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?