Stand

            It’s amazing the difference one movie can make. I must confess I’m tired, no, more, worn to the fraying thread that still wraps itself around and around and around its duties, taking strength from the circles habit creates. Apathetic, carrying on for no more reason than that I had too, I decided to put in a movie while doing dishes (I was so tired I didn’t enjoy that-those who know me will understand how tired—not physically—I was, that I did not enjoy that!). I had a movie from Netflix, in the customary red paper sleeve, sitting on my sewing table downstairs, and I must send it back soon so that Dad can get his disk (War and Remembrance….or Winds of War, I forget which one, a documentary on WWI).  It wasMr. Smith Goes to Washington.

             I had never seen it before. I confess, as emotionally tired as I was, I wanted no surprises, and had heard the basic storyline before, so I looked up a short plot summary (from the curse of the English teacher’s life, Wikipedia); I debated, then put it in. I bleached the counters, loaded the dishwasher while the opening played on, the first few black-and-white scenes took place on the screen of my silver Mac sitting on the counter. But when it came time to turn the faucet, and I could not hear, I paused the movie. Those done, I turned it back on while I straightened up. Dad came in (wearing his navy blue work sweatshirt with the WaterWorks Logo), paused by the tortilla chips on the counter, and watched it with me. Soon I was caught; we moved to the living room couch. We paused; my mother and a sister came in, sat down and ate their supper; my dad and I watched on. My youngest sister got back; the viewers paused while my dad went to unload the new carpet from the Mini Cooper. Mom had to practice the piano for church; we moved the movie to the actual TV. I watched as the idealist was framed, defeated, gave up, grew cynical. My mother joined my dad and me.

               And then I watched the climax. I watched as he fought, virtually alone; I watched as he stood for twenty-three hours (so we’re told) and sixteen minutes, reading of freedom and equality, idealism and justice and the way they play out; I heard as freedom of speech grew ridiculous and yet saved innocence and started to crack a greedy Taylor-made machine; I watched idealism refuse to give up. I cheered and begged and waited for Jeff to win, wound up in a story. I danced inside as he did, as wrong was made right (when Aslan comes in sight—sorry, couldn’t resist putting that in), as freedom and truth triumphed! And then I waited for reality to sink in again, but even as it did, I realized a fire had been lit again, and apathy had vanished. For I had watched him stand, alone (save for a person who could only signal help), stand, and stand, and stand, and stand, and speak, for so long. I watched him refuse and refuse and refuse to give up. I had seen perseverance, and it made my soul dance; I had seen why he stood—for impossible causes and people who couldn’t stand for themselves; I saw him stand whether others stood with him or not. I would make a horrible Jefferson Smith, I admit—I would do better as his helper in the stands—but, somehow, seeing perseverance, even without it’s triumph, reminded me what it was. Twenty-three hours? Can I not stand for twenty-three hours? More, can I not do my best for thirteen months, without giving up, without focusing on the odds, for no other reason that it is good to do so? (For My Lord loves my best work, not less). And can I do so without fixing on the end in sight, but focusing instead with delight in the challenge, in meeting the challenge by his strength, in standing and standing and standing without giving up, no matter the task or the odds? For standing means no giving up, it embodies perseverance and commitment and decision and conviction.

             “I’ll stand, with arms high and heart abandoned, in awe of the one who gave it all”—I will stand with perseverance, and with the delight gifted to me in challenge and impossibilities and in the daily, daily, unending daily tasks, standing as one in the kingdom, challenged with the impossible task of living like Christ—and I will stand with a fire burning inside that grants me a smile of pure joy in this task. For the task is beautiful, and My Lord grants the strength, day by day, to stand!

Lament for Motivation

I am on facebook, scrolling down,

looking around on blue and white, to avoid

Homework. I have zero energy

to write my critique, no motivation

to depict details in poetic prose.

My friends stati, discussing syllabi, over

and over and over and over and over

speak of finals and failure, groaning,

words of work without sleep and

wishful winks; they maul motivation.

Energy has vanished, vanquished by

Professors and work, piled ten lists

high. Christmas break, 168 hours hence,

has excitement, needs no energy,

Till then I mourn my missing motivation.

Mockery Turned Prayer

      The funeral was today, the funeral I did not end up going to--it was family gathering, and I was not family, only a distant friend. So I stayed home and did homework (most of it is done), and watched the 1960s Robin Hood, something that made me laugh with delight. I had one more, on the disk, one more twenty minute laughing, dancing, joyous session, and God said no, I think. So I prayed for help, and picked up my homework, exited out of the DVD on my computer.
    And I worked, and played on Facebook, and then, gradually, heard my mother talking to my pastor. My younger sister, one of them, is cutting herself again, and a razor is downstairs in her bedroom. Mom's trying to help, but my sister lies, a lot, and my mother says use has no idea when my sister is telling the truth or not; my sister says she wants to stop cutting, but cannot give the reason for the temptation, and only comes to seek help after she has already been cutting.
   This same sister who helps a family with a newborn with half a heart, giving three or four night a week, till ten at night, babysitting, cleaning, and working and playing with them. My sister who is going to the funeral, for she is a close friend, close to family, my sister who is getting great grades in her overloaded high school load (two more classes than should be possible), my sister who loves fun and friends, my sister who does not open up to anyone I know.
   And thus my laughter turned to mockery, at the true grief of a broken world; my laughter was illusion, my laughter was made of the dreams that should inspire, not replace, reality. And with my laughter gone I sit and wonder what I should do, for I am not let into my sister's mind and heart even less than my mother is. I am okay with an empty mouth, and stricken heart, because I will the focus not to be on me, but on my sister's blood running down her skin, and on the dark that's at the root of it--and I ask for God's eyes to see and heal and strike and hold.
    I turned my music up, wondering if my mother's conversation was mine to hear, wondering if I should close the door, knowing that it will be harder to consistently pray for my sister otherwise, wondering if my sister does not want me to know, knowing that she doesn't want me to mention it, knowing that our family loves to hide. "For such a time as this, I placed upon upon the earth, to hear the voice of God, and do His will, whatever it is" my music is singing--and I cannot hear, and I do not know what to do, but pray.
     God, I have knelt in front of you so may times, asking for help, begging and crumbling and pleading sobbing, curled around my knees as I try to pray through pain and rebellion...Father, I have knelt to beg for others, my heart speechless and bewildered by the pain I see. God, it's like that now--for her, please, oh God, for her! For a daughter of yours that you love, who you have promised is more than a conqueror in Christ, who acts as your hands and feet, who is an immortal soul walking wounded, who might laugh at my language, who I cannot see into--who is not hidden from your eyes. God, send your help, God, only you, you, King of Kings and God of Spirit, Creator of Flesh and physical reality, who has complete knowledge of how they intertwine and and depend on each other, who knows her, God, and who knows the battles she faces, and the retreats, the failures, the temptations, the sin that covers her life (and mine, every sinful child of yours), who knows the end of us, the victory already won, and who knows that we have such trouble seeing it, God, for her, grant her eyes will see the truth, and that the truth will set her free, that grief and pain and disappointment and temptation, anything, Father, anything, are interwoven in a plan that would leave her breathless if she could see it, if she could see how you weep over your children's marks and scars and disease. God, grant her will to act as your child, God, coming back after giving in is so hard, and I'm fallen, I know that, I've fallen so hard right now (listening to Could You Believe), and it is so hard to climb back up that mountain when I can't see the top, when I have to take on faith that it exists, when I'm not even sure I can imagine what it looks like, when I could be content right now with rest and freedom from sin in my own world...God, forgive my small dreams, please, grant all of your children in this house the passion and steady, light-bringing fire that burns away the dark and the lies, that makes us faithful, that grants us strength. God, place, for my sister, for my sister, for your daughter, for the child I have not prayed for as I ought, for the woman you are even now creating, for the warrior turned wounded, for the promises you have given her--because of your own faithfulness and righteousness, God, grant her the freedom only found you. (Empty My Hands)
     God, please, grant me to act your will in this, for all that I do not know if I know how to listen, for all the fear crowding me, for all the things that I have done wrong--even so, use me, Lord, as your child and your servant. Teach my sister and I both, through you using us, through transforming the valley of curses to the door of hope as Gomer/Israel did/will, that we also are changed. Please, Father, in the name of Christ, I ask this, amen.

