You know what one of the best feelings in the world is? Right after you turn off the water in the shower and the steam still rises from the top of the door. I haven’t opened the door yet, so the heat lingers and wraps around me like a winter coat even though the water has stopped streaming. I grab my towel and pull it tightly around my damp skin, as if capturing the warmth to save it for a snowy day. Scrunching my nose and shrugging my shoulders to draw my arms just one more inch closer to me, a drop of water slowly slips down my face to the tip of my nose. It hesitates, contemplating jumping off into the unknown abyss or staying comfortably in the safe zone. At the last minute, just when it looks like the drop will settle onto my skin to evaporate like the rest of the drops, it leaps. Down, down, down. Into the nameless void.
As my eyes gently close, soaking up each quickly fading moment, I rest my forehead against the cool, smooth tile on the shower wall. Contrary to the shock I think will envelop my body, the chilled wall provides a refreshing, soothing complement to the condensation fogging the clouded-glass door. I sigh. Shoulders relax. This is bliss, I decide. Yea.
“I wish I could stay here forever and just rest in the comfort of the predictable. Hot water. Cold water. Steam rising. Drops dropping. Heat warming. Tile cooling.”
But as with many wonderful things, the fairy tale must have a happily ever after, The End. I cannot stay wrapped in my bubble of ease and heat forever. I take a deep breath and ever-so-slowly remove my forehead from the wall and open my eyes. Not willing to untangle myself from my towel just yet, I reluctantly slide an arm from beneath its sanctuary and push the Door open into the harsh world.
“Click,” the Door gaily responds to my push. A little too chipper for what lies behind it. The harsh, arctic Wind swirls in and instantly dissipates any remaining Warmth. I almost close the Door and retreat back to safety and security, but I instead brace myself and face my fears. It’s hard, and I don’t want to. But I can’t go back to what was. I can take another shower, have another moment of ecstasy, but not ever this exact feeling. Recognizing my fate, I take that initial step that should be easy. It’s not like I’ve never gotten out of the shower before. It’s not like I’ve never been able to trust the world beyond the opaque Door and reassuring Drops. But it’s still as hard as the first time to abandon what I know. What I used to trust. It’s impossible to logically find a reason to leave, except for the fact that it just seems to make so much sense
So I step out anyways.
Friday, October 26, 2007
April 28, 2007
"But the poor person does not exist as an inescapable fact of destiny. his or her existence is not politically neutral, and it is not ethically innocent. The poor are a by-product of the system in which we live and for which we are responsible. They are marginalized by our social and cultural world. the are the oppressed, exploited proletariat, robbed of the fruit of their labor and despoiled of their humanity. Hence the poverty of the poor is not a call to generous relief action, but a demand that we go and build a different social order." ~Gustavo Gutierrez, The Power of the Poor in History
Why do we need shocking, sensational activities and meetings and images to spur us to want to make a difference? Is it just to placate the dissent I know rises in me when I know this injustice is going on and is wrong? Do we just like it because it gives the semblence of actually getting off our lazy butts and doing something? Will it only end at feeling bad and praying one night for the thosands of millions of people oppressed? We should need sensational images to do something about it? But I guess I've become so complacent in my comfotable, unoppressed life that I need something shocking and extreme to draw me out of that area of conformity and ignorance.
I live in such a jaded and complacent society, I have a hard time escaping it. And I don't want the right/easy answer because it is the cop-out. Struggling through the issues and having disagreements and coming out with a complicated question, but more complete understanding of the underlying issues behind it all is how I think we were created to live. We may never know the answer and may end life throughly more confused than we started, but with a deeper knowledge and reliance on those we struggled through with and our Creator. Jesus never gave a straight up answer except when it came to the greatest commandments. Why should we want to live any differently? I dunno...and I know I'm more confused now than when I started writing this...but I'm ok with that now.
