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.