Shut or Open

The emotional state of this post is pretty much summed up in Josh Wilson's song "See You."And it's honest. I wrote it in my electronic diary, and it's

     I wanted to sit on the floor, resting my head on my arms, wrapping them around my knees.

I wanted to shut my eyes and ears, and by doing so shut my heart off as well. I had excuses; hadn't I had enough? Today, hadn't I done enough, endured enough, wasn't it time to consider myself now? My head buried in myself, perhaps I could forget the callers who bullied me for over half an hour today, making my hands shake with helplessness and frustration as I kept my voice polite, perhaps I could forget that I called Jane and something else was wrong, or at least complicated, that I wanted to pour my heart out to God for her and didn't have the words; perhaps I could forget that Joy Brace was in hospice dying. I could forget the two kids, teenagers, my friends, losing their mother; their father losing his wife. God, why?

    Or perhaps I could finally let myself cry, the dam breaking and relieving pressure on a swollen, bruised heart. I had wanted, earlier, to bury my head in his shoulder, my body shaking with grief, his arms holding me up, till I took a sobbing breath and looked up into his eyes, and my backbone would straighten and I would stand tall, head high, and he would take my hand and I would gain his strength and he leading, I would have his wisdom, and we would go fight against these things that were wrong...instead I had only prayer, and my doubts hammered my mind and caused me to stumble, fumble, fall, feeling lost and helpless all over again. What good could my prayer possibly do? I asking this, I, who had seen so many prayers answered.

   And if I shut my eyes I wouldn't see the dishes that needed to be done, my nose buried in my knees couldn't smell the trash stinking, smelling of rotten onions and potatoes, the latter stronger than the former. I couldn't hear my father's low voice, telling my sister to give up her dreams as he listed the reasons, the concerns he has for the college she has chosen, when she has rejected all others. I wouldn't have to ache inside as I thought of her contained reaction that she will share with no one I know, if she shares it with anyone at all. 

   All of this, from today--mixed with homework and work and paying off loans and errands to the grocery store and library for a moment, Little Caesar's for supper tonight, since Lit'ling is sick, so it will just be Mom and I.

    But if I shut my eyes and ears and heart I would not have heard Mom talk about how she is drowning in the cesspool (her words) that she works in, where "Jesus Christ!" is said in every other sentence, where people are patted on the back for flagrant sin, would not have showed her a song God had recently showed me, would not have seen her smile light up her face when she told me that she was glad I was home, would not have been able to help her grade her homework while she is so swamped (only two weeks left, or a week and a half!). I might not have made Meghan laugh. I would not have stood in the parking lot with Evlijana and heard her say that I do not treat her second class, and that she would pray to God that I would get what I want--and that all she wants is to become full-time at Hy-Vee grocery store. I might not have seen Andrew, or the lady in the hallway as glorious immortal beings who live in a spiritual world as well as one where people call on the phone and yell at them, or say thank you, might not have been given that gift.

    So I went and did dishes, and then opened my heart onto a blank electronic form, wondering, asking who I should share it with, if it will (as the other seventeen pieces have) stay hidden.

   And then I got a text from a friend asking if now was a good time to call.

   God, help me as I share. In the name of Christ, I ask this--and I ask for Joy, for her children and family, for Janette, for Evlijana, and for Lorien, my sister, Father please, thy will be done, may thy kingdom come, and may they please be yours!

And this was my day.

A Family Past-time

I hold in hand
a piece of a puzzle, one-thousandth part of a picture,
On the piece are pictures of books.

There are seven workers, pressing together,
Heat radiates around the table
As we work in tandem.

I reach over
to put the piece in place, around many hands,
my sisters' excited hands, my mother's careful hands, my grandpa's old hands.

I think, "Shaping my life
Are as many hands, and
There are many books,

But I wonder,
if
I saw my life
would it be as pretty a picture?"

The piece fits perfectly.
And my family praises me,
Their hands stopping for a moment as they smile.

A Night of Tears

If you found me now

Knees drawn up, on the floor

You would see

Teartracks

Salty, dry, riverbeds

Of sorrow.

But you couldn’t see them,

Because I’m in the dark.

Sometimes I wonder

Why

God doesn’t send someone

To turn on the light,

Maybe sit beside me

Then I remember

He is here.

Reflections: Tied to Time

"You may suppose me, for the sake of argument, sitting at lunch in one of those quick-lunch restaurants in the City where men take their food so fast that it has none of the quality of food, and take their half hour's vacation so fast that it has none of the qualities of leisure; to hurry through one's leisure is the most unbusinesslike of actions. They all wore tall shiny hats as if they could not lose an instant even to hang them on a peg, and they all had one eye a little off, hypnotized by the huge eye of the clock. In short, they were the slaves of the modern bondage, you could hear their fetters clanking. Each was, in fact, bound by a chain; the heaviest chain ever tied to a man - it is called a watch chain"
          -G. K. Chesterton, "A Somewhat Improbable Story"

(To be worked on till it's better)

It rules my life, this timeless thing,
It sits above, mutely saying
When I should work, when I am done,
As numbered lists, they come and come.

