I was never meant to “fit in.” At least not in the way that most homogeneous churches these days qualify “fitting in.” If fitting in means dressing a certain way, acting a certain way, and presenting a superficial spirituality to those around me, then I absolutely will never “fit in.” And I no longer want to. I’m tired of trying to live up to other Christians’ superficial expectations of me.

But even as I’m learning that feeling like an “outsider” is not necessarily a bad thing, and that hopefully God can use this “outsider” to reach out to other “outsiders,” I’m still frustrated at my inability to find a church home. Or at least a group of believers who would be able to provide me with safe, Biblical fellowship and discipleship. It seems every time I think I’ve found a group to “plug into,” there is at least one aspect of the group that troubles me and causes me to leave. I met with a group in a home for a short time, and while they were some of the most loving people I’d ever met, they were into some crazy, charismatic stuff that really disturbed me, and I knew I couldn’t, in good conscience, participate in or agree with everything they were doing and teaching. So I left.

Then, just recently, I started attending a megachurch (much to my own astonishment, as, generally, I’m not a big fan of megachurches). It’s very entertainment-driven, with dance, rock-and-roll music, and watered-down preaching, but I liked the fact that it was full of the very sort of people I don’t see in most churches: the poor, the broken, the homeless, the “outsiders.” The kind of people I wish were in more churches. So I was willing to overlook the things I didn’t like about the church, all for the sake of being in a less stuffy, more heterogeneous atmosphere, until I found out, quite unexpectedly, that there were issues of immorality and spiritual abuse going on with the pastor and leadership. So once again I’m left with a stricken conscience, wondering if I should stop going.

The only ray of hope so far in all of this is another church service I’ve attended twice now. It’s a little Spanish congregation that’s affiliated with the megachurch, but meets in a different building and has a different pastor, and both times I’ve gone I’ve been welcomed warmly. The service is entirely in Spanish, and everyone but me are Hispanics, most of whom look as if they come from rougher parts of town, but so far I’ve really enjoyed my visits, and I’ve already been befriended and introduced to several people. They’re very enthusiastic in their worship, the pastor preaches fiery sermons that rouse loud claps, “Amens,” and other exclamations in Spanish, and I’ve been surprised at how much I actually understand, despite my rusty Spanish. I’m hoping that attending this church will, at the very least, give me an avenue to serve. I hope to begin helping out with their ESL classes–I sat in on one two nights ago and had a lovely time meeting some of the students and getting to know one of the teachers, a friendly and sweet Hispanic guy.

So I’m thankful I seem to have found some sort of fellowship for the time being, but my heart aches to be connected in a deeper way to other believers, and to receive the sort of discipleship and accountability I so desperately need. Going to church every Sunday is one thing, but I want so much more, and I continue to feel frustrated at my inability to find that “more” I want and need.

I’m tired of feeling like an island, but, so far, when I look around me at most churches, I find myself so disillusioned I want to give up altogether trying to find a place I can call “home.”

I’ll keep praying, I’ll keep searching, but maybe I simply have to lower my expectations and try to come to terms with the fact that my dream of the church, or anything remotely similar, is just that: a dream.

The chocolate-eyed girl

As a wrap-up to my “Brazil diaries,” I’d like to share one last experience that I had while in Brazil in 2005 that left the most enduring mark upon me. I didn’t record it in my journal, but a year later I wrote a piece about it, to preserve forever the life-changing impact this experience had upon me. On my very last day in Brazil, I had the privilege of hanging out with a bunch of meninos de rua, or street children, in Recife. Street children are a huge problem in Brazil’s biggest cities. They’re usually orphans and/or come from broken homes in Brazil’s favelas (slums), and they end up living on the streets because they have nowhere else to go. Many look down on them as merely a nuisance, but thankfully there are a few government-funded projects in cities like Recife that at least make an effort to reach out to them and help them. My experience involved one such project in Recife, of which I was graciously allowed to participate in for one day. That day is forever etched in my memory.

