Unrelated tidbits this morning:

* I’m drinking a mocha that’s uncommonly good. Cinnamon is a genius thing to add to chocolate and coffee. The only thing better is adding more chocolate.

* Watched Eternal Sunshine again last night. Liked it even better than the first time... probably because I caught more of the details. In the second viewing, you see it through a totally new lens.

There were several parts I really liked:
- Clementine talking about her doll as a child and asking the classic girl question: am I pretty?
- Rain falling inside his apartment, Joel under the table with his hands out to catch the rain. I have no idea why, but I fought tears on this part. The joy of childhood revisited, perhaps.
- The scene in the crumbling house, talking about why he ran away.

This was the most artful, creative, lovely movie I’ve seen in a while.

I love what this movie says about our limitations; our regrets. How often we fall short of who we really want to be, especially in our most intimate relationships. We have our wounds and our hangups, and they hinder us in our efforts to love another flawed and fragile human being. It’s not so much that we don’t want to reach beyond our walls of self-doubt and fear; it’s more often that we don’t know how to. Two people, each carrying a lifetime of wounds (some unhealed), blindly fumbling to communicate, to make meaningful contact... it’s the perfect storm.

In the re-living of Joel’s memories, we get to see a deeper part of him - the person he wishes he would have been in those turbulent moments: When they’re fighting, and he’s apologizing for the hateful things he said... "I was just angry, I