It shows a different face; to you
It's white or grey or green or blue.
Here mine glows red, clear-cut, defined,
Or there, on screen, black shapes mime time.

The marks that sit upon its face,
They change until I am released;
I watch, and watch, and glance, and check,
"How much is left?" "Am I done yet?"

All that you do, do for Him
Who made all things, including time.



    The weeks flash by; it's Friday already? But yesterday was Monday or the day before that...the weeks disappear, and the months quickly follow.
    It's the minutes that crawl haltingly by as I'm working, sometimes stopping altogether when I'm doing nothing - though they run too quickly to catch sight of when I'm home.
    The boundaries times creates are hard, and only broken with consequences; in bed at 9:30, break time of 15 minutes, half-hour lunches, 8 hours of work. The clock relentlessly ticks forward, or changes its numbers with strict and precise regularity. 24 hours (or 12), 60 minutes, 60 seconds.
    Why am I so bound by time? yet before this life (of work and homework) I was bound by deadlines, as immovable (most times) as the hands of clock ticking off work hours.
    I, immortal spirit, prone to laziness, self-glorification, contemplation of beauty, curiosity, and activity, am bound by arbitrary markings men created to measure a concept of God's. I do not rebel against, understand (hardly at all), only marvel at it. What would we be if not bound by man's markings of time? Much lazier (at least in my case), but I wonder if I would see more, if I was not so focused on whatever this clearly cut-out block of time is appointed to?

I edited the poem, and this is what I worked on:

It rules my life, a timeless device,

It sits overhead, commands mutely precise—

Now I should work, now I clock in,

Dictating deadlines, forms to begin.

Its faces so diverse; to you

It's white or grey, green or blue.

Here mine glows red, clear shapes, defined,

Or there, on screen, black forms mime time.

The marks that sit upon its face,

They change until I am released;

I watch, and watch, and glance, and check,

"How much is left?" "Am I done yet?"

I walk outside, breath a sigh,

All time’s authority withers and dies

Till tomorrow, I am free—

But no, time rules; doubly

Precious are the minutes now

Till time again tolls toil’s tedious hour.

Outpouring of a Perfectionist

      I feel it as a thread, a band, a strong ribbon similar to an ace bandage, winding itself around and around and around my heart and spirit and mind. I'm accustomed to it, so it is not uncomfortable accept in the muscles overlaying my shoulder blades, which tighten a bit more than I like; but most often I'm too involved in life to notice.

    It's called "tension," a gift and a curse. It is energy, this tension, fueling adrenaline through the body, forcing laziness and sleepiness far away. The winding contains the spirit against falling, keeps it upright. As a perfectionist the tension gives the energy for this constant, non-stop evaluation, not of myself against others (pride does that often enough, anyway, far too often), but of what I have done against what I could do. I am my own worst critic, for I do not critic how well it is done, but what it could have been, and that measurement is too often harsh. Tension fuels it, the band increasing in tension around the heart whenever I find the evaluation scoring too low. 

    There are things that crack it and things that shatter it, two opposite things. Criticism and failure can shatter the tension, when it has been wound too tight, causing a breakdown (often tears of frustration, curled up on the floor of my room). But what cracks it, loosens the bonds, is praise.

   I felt it yesterday, working at the counter for customer service, wound too tight (I had made several mistakes earlier that day, when I was covering Lorien's shift up front; most often I am behind the counter, not the cash register, and my memory had failed a few times, worse, during the busy times, for I had been rushed and had caused a backup of customer's with my mistakes...now I was behind the counter for my shift, and doing better, but the tension still lingered, enhanced by the rushed schedule of the entire day, for my paper was due that night, the paper worth 60 percent of my grade). A lady came up, and thanked me for being so cheerful, for smiling, for taking extra effort. I looked down and thanked her, but inside I felt the bands crack, loosening their hold. When I am told I have done well unexpectedly, when I'm given extra praise from someone I don't expect, the tension weakens, unwinds a bit, and there is release, for the tension gives energy but constrains happiness and enjoyment of life.

    A task done, too, releases tension, but it unwinds completely, and I just want to cry for the energy and support are gone. My paper was finished at 11:37 last night (I was up till midnight the night before, as well); my entire life this past week has thrown off my sleeping schedule, for this paper haunted every hour, and the closer it got to the due date (with so little done) the more the tension increased. Now it's done and, while outwardly calm (except when alone, where God grants me the ability to cry), a debate is attacking each side within me. 

    I will be doing this once a month; two weeks of (relative only) ease, one week where it's harder, taking on extra work to try to make the fourth week easier, and the fourth week where I wind the tension so tight, where I make this band so hard and stiff and regimented, to refuse any attempts at escape (other than breaks to "watch" [often just listening to] Rurouni Kenshin or Numb3rs or Thumbelina or Tangled or High School Musical [one]...yes, I have random taste in movies :). I've talked with a friend about how tightly I'm wound, and she told me honestly that she's surprised I haven't had a nervous breakdown yet. I watch for that, attempting to take steps to release tension (I'll probably go play with legos this afternoon, or superglue the wings back onto my dragon, building and repairing are lovely releases), attempting to be healthy, but I can't help but wonder: what am I doing? Should I be going through something that takes so much once a month (one week in four is a pretty big time chunk, especially when the others are only relatively easy). But then, I've only done this 4th week twice; surely it will get better with practice? But niggling in the back of my mind is the thought that usually if I am thinking about quitting, it's past time to quit. I wondered if I should go home sick; I walk into the office and my boss tells me to go home (kindly and compassionately) before I get three words out; I think I should perhaps go to bed and a chorus from my friends rings out of relief and agreement; they knew it long ago. But I'm not seriously thinking about quitting; I'm only wondering if I should. And I'm splitting hairs in the process of doing so, most likely because I'm thinking about it while I'm exhausted. I need to start praying for direction--for while I could do this (and do it well, pleasing to a perfect God and a perfectionist person [two very different things], and in a healthy manner) with God's help, I cannot do it at all without Him, and I need to know what He wishes me to do.

   One more thought on perfectionism, to end this very long post. I watched clips of The Last Samurai for my paper, and heard this: "I continue to live among this unusual people. I am their captive and [...] Everyone is polite. Everyone smiles and bows, but beneath their courtesy I detect a deep reservoir of feeling. They are an intriguing people. From the moment they wake, they devote themselves to the perfection of whatever they pursue. [A man polishes a sword, a boy shoots a bow with care, patience, and deep intent attention.] I have never seen such discipline. I am surprised to learn that the word Samaria means 'to serve'" Their perfectionism had no tension, only passion, for they did not limit the time they spent to it. It was a lifelong devotion, not a task; it was something to love as well as something to seek perfection in. Their pursuit is patient as well as determined. Just something to think about--and to contrast to my own pursuit, where I would love to have perfection now, and I do not love the journey there.