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Google images

I can still see her bewitching brown eyes, like orbs of chocolate, staring up at me out of a pixie-like face. They captured me, embraced me, the first time my own eyes fell on her hungry, slight figure. There she stood, a dark-skinned waif, with a mess of springy, brown curls sprouting from her head, clad in red shorts and a dirty white tee-shirt much too big for her, and possessing a smile whose width and radiance outshone every other grin in the room. Which was a remarkable feat, for she had some stiff competition.

Google images

As soon as I entered that dusty, colorful room above Rua Bom Jesus, one sultry afternoon last year, I was thrust into a throng of beautiful, brown-skinned ragamuffins, all wearing the same white tee-shirts and red shorts, and all vying for my attention at once–touching me, wrapping their arms around me, and peppering me with questions in Portuguese. It was an overwhelming, dizzying experience. I had only read about the heart-wrenching stories of Brazil’s homeless street kids–kids whose lives were devoid of love, poverty-stricken, and exponentially removed from my own life of wealth and ease. This was my first real face-to-face encounter with the meninos de rua and abandonados. Within only a few minutes of stepping into that room, my heart had been attacked, laid seige to, and had most willingly surrendered to the enchanting spell these lovely creatures had wound about me. There was no point in resisting…not when sparkling, dark eyes looked up into yours, or smooth, brown little arms slid around your neck, or eager, love-starved countenances begged you to notice them. But it was that one tiny waif, with the larger-than-life smile, who wove and spun the deepest and most endearing magic within my soul.

Google images

Her name was Nataliane. The very uniqueness and exotic beauty of her name arrested my attention immediately. Its pronunciation–”Nah-TAHL-ee-ah-nee”–rolled off the tongue in a delightfully addictive fashion. She was one of the first to enclose me in her slim arms, and apparently that initial hug was enough for her to decide I was a kindred spirit. For the rest of that afternoon, she rarely left my side. I had the privilege of joining her, and her fellow street friends, on an outing to a nearby amusement park. This exciting treat was made possible by workers and volunteers for the government-funded project that also fed the children, clothed them, bathed them, and gave them that dusty, colorful flat to go to during the day. On this particular day, I was a “guest volunteer.” And this “guest volunteer” had little Nataliane’s hand in hers, or little Nataliane’s arm around her waist as we boarded the bus…as we got off the bus…as we stood in line in the sweltering sun outside the park…and as we rushed in great excitement from one ride to another within the park.  She became my shadow, my sidekick, my new amiga. She was also a vivacious package of insatiable curiosity, her mind a-whirl with questions of every sort–all of which tumbled from her pretty, wide mouth in such rapid Portuguese that I often struggled to comprehend her. And every question that she uttered was preceded by “Tia,” her affectionate appellation for me–a word that literally means “aunt.”

“Tia…how old are you? Tia, tia…where do you live? Tia…do you have children? Tia…do you like Brazil? Tia, tia…what is America like? Tia, tia..” On and on her childish voice would trip. But I never tired of it. I never tired of her. Her sweet presence was soothing, her joyful, effervescent personality was like a burst of literal sunshine. And every time she clasped me in her arms and gazed up at me with those love-hungry eyes, something inside me churned, slid, and completely caved in. I could not help but fall under her spell.