"...let us not love in words or tongue, but in action and in truth" 1 John 3:18
Why do we need shocking, sensational activities and meetings and images to spur us to want to make a difference? Is it just to placate the dissent I know rises in me when I know this injustice is going on and is wrong? Do we just like it because it gives the semblence of actually getting off our lazy butts and doing something? Will it only end at feeling bad and praying one night for the thosands of millions of people oppressed? We should need sensational images to do something about it? But I guess I've become so complacent in my comfotable, unoppressed life that I need something shocking and extreme to draw me out of that area of conformity and ignorance.
I live in such a jaded and complacent society, I have a hard time escaping it. And I don't want the right/easy answer because it is the cop-out. Struggling through the issues and having disagreements and coming out with a complicated question, but more complete understanding of the underlying issues behind it all is how I think we were created to live. We may never know the answer and may end life throughly more confused than we started, but with a deeper knowledge and reliance on those we struggled through with and our Creator. Jesus never gave a straight up answer except when it came to the greatest commandments. Why should we want to live any differently? I dunno...and I know I'm more confused now than when I started writing this...but I'm ok with that now.
"...let us not love in words or tongue, but in action and in truth" 1 John 3:18
Nov 6, 2006
I lay here on the floor, staring into the ceiling. No. I lied. Into nothing. I don’t even see the ceiling. It’s just a barrier between my body and the vast world that oppresses me. A strange phenomenon to physiologically observe something, but not truly see it. I’m acutely aware of every single vertebra resisting the pull of the rough floor. They fight back, not wanting to submit to the power they know will overtake them anyways. It’s a tug of war between what I want and how we were meant to be. How we were made. I lay here, hands clasped and resting on top of my stomach, and the texture of the carpet overwhelms me. Not comfortable to settle down on and find complete peace, but not so cold as to convince me to move. I’m stuck in this limbo of comfort, security and the unknown, uncertainty.
I lay here, voices float all around me, but don’t penetrate this bubble of doubt and self-pity I’ve construed around me. “Do you remember…?" I catch from someone’s conversation. Do I remember? Remember the time where I had everything under control? Of course. What I wouldn’t give to be back in that sheltered position. But do I really mean that? This is the cynical me raring its dark head.
I lay here and envision myself from the ceiling’s point of view. Kind of like a deep, thought-provoking scene from a movie where the girl just figured out that the person she cared about the most and trusted with every fiber in her body, betrays her. She lies on the bed while the camera slowly pans out and some acoustic guitar plays in the background. That one person who seemed to care so much now has left her hanging with no rope to grab onto. She free-falls, but is so numb that it doesn’t phase her. She also sees herself from the ceiling’s point of view. Kind of like a deep, thought-provoking scene from a movie.
I lay here and the faint, pink, neon lights from suspended wires blur my contemptuous world. The pale glow just taunts me and reminds me how I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not who I want people to think I am. And those lights glare at me. “You aren’t ok with yourself. You are so consumed with everyone’s perception of you that you fail to be yourself. Do you even know who you are?" they sneer. “I KNOW," I scream, “God created me in His image and takes great delight in me." They retort, “Then why don’t you live like it? Hm? Why do you get so upset when you try your hardest and still fail? When you aren’t perfect?" “It hurts so bad," I concede, “it hurts so bad," I whisper.
I lay here and music starts to play. Something in the melody tugs my consciousness back to reality. I struggle to come back. It would be so easy just to lay here and wallow in distrust and depravity. I’ve been through so much already. God, no. Wait, what is he saying? “How deep the Father’s love for us. How vast beyond all measure." Tears fill my eyes and the proud floodgates are broken open. Not by force or power, but by God’s tender love and mercy. Ever since I cried out amidst the pain for help, ever since I acknowledged I couldn’t do this on my own anymore, ever since I asked God to fill me because I was so empty, Jesus was quietly, humbly removing each individual brick, weeping over every single one. He used His own two hands to gently remove the barrier I constructed between myself and His simple desire to have a relationship with me. To define who I am. I couldn’t break it with anger and frustration. I couldn’t go on, simply lukewarm, confessing with my lips, but lying with my actions. My head said yes a long time ago, but my pride obviously said contrary. I had convinced even myself that I was living a life defined by Christ alone. Until now. I now know I was defining who I was based on my academics. How well I accomplished something and how many things I could do at once while still succeeding in all of them. I simply need to love God. And The Potter will mold and shape me. His love covers my disfigured, callous heart and releases me from carrying the pain alone.