The Purpose of a Plane

Sometimes I think life is like a plane flying.

            Tell me, what is a plane primarily made for? For flying, of course! Every plane is made for flying , for leaving the pavement, defying gravity, and soaring about the ground. Some are made for speed, some to carry people, some to transport large items, some for the sheer joy of traveling through the air—but all are made to fly.

But have you ever felt a plane take off? The energy it takes to get of the ground, going faster and faster and faster, the engine growing louder and louder, until finally the front wheels leave the ground, then the back wheels, and it’s going up, and farther up, till it is flying. There’s a brief moment when gravity releases its hold, and the passengers’ stomachs drop—and then gravity takes hold again, and the plane strains to go ever higher against its pull.

When a plane is doing what it is made for the engine is running hard, the metal body strains against the ever-insistent pull of gravity, and the wings tilt and shake to rise above every buffet of wind. Doing what it’s made for, fulfilling its purpose, takes all the skill and strength the plane was created with.

Sometimes I think life is like a plane flying.

Off the Beaten Path

    I looked down the road in the warm August day (unusual in Iowa), and walked. They pavement was a uniform darker grey, with random cracks creating small boxes or wandering lines; some were filled with black. I walked down the road and felt the pavement beneath my feet, dry, dust along the lines. I looked at the restrictions, those carefully molded concrete walls, chips cracking the even line along the top, called "curbs." I thought about what they symbolized, a border meant to keep me safe, to keep me on the road.
    What would happen if I stepped over them? The decision is hard; the action is not. Up a slight step and I am in the dying grass. I walk on the other side of the border, wondering why others don't join me; but of course I know. The freedom of the grass carries with it broken branches, their small stubs jabbing into my heels, plants that grow thorns, spikier than ever now that August is here and they're dead, and holes where I twist my ankles. I don't blame you for preferring the road. But I love the grass.
     But I don't stray very far; I stay within a few feet of the road (the restriction means nothing to me now). I wonder why--why don't I go farther away, leave the road altogether? Perhaps I don't have the strength, the wisdom (or common sense), to go that far out, to leave the road so far behind I can deal with mountains, fences, boulders and waterfalls. I only have the common sense to stay within a few feet of the road so when I fall I can go back to safety--for a while.
    Sometimes I like to think it is the people, the ones still on the road, that keep me there; I want to be within talking distance of them, within reach of their journey. I want to help them up on the grass when they want to come, and walk with them for a while when they leave it. Sometimes I even walk across the road to the other side. But even then I'm not one of the ones on the road, for they keep their eyes on the end of the road, or their feet--I'm looking at the other side and going sideways.
    Sideways can be fun--or lonely--but isn't it interesting that God made people who like to go off the beaten path?
    (then again, this could all be in my head as self-magnification)

Brilliant Fire

       "John Adams was [...] a great-hearted, persevering man of uncommon ability and force. He had a brilliant mind. He was honest and everyone knew it. emphatically independent by nature, hardworking, frugal--all traits in the New England tradition--he was anything but cold or laconic as supposedly New Englanders were. He could be high-spirited and affectionate, vain, cranky, impetuous, self-absorbed, and fiercely stubborn; passionate, quick to anger, and all-forgiving; generous and entertaining. He was blessed with great courage and good humor, yet subject to spells of despair, and especially when separated from his family or during period of prolonged inactivity" (18-19 John Adams).
    Sometimes it's good to remember that our heroes are human. But I'm finding, more and more, that most heroes--real heroes with perseverance, courage, and humility, yet who create a great change (the last is not necessary to being a hero) have a passionate personality and a great deal of stubbornness. They're people who give and give and give, past the point of sanity sometimes...no, I don't want to be a hero. But I love them, I love them very, very much, and I would love to be able to give to the heroes who give so much of themselves.
     I think that's why I'm not bothered by how much I want to live near heroes and associate often with them--because I don't think most of it is a desire for my own glory, I think, perhaps, possibly, I just want to be near what I love, and give to what I love...and instead I'm withdrawing more and more into myself, pouring most of my limited resources of energy, money, intellect, and time into a quantifiably common-sensical move that is ultimately also a selfish one. I work to pay for grad school to get a degree. My grad school career will benefit, perhaps, in the long run, future students I might have, but I wonder, sometimes, if the sacrifice of me withdrawing is worth it. The honest part of me forces me to acknowledge that I still do some things for Mom, and that I can try in very small, few and far-between ways to make Lorien's and Kayren's life easier...and I pray for many people, with regularity...and I talk to a few of them often...ok, yes, not totally withdrawn, but I struggle with the contrast between what I could be doing, at church and at missions in Des Moines with how much I don't do, now.
    But compare that with what I love, with the people I want to be near...granted, John Adams had a law degree, William Wilberforce was educated, what's his name (I remember him so clearly, but not his name) in Faith Like Potatoes lived his life dedicating so much time to his farm...but even with that, they still managed to change and touch so many people, to effect great changes in the places where they lived.  And I? I just want to go overseas--spend five years here, ten-to-fifteen there, and then five years here...and then come back. Why do I want that? Well, because I want to teach, and I want to see and live in another culture...and yes, I know they need English teachers over there, but aren't my main reasons ultimately selfish?
     I think--no, not I think.
     I want a cause, I want to have the same brilliant fire and passion that lit up their faces mirrored in mine, whether I change something or not--I want something I can give absolutely everything to. I want to be around people where their fire can burn with mine; I want to see the brilliance of selfless passion burning and encouraging and changing things--agape love, which stops at nothing and holds back nothing and acts with wisdom and passion. (Can you tell our sermon this morning was on love? :) Romans 12. And it was very good--love is a choice, based on the biblical definition, for God choses to love people; it is not inspired by anything they do, nothing but his own promises, and that love moves Him to action again and again.) The honest part of me once again reminds me of times, times I've been called a saint (left me flabbergasted, the first time it happened), times I was told how much I'd done for toehrs...times I had changed something. Times when I think perhaps that brilliant, burning, bright fire was in my own heart, and reaching out through my two hands and doing what I could not...but not anymore.
     Now I sit and type on keyboard and take calls and type some more and read Diary of a Madman/Cheering From the Sidelines and wonder what on earth I'm doing, and why...but isn't that choice in the hands of God? Do I believe he led me here? (Yes, I cannot say no to that.) Do I believe he has a purpose for me here? Yes, of that I'm equally certain.
   Then trust Him.
    I will.
    And maybe some of that brilliant, agape fire will take hold here, and I'll see something change for the better, something change from a dark kingdom to God's.
Maybe sometime soon.
("loving a person just the way they are, that's no small thing" Sarah Groves Loving a Person)