As the sun sank in the western sky, hastening in shadows and cool breezes, it signaled the close of our day at the park. I boarded the bus once again, surrounded by thirty-some sopping, shivering, and bedraggled children, whose last joy-filled event of the day had been the water ride. My heart was laden with ambivalent feelings: immense happiness from an unforgettable day, but also sorrow from the knowledge that the next morning I would be on a plane headed for the US, and that I would never see any of these amazing meninos again. Throughout the day Nataliane had gazed up at me with her mesmerizing eyes and asked me if she would see me amanha–or, “tomorrow.” And every time I had tried to explain to her, no, I would not, for I was going home, far away from Brazil. She didn’t understand. Foot-sore and sun-burnt, I sank down gratefully into my seat on the bus, and Nataliane climbed into my lap. She was soaking wet. But I didn’t care. I wrapped my arms around her thin, shivering body, clutching her close, as she laid her tired head on my shoulder. At last too weary to speak, she was content to rest silently in my arms. I stroked her soft, brown little curls, my heart breaking to pieces inside. I wanted to hang on to this precious moment–this beautiful, magical child–and never let them go. But it was all slipping…slipping away so fast. She…this dirty, wet, disheveled, and radiant little creature…was slipping away from me. And she didn’t even realize it. But I knew, for her sake, it was better that way.

By the time our bus reached the flat on Rua Bom Jesus, only a handful of children–Nataliane included–remained. The rest had been dropped off at their usual “spots” around the city. The kids were given an evening snack, and then it was time for goodbyes. I squeezed Nataliane as hard as I dared, my eyes glistening with tears.

“Tchau, minha amiga…tchau,” I said to her. She gave me several beijos (kisses), and I returned them. Her eyes latched onto mine, as that luminous smile adorned her face, spreading from cheek to cheek. There were no tears in her eyes–just innocence, unconcern, and a deep well of warmth. After all, she was sure, so sure, she would see me amanha.

“Tchau, Tia,” she said cheerfully. “Ate logo.”

“Ate logo,” I replied quietly.

Google images

I walked with her and her remaining companions out onto the cobblestone road, whose surface gleamed beneath the golden haze of the streetlights. I watched as she and her friends skipped on ahead, into the shadows, their musical speech, punctuated by laughter, echoing off the stone and concrete. As the dimness beyond the lights began to shroud their slender silhouettes, I realized they were slipping into shadows and darkness far more frightening than the literal ones that encompassed them. The ache in my chest suddenly felt like a tight knot. How could I leave her? My little Nataliane would have no pillow beneath her curly head that night, no loving parents to kiss and hold her, no one to tell her she deserved a better life. I wanted to sweep her light frame into my arms, to whisk her away from all the danger and heartache. But I knew I couldn’t. My only comfort lay in the fact that, for one memorable afternoon, I had done a small part to improve her impoverished life, to bestow love into her love-less universe. And she, with her buoyant spirit and freely-given affection, had touched my life immeasurably.

As the gloom gathered about her little figure diminishing in the distance, Nataliane turned around, and her sparkling, chocolate eyes caught mine one last time. She waved at me enthusiastically, her smile shining like a beacon in the blackness around her. I waved back, trying to ignore the tight squeezing in my chest.

“Tchau, sweetheart,” I whispered. “And may God be with you…”

The darkness then swallowed up her waifish form. But the image that will remain with me forever simply contains that gorgeous smile, and those eyes…those big, brown eyes that grabbed my heart, and still won’t let it go…

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The Brazil diaries, part 6

10/3/05  Why do I have to leave? I’m going to be heartbroken when I get on that plane. Bawling.

The last few days have just made it even clearer to me how precious every moment is, how much I’ll be leaving behind Friday night. S., L., and I had a fun time learning more maracatu drumming from P. If I had the money, I’d seriously take real lessons, for it’s so much fun. After our complimentary lessons, P., we girls, and another “amigo,” a sweet guy named C., went to a cute little restaurant for some drinks, and we had the best time together. Much laughter. I love P. He’s this short, muscular black guy, who’s bursting with energy and good humor. He loves to have a good time, and is very, very affectionate with all the ladies. You can’t be around him and not have a smile on your face.