I lay here on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It’s not over. The pain is still very real and wounds take time to heal. I have to start all over with Christ as my identity. The road ahead is long and isn’t full of daisies and fluffy clouds. But I’m ok with that now. I have the love of the one who created my emotions. The one who knows me better than I know myself. If that weren’t enough, I have the support and love of my friends. The simple act of listening. A hug. Wiping my tears. I’m so unworthy, but God continues to bless me. I am finding joy between the neon lights and rough carpet.
I lay here on the floor. And I stand up.
I lay here, voices float all around me, but don’t penetrate this bubble of doubt and self-pity I’ve construed around me. “Do you remember…?" I catch from someone’s conversation. Do I remember? Remember the time where I had everything under control? Of course. What I wouldn’t give to be back in that sheltered position. But do I really mean that? This is the cynical me raring its dark head.
I lay here and envision myself from the ceiling’s point of view. Kind of like a deep, thought-provoking scene from a movie where the girl just figured out that the person she cared about the most and trusted with every fiber in her body, betrays her. She lies on the bed while the camera slowly pans out and some acoustic guitar plays in the background. That one person who seemed to care so much now has left her hanging with no rope to grab onto. She free-falls, but is so numb that it doesn’t phase her. She also sees herself from the ceiling’s point of view. Kind of like a deep, thought-provoking scene from a movie.
I lay here and the faint, pink, neon lights from suspended wires blur my contemptuous world. The pale glow just taunts me and reminds me how I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not who I want people to think I am. And those lights glare at me. “You aren’t ok with yourself. You are so consumed with everyone’s perception of you that you fail to be yourself. Do you even know who you are?" they sneer. “I KNOW," I scream, “God created me in His image and takes great delight in me." They retort, “Then why don’t you live like it? Hm? Why do you get so upset when you try your hardest and still fail? When you aren’t perfect?" “It hurts so bad," I concede, “it hurts so bad," I whisper.
I lay here and music starts to play. Something in the melody tugs my consciousness back to reality. I struggle to come back. It would be so easy just to lay here and wallow in distrust and depravity. I’ve been through so much already. God, no. Wait, what is he saying? “How deep the Father’s love for us. How vast beyond all measure." Tears fill my eyes and the proud floodgates are broken open. Not by force or power, but by God’s tender love and mercy. Ever since I cried out amidst the pain for help, ever since I acknowledged I couldn’t do this on my own anymore, ever since I asked God to fill me because I was so empty, Jesus was quietly, humbly removing each individual brick, weeping over every single one. He used His own two hands to gently remove the barrier I constructed between myself and His simple desire to have a relationship with me. To define who I am. I couldn’t break it with anger and frustration. I couldn’t go on, simply lukewarm, confessing with my lips, but lying with my actions. My head said yes a long time ago, but my pride obviously said contrary. I had convinced even myself that I was living a life defined by Christ alone. Until now. I now know I was defining who I was based on my academics. How well I accomplished something and how many things I could do at once while still succeeding in all of them. I simply need to love God. And The Potter will mold and shape me. His love covers my disfigured, callous heart and releases me from carrying the pain alone.
I lay here on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It’s not over. The pain is still very real and wounds take time to heal. I have to start all over with Christ as my identity. The road ahead is long and isn’t full of daisies and fluffy clouds. But I’m ok with that now. I have the love of the one who created my emotions. The one who knows me better than I know myself. If that weren’t enough, I have the support and love of my friends. The simple act of listening. A hug. Wiping my tears. I’m so unworthy, but God continues to bless me. I am finding joy between the neon lights and rough carpet.
I lay here on the floor. And I stand up.
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