Dead to Life

    I don't know.
    I was going to use this blog for two things--creative ideas/thoughts/stories, and times when I was struggling...and it's about time for the latter.
    I'm tired, I'm so tired, but I'm tired of being dead, of automatically responding to deep depression with emotional sedatives. Underneath those I'm fighting myself to feel, to think deeply, to do more than live on the surface, but my conscious mind shudders at how much that would hurt, at how hard that would be--and just letting depression live doesn't deal with the depression, only with the deadness. Especially since I'm self-reflective enough to know when I'm dead, and I can't shut my mind to that knowledge, or the knowledge that we weren't made to be dead, to live life only responding--small responses in thought and heart, in word and deed--to the things that happen to come our way; my mind goes to the "lukewarm" church in Revelation that was so bothersome to the Christ.
    But even more bothersome than that is the deadness I show to God; I do not know how to let Him lead, for how does one "lead" a dead person anywhere? Of course, by that example, I know that God can bring the dead back to life--and can help the once-dead person deal with life given--but what does God do with someone who regularly administers fatal doses of lethargy and apathy? Given my Revelation example, he spits them out.
   Ha. I just went to look them up, and before getting to them I read this (Rev. 2):
I know your works. You have the reputation of being alive, but you are dead. Wake up, and strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have not found your works complete in the sight of my God.  Remember, then, what you received and heard. Keep it, and repent. If you will not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what hour I will come against you. Yet you have still a few names in Sardis, people who have not soiled their garments, and they will walk with me in white, for they are worthy.

I guess God gives clear directions. Strengthen what remains? Through prayer, meditation on the works and wonders of God (such as this, His justice and His standard for His own, his inability to tolerate any sin or hypocrisy), through regular devotions...through not soiling my garments with sin, through the blood of Jesus to wash me white.
God help me, I trust you. In Christ, please, amen.

Written on the back of a piece of paper

    I was walking down a dusty road one day (the road was called Life, I believe) when I came a across a metal signpost. The gray post had only one sign, which pointed (rather shakily) into the uncertain distance; written in white, reflective letters was the word "Unsure." I looked down and sitting under the signpost was a girl, who'd been looking in a bewildered way in all directions. Now she stared at me.
    "Hullo," I said. "Who are you?"
    "I don't know," she said. "Who are you?"
    "Why--you're me!" I said in astonishment, for I saw she was.
    "No, I don't think so" said the girl under the signpost. "That is, I know you, but I'm not you."
    I looked at her curiously. "What do you mean?"
    "Well, look at you...you're walking along, going somewhere, somewhere important--and you want things, you know."
    "You don't?" I asked, sitting down beside her to get to know her better. She shifted to make room for me.
    "No--that is, I know I want to do things well, but not other than that, I don't want anything. And if you don't know what you want to do, wanting to do it well seems rather silly."
    "But surely if it doesn't matter what you do, you could do a hundred things and do them well!"
    "Oh no no no,"  she said quickly. "You see, I want it to make me happy. Or rather, make others better and happy, which comes down to the same thing, most times." Again she looked in every direction, searching again for something--perhaps something to want.
    "So--how do you know me?" I asked, to break that helpless silence.
    "Why, don't you know?" she said, startled. "You're what I used to be. And I'm what I am."
    I pondered that for a moment. "Do you wonder--I mean--what do you think we'll become?"
    Slowly, a big smile broke out on her face. "That's it," she said. "I wonder what we'll become."

Grant to me, that I may give

     "I have become all things to all people" (I Cor. 9.22). I have, unconsciously at first, taken this verse to be my life's motto...I think. I'm not sure it was voluntary, but when I look at my life and the motivations that dictate the majority of my actions, this about sums it up. Paul is speaking about changing situations--free to servant, becoming weak around the weak, etc, so that he might win people to the gospel.
    Add to that idea this quote: "Hitherto I have hated to be helped--to be led: henceforth, I feel I shall hate it no more" (Jane Eyre, chtr. 37). He hated to be helped until the one who helped him was one of his own, one whom he knew, and who knew him. 
   I would love to say that I have become all things to all people, to them close enough that I may give to them without imposing a debt. But so often I find that I cannot give something without having it first.
   This of course is obvious when it comes to material possessions; I can hardly give a couch I haven't got, nor could I give money I don't own (excepting special circumstances where I am entrusted with money to give...but then it's mine to give, all the same). But I could no more give my nonexistent couch than give wisdom that isn't mine. Or joy. 
    Tell me, what do we, the church, God's children, have to offer America? What has been granted to us that we may give back out?
   I look at my friends' lives, at mine, and I answer this: we have the strength to bear difficulty (yes, even in America). I could add love, as well, though perhaps not the wisdom to love well ("He loved not wisely but too well" Othello). But...what is it America wants?
   Wealth. Power. Fame. All these wrapped up: America wants to get what it wants, it wants granted wishes that end in happiness. It wants, really, a lasting happiness-joy. And for myself, if not for others, we have a hard time offering that, because we don't have it.
    And I don't really know why. But I'm praying, praying grant to me joy, your joy, that I may give it out, overflowing. In Christ's name, amen. 

Heroic Expectations

    Last night I did something one of the things that makes me question my own sanity: I stayed up till one in the morning. I did it for very good reasons: I wanted to spend time with my sister, the best way to do that is to have fun with her, and that only happens after she gets off work (nine thirty). I bought three dollars worth of candy (two Butterfingers, a Reeses, a KitKat, a Milkyway with carmel, and a package of M&Ms) and she bought a frosty, and we shared and watched the three-hour English TV-show-turned-movie Alice.  It was great fun, and I don't regret it, but as I was walking upstairs a thought struck me, as thoughts are apt to do at one in the morning if one is still up and full of sugar.

   The movie bothered me. Why? Well, I have no idea. It was fun, there was very little junk in it, and while the characters weren't-quite-believable, they were fun to watch. More, the idea of an economy being run completely by providing the people with pleasure to keep them happy while the government did as it likes hit rather close to home in a good way. But the characters, the two main characters...they were fun, yes, but...

   But heroes? Yes, the Hatter changes into one, arguably. But Alice--twas only when she saw two children being vanished that she acted; before then she had compassion but didn't act on it. Thinking back, most modern movies I've seen has only reluctant heroes, those who become heroes only after traumatic incidents that give them motivation that gradually changes to heroism, or those who only become heroes after dragging their feet for a very long two hours. And then, once they're heroes--I wonder if part of the reason so many sequels are so pathetic is because we, America, doesn't know what to do with real heroes once they're heroic--do we even know how they act or what they struggle with?