I also had a wonderful time last night. Our lovely older guy friend V. was at the drumming on Alto da Se again. He’s a sweetheart. He greeted L., S., and I with warmth and delight. C. was also there. Once again, I just got so swept up in the atmosphere of Sunday night’s street party. Being with all those Brazilians, listening to the amazing drumming, holding hands with them while dancing in a circle, seeing joy on everyone’s faces–it just made me feel so alive. Incredibly, wonderfully alive. And that’s one of the things I will miss so much when I go home. Back to staleness, back to cold, blank stares, back to lives being lived half-heartedly. No dancing, no music, no kisses on the cheek. Just another reason why I know I will cry when I leave here.

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10/18/05  I never had a chance to finish chronicling my last days in Brazil. Things got so busy.

I am now home, in the US. But I know I must record the happenings of my last week in Brazil, before they disappear from my memory. Monday was my next-to-last day at the school with the kids. I was joined by a new volunteer, a young Englishwoman named H., who was to take my place. At the bell for their 30-minute break at 3:30, I was told by Prof. S., the English teacher, that some of the kids had prepared a surprise for me. He led me (and H.) down to the first floor, and to the door of another classroom. When he opened it, I was greeted by several of my favorite students shouting and running to hug me. Music was blaring from a boombox in the corner, there were balloons taped to the blackboard, drinks and cake and treats were set out on a table, and on the blackboard was drawn a heart with the words “Para A.” inside it, and beside it, the signatures of the students. I nearly cried. It was so touching. I hugged the kids over and over, while thanking them over and over. I was so appreciative of their beautiful, heartfelt gesture.

Before I left that day, I got many, many hugs from students. Some thought it was my last day, so I had to explain to them I would be back one more day, and  I would say goodbye then. My last day there was not a normal school day. They instead had an assembly-type gathering of the students in the downstairs courtyard. The students were to present their projects about health, sanitation, and the environment. Much to my surprise, Prof. S. got me and H. to join him and the other teachers up on the podium in front of the students. What’s more, in the middle of their presentations, the microphone was thrust into my hands, and I was asked to say some words to the students, since I was leaving. I, of course, was totally unprepared for this, but strangely enough, once I stood there in front of all those students, many of whom I’d come to care deeply about, it wasn’t difficult to think of anything to say. My heart spoke for me, and it spoke entirely in Portuguese. I told them how important they were to me, that I cared about them, would never forget them, and thanked them for the time I got to share with them. At my words, they cheered and clapped loudly.

I was so overwhelmed. After came the hardest part–leaving. I was surrounded by children–some of them I had never even seen before–who kept hugging me and wanting their picture taken with me. Finally I was able to walk out the front gate with Prof. S. and H., but only with a heavy, heavy heart and many glances and waves back. Would I ever see those beautiful children again? I wondered. I told them I would try to come back and visit, and I said it truly meaning it. I got the school’s mailing address from Prof. S., so I fully intend to at least keep in touch. [I did keep in touch via e-mail with the teacher Prof. S. for a while, and two years later, in 2007, I went back to the school on another visit to Olinda, Brazil, but the school was closed due to Carnival.]

After leaving the school, Prof. S. walked with H. and I to A.’s house [A. was another teacher], who happened to live nearby. A. had a little farewell “party” for me, with Prof. S. and some of the other teachers. It was so touching. Both A. and Prof. S. gave me gifts–A. gave me a CD of Brazilian music, and Prof. S. gave me a journal. Then they walked with me and H. to the bus stop, and when the bus came a few minutes later, it was with much sadness that I hugged and kissed each of them goodbye. A. actually sniffed me–my first real Brazilian “sniff.” [This is an interesting custom among some Brazilians.] And he told me the sweetest thing afterwards–he told me I smelled good, and that smelling good meant that I was a “good person.” Bad people, he said, smelled bad.

And that was my very last day in Tabajara. With a heavy heart I left all my wonderful friends–teachers and students–behind.

L. just sent me an e-mail today that made me cry. She said she hung out with our Brazilian “gang” of friends Sunday night and that they all missed me very much. She said V., in particular, had some very nice things to say about me. I was so touched. And she also mentioned that W., believe it or not, would not shut up about me.