   And I looked at Alice last night and realized that for America, what makes a hero is someone who decides to act and risk themselves even though they don't have to. But my idea of a hero is something more, I think, for the expectation that someone would risk themselves for others--even others they don't know--is inherent in the idea of Christianity. We're called to risk scorn, persecution, and sometimes death to bring the gospel to others, others we don't know yet. We're supposed to love neighbors as ourselves (and we all know Jesus' definition of neighbors). Risking oneself for others isn't supposed to be grandly, stand-out heroic, it's supposed to be commonplace (though that doesn't make it less admirable). A hero, a real hero, does all he can with all he has out of selfless love and faces every trouble with perseverance--he doesn't give up. He does more for others than for himself. Yet do we (Americans again) expect that of our heroes? Do we expect them to live a life--not just an adventure--giving up everything for others? 

   I'm not sure that's a clear distinction, and I'm not sure it matters. But it did make me wonder--if Christ's expectations (love your neighbor as yourself) expand my view of what is heroic, what are heroes in heaven? If so much of the heroic qualities I see now are going to common (though beautiful and admirable), what is going to be uncommon? What in heaven will really stand out as heroic?

Catch or Kill a Fly

It was nine thirty, and I was going to bed. I'd been going to bed much later than that recently, and I was starting to feel it, so here I was.
   And here was the fly, the crazy, crazy, excited, disturbed fly. We'd opened our windows today, with the screens up, but still one had managed to get in, and it had chosen my bedroom to reside in. It buzzed around nonstop, hitting windows (but refusing to go out when I opened the window--it was apparently attracted to glass but not holes?), and being a noisy irritation. I refused to go to sleep with that noise (that small, small, noise), so I tried capturing it in glass, hitting at it with a rolled up envelope, or waiting till it calmed down (good luck with that one!). I must have looked quite mad, swinging an upside-down clear blue mug randomly through the air. (By the way--an excited fly is nearly invisible, it is so fast, even when you're in the same room as it!)
    But nothing worked, till at last I opened the screen and hoped it would fly it. It almost did, but came back in as I was reaching for glass to shut it, and I nearly yelled in frustration. Half an hour, a whole half hour had passed, with me chasing a fly. Chasing an irritation--nothing life threatening, not even a mosquito, which can bite as well as hum, no--this was a fly. I'd prayed about it, several times, asking for help, and here I was--I'd failed at shutting the window so I could get some sleep. I sat on the brown wood floor and waited, hoping it would try again and I would be fast enough. Instead of it flying out, a large brown beetle suddenly flew in, hit the wall, and fell between it and my desk. Really? I mean, really? I grabbed the envelope, used it to pick up the beetle, and threw the beetle out the window. I straightened up (windows are waist high when you open the bottom half), gave up and shut the window--and heard blessed silence as the noise of the crickets was cut off. I couldn't believe it. God had the fly leave when I didn't do anything? Awesome! I walked out the kitchen to put the can (also a tool for capturing the fly) back, and walked back to my room thanking Him for all sorts of things in my life--a clean scan a friend got back, John-Peter having the tubes taken out, a job, an interview another friend had about a job, etc. I laughed, and thanked Him for my life, my crazy, lovely life--and walked back in to hear a familiar buzzing.
     No. I sat down on my bed, took a mental breath, and asked, "ok, why, father?" No answer. I gave up and concentrated on the fly. It finally started landing, but I still couldn't catch it. I sat on the edge of the bed repeatedly, waiting for it to land. During one of these times I suddenly realized that I'd stopped thanking God; of course I stopped, the fly was back! It landed and I got up, still thinking. Yes, this irritation was back, but that didn't let me off thanking Him, did it? And it certainly didn't change all the good things I'd thanked Him for! I missed the fly and it buzzed off; I sat down again on the white comforter and sighed. Due to irritation, I was not in the mood for thanking Him. But I sighed and said, "ok, Father. Thank you for my life--thanks for what it is, how you use it, how you teach me, even with a fly." I smiled as I asked Him to make the praise sincere and He did--and then realized that the fly had buzzed near the window again. "Wait, wait" I heard in my head. I stood still; the fly landed. "There"--I saw my purple notepad, about as big as my hand. "Now"--I smacked the fly and flew against the screen, dead. I thanked Him and curled up in bed.
    Yes, God, thank you for the lessons you teach through flies--and thanks for teaching me how to stop them!

Answered Prayer

Last time I wrote "Because I think that's what I want, I want a life (and the ability to write combined with such a life) that  offers much to all, that is lived to the extent that it is will be listened to, that is changed enough it can communicate itself and what God is doing in it--that can write and be read.
    I wonder what God does with wishes like that?"  
     That very night I found out I might need to go on medication for ADD. God's timing is enough to make me laugh bitterly, sometimes--I didn't want this to happen.
     But who am I to limit God's answers to what I want? That would be such a poor kingdom of God! I remember a part of the book Perelandra, where Ransom complains that saving a planet from sin is too much to rest on his shoulders; it is not fair of God to make him responsible for this. God's answer is that Ransom is not responsible (if I remember correctly); that if Ransom failed and this race sinned, they would be redeemed, but it would be by such an act that showed a deeper plan, that had so much pain, but that caused all of heaven to marvel at God's great love. In the end Ransom does win, or rather God shows Ransom how to win and gives him the strength, but not the way Ransom wished--but because of how he wins, Ransom is enabled to be at the confirming of the planet to complete, joyful submission to God! Is not God's plan better?
   And so, right now, I listen to the song "Blessings" playing from a blog about two parents who are praying for their newborn baby, born with half a heart and already gone through extensive surgery, and my bitter laughter turns to silence, and that silence turns my heart to trust, to faith, and to confidence in God. May His will be done, always, in every way, amen.

Write

    "Write as though you were dying" was one of the more memorable phrases in the book The Writing Life, a book that I highly recommend when you have time to read it three or four times through, it takes that long to understand. In some ways it reminds me of Ecclesiastes, where you are hard pressed to find the connections between the author's thoughts, but once you do you're astounded. The author goes on to tell writers to write as though their audience was dying--what could you write that wasn't so trivial it would enrage a dying person?
    I wish I could write like that; I wish I could write for others. But again and again I come back to the point where writing is mine, for me, to say what I can't say otherwise and to see what i don't see until I put it in print. It's reflection and introspection and communication and craft (though the last is lacking) all in one; it's something I love and something I can't live without, though I may write in my head, on a computer, or on paper; it happens all the time. But one thing I have realized.
   Writing is like living. It is when you are dying that you live with all your might; it is when you are incapable of writing that you begin to see it's possibilities. But you can put words on paper and not write; you can go through the actions of life and not live. When you write you put yourself on paper--your thoughts, your personality, your knowledge, and your desire to communicate with others. The things that define how you live, define how you write. You, your relationships, experiences, and character limit and expand what you do, what you think, and how you interact with the world. Writing takes you, your interactions, your life, and causes you to put in ink the way you see things and the way those interactions have helped to shape you.
     So if you were called to write for a dying person, what could you say? What could you offer universally to a dying person from your life, something that is strong enough it could help your whole dying audience, not just one or two?
    Because I think that's what I want, I want a life (and the ability to write combined with such a life) that  offers much to all, that is lived to the extent that it is will be listened to, that is changed enough it can communicate itself and what God is doing in it--that can write and be read.
    I wonder what God does with wishes like that?

Building with Legos

    In his book tremendous trifles G. K. Chesterton writes two essays on the believability--or rather, the necessity of believing in fairy tales. He was quite convincing as well as funny and concisely eloquent, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Then I read "A Toy Theatre" and saw this thought in connection with the reason adults do not play with toys: "The reason is that playing with toys takes so very much more time and trouble than anything else. Playing as children mean playing is the most serious thing in the world [...] We have enough strength for politics and commerce and art and philosophy; we have not enough strength for play." Farther in the page he writes, "Take the case of bricks. If you publish a book tomorrow in twelve volumes (it would be just like you) on 'The Theory and Practice of European Architecture', your work may be laborious, but it is fundamentally frivolous. It is not serious as the work of a child piling one brick on the other is serious; for the simple reason that if your book is a bad book no one will ever be able to ultimately and entirely to prove to you that it is a bad book. Whereas if his balance of bricks is a bad balance of bricks, it will simply tumble down."
    I confess I was filled with a burning desire to write something brilliant or make something childish or do something  that proved I was either wise or a child still (instead of a adult twenty-two year old). I didn't; I did what a mature adult would do and went and weeded the back patio/basketball court. I cleared one entire square (there are four or five that need attention), then set my work down, said "this is ridiculous!" inside, and went and got out the (extensive) family collection of legos. I then spent about an hour seriously building a small, tall, spacious (as in, containing more air than support) structure with an empty ground floor, a second "floor" (double row blue platform and a pillar two dots behind it) with two men on it, a third gold, black, blue, and white "floor" with a black horse on it, and to pillars reaching up from that with a lion's flag on it. It was even from all sides, the walls each had their own color on both sides with no interruptions, and each block was carefully placed. It was so much fun, and I now have a strong desire to build a tall, unevenly-floored, perfectly semetrical, color-coordinated large maze of legos. I think I shall, soon, or not so very soon...it does not matter so long as I do it. And I would upload a picture of my highly non-impressive structure if I could; but I cannot, because I don't know how. And that doesn't matter so much, does it? :) But I played as a child.
    Do you remember the blog post I recently wrote, about "Release"? I think I found something that will help--building things, for no other reason than that I can (doesn't it feel amazing to build something--and even more amazing to build something where it doesn't matter if it lasts, or if it's destroyed? For it was fun to build, and that is enough).  Playing, doing something that requires concentration for no other reason than that it's fun...playing with the seriousness of a child. Creating something unimportant in the long run, all important now.
    Building with legos.

Made Beautiful

   I wish you could have seen what I saw. I wish I could have shown it to you through my eyes. I wish I could describe it--I wish you could see. It was nothing more than a moving cloud, nothing more than that--and it was breathtakingly, stunningly beautiful. And it came at the perfect moment--I had been standing there telling God a list of thing I didn't like about myself, why I found it so hard to be myself, or even attempt to be the person He made me to be, because I didn't like that person very much. And then this--it glorifyingly awe-inspiring, something that took my thoughts and my breath away. And yes, God made that.

And God made me.

Release

    I'm not posting this because I've found release; I'm posting because I'm seeking it. This seems to be a weird place to be looking for it--watching my mother and two sisters in our slightly rearranged living room dancing to the newer cupid shuffle--loud music (LOUD!!), Mom counting to teach L the right timing, but all of them are having so much fun! I already joined them, but I'm very tired.
    And stressed. I've worked in a new situation for the past week and two days, and I'm so frustrated. I'm used to stepping in and doing the things that make the job easier, and smoothing the way by solving problems and offering my experience quietly when needed (well, hopefully--I don't do it as well as that over half the time!) Here, at this job, I'm not allowed (by law) to help with most of the major jobs; despite intensive searching, there are still times when I am wandering around a very small space with nothing to do while everyone around me is trying desperately to catch up so the customers waiting for twenty minutes can be waited on. It's been incredibly frustrating--and humbling. I acknowledge that I need that very, very much. But I am wondering what to do--
    Because I am stressed. I have been to college, taken twenty credit hours, strengthened relationships, led a ministry, worked as a student assistant and found a job for the summer all in one semester. I was highly stressed and left that semester exhausted and a bit of a workaholic--it became a habit to work every moment I was awake unless I deliberately set aside time to play. But I haven't been stressed like this--not stressed with what is left to do, but with all that I cannot do. And I don't know how to lose it. I've tried sitting still, reading and watching TV (escapism, not a cure), and exercising--but nothing works for long, or more than once so far. So I'm wondering what to do. It's something I'm likely supposed to surrender, to give up, especially since helping people is a near-compulsion for me. Ugh. "Saying it out loud," or its equivalent, makes it worse.
   So what now? How do I surrender something when I'm not sure how to? God, please help me with this. Amen.

Wishes and Demands

    I want a thousand things; I do not want them very much. I want to not want anything, because then you're never disappointed, and you never hurt from not having anything. This, though I know it is wrong, still holds me tightly, telling me not to want things.
   I want the job that I applied for, with the large salary, where it's quite possible I would love going to work every day. I want to buy my sisters Christmas presents, and I want them to be lovely (McGyver for one, tickets to The Nutcracker for another, who knows what else for the others). I want to visit South Korea for two years to teach there, and to change things and be changed by those two years. I want to spend a year if Africa, or two, or three, or more. I want to speak Japanese fluently. I want to be out of debt from college; I want three master's degrees, in poetry, literature, and grammar--and possibly one in writing. I want a Ph.D.--or two. I want to never stop studying.
   Dreaming about them, I start to want them more. Romanticizing them, making them ideal in my mind, making them perfect--and we are always drawn to perfection (though my idea of perfection may be different than yours, or your friend's, or my friend's).
   But I look back on them and realize that they could be labeled "My Demands From Life"--which is absolutely ridiculous. You don't demand things from life; you live it to the best of your ability and watch it frustrate, surprise, strengthen, and break you. Life itself is a gift, something not to be taken for granted. But what's the difference between wanting something very strongly and demanding it? Where is the healthy medium between the two? Because to live life without dreams, hope, or wishes is wrong--but so is living it with a list of demands.
   God, help me to find the medium, the place where I want things and work for them, but am still able to let them go if you decide I should not have them. Let me long for the wise, noble, good, pure, perfect things, and live a life where they could belong. Let me want the things that you have in store for me; let me rejoice in what you give me, daily, and may my eyes be open to all the blessings you are already bestowing. Thank you, for the flowers outside my window, for the rose in my room, for the comfortable clothes I own to wear to work, for the good breakfast, for the quiet this morning, for our dry basement, for the sleep last night. Thank you for my family, my friends, and your children--and may I love you with all my strength, my mind, and my heart. In Christ's perfect name I ask, amen.

Untouchable

     There's a song that I am not sure if I love or hate--not because it get stuck in my head that often, but because I'm not sure if I want to relate to it or not. It's "Sober" by Pink--not because I have any temptation towards alcohol (I fall asleep after one glass of wine), but because of some of the lines in the song. "I'm safe, up high, / nothing can touch me," "the quiet scares me 'cause it screams the truth," "broken down in agony and just trying to find a friend."
    I recently shut my emotions down, completely. Partly because of a lot of grief that has been left over from leaving friends behind, partly frustration at the lack of joyful expectations of my future, and partly because of stress about loans, job, and partly because of tiredness. It made me untouchable, in some ways. No matter what went wrong, it didn't bother me; no matter how bad the depression was, I didn't feel it.
   But that wasn't living, not really. Oh, I did things, and even accomplished things, but it all took place on the surface--and for an introspective person, that's the lesser half of life for a good third of the time they're alive (the other third is spent doing things intense but not introspective, at least in my life).
   Now emotions are back--and oh, God, please help me, they hurt. But at least I'm alive again, and at least I can tell God is working in my life.
    But somehow the state of "untouchable" is still so appealing--no hurt, no bother, no real pain, no mistakes from anger or frustration, no hurting other people (though no in-depth conversation, either, unless it is entirely intellectual and at least slightly disconnected with life). But it's not right, and I think that's the main problem--I have followed my God and given Him my life for far too long to give up now.  I love Him, too, and I can't love Him or act on that with my emotions completely shut down--not just the "fuzzy feelings" but everything. And I'm not willing to live that way, nor is He willing to let me. God, help me serve you every day, all the time, in every stage. Amen.

Be Still

    I labeled this blog "Struggles and Thoughts" because I wanted somewhere to write things buzzing inside my head, or things I don't feel I can tell to people (yes, I know it seems like an oxymoron to then put it on the internet, where anyone can read it--but I'm not really expecting people to read this, and even if they do, they'll have no idea who I am, which makes this rather safer than not). This morning...
   This morning I made myself get up at six forty-five (or -six), instead of staying in bed for a while (which is getting easier to do as I'm becoming more tired). I went out and sat on the couch, and was given an assignment--either by God, or by my imagination; it could be either. I was told to "Be Still."
   Have you ever tried doing that before? Because it's hard--not meditation, just a time of listening, of quieting your thoughts and disciplining them enough that they're focused on feeling, listening, breathing, and waiting--waiting on what, I'm not certain. It could be waiting until someone interrupts you, till your sister's alarm goes off and scares you to death, or till you're relaxed and rested. Or till you can hear things you couldn't before. The last one scares me, because, in that realm, I have no way to measure what is right, what is wrong, what is silly, and what is true--which means I'm living on faith that, if something happens, God will also show me whether it's right or not. Not something I'm exactly comfortable with, but not something I can rule out, either.
    Anyway, this morning was a failure, in some ways. I tried--and failed. And tried--and failed. And tried--etc. Partly because I'm tired, and mostly because I'm bad at it. I got up, mentally apologizing in my mind to God, telling Him I'm bad at it and I'm sorry.
   I almost got the impression that He smiled, and said "Don't worry--you'll practice."

Which, if He really wants me to be still, makes all the sense in the world--but it also means work. And more failure. I don't. Like. Failure.
Which probably means this is good for me, at least in the area where my pride rules. And it is probably a good discipline exercise.
Blah.
All right, God. Here we come--help me, please?

A Red Cap

      It's before eight on a Saturday morning, and I woke up over an hour ago. I walked into our messy kitchen and inwardly sighed. My sister has dishes today and tomorrow, and I'd complained on Monday because she'd left dishes overnight for me or Kay to do. I couldn't leave this for her; it wasn't fair. I stuck my purity ring in my pocket and got to work. But I hadn't had a chance to eat last night because of work, so I wanted breakfast, too--but we were out of milk. I wanted to get some before anyone else got up (not being quite as much of a morning person as I am [I love mornings, more than anytime of the day except sunset], I knew not having milk would make it worse), so I left the dishes and went to the grocery store nearby. Milk is getting expensive here ($4.00), so I looked for the cheapest Fat Free Skim Milk there was. And lo and behold, in the midst of blue and white, there was one milk with a red cap.
    All the others had blue; even the one with the red cap had the customary blue stickers. I picked up the one next to it and started to walk back the checkout; but inside I wondered why I hadn't picked up the one with the red cap. It stood out, didn't it? But why hadn't I? (To warn you, if anyone ever reads this--I'm a symbolic person, which means I can catch meaning in some things that others might miss, but it also means I often put far too much meaning in small things!) Because it stood out? I wondered how long it would be before that gallon of milk was sold; how many people would not pick it, subconsciously or consciously, because it was different than the uniform gallons around it? Now, being (perhaps) a future teacher, I linked it in my mind to a school yard; how different kids are often left out, just because they might have a red cap. It made no difference to how the milk stayed in the fridge, poured into a glass, or mixed with cereal; it made no difference to what was under the red cap, yet the very fact that it had a red cap made it set apart. And, because it had a red cap, it might be left till last...which (stretching rather far, I must admit), if it was a human, would make it different on the inside, under the red cap...and so I had a silly wish to go back and pick up that gallon of milk, just so it wouldn't be left till last. I didn't--by then I was halfway through the store, and who knew when people might get up at home? But I hope, next time--in fact, I'm resolved, next time, to take the milk with the red lid. And then take it home and drink it; I know, it makes no sense. But who really knows how silly little actions like this might influence the bigger ones I am given the chance to do in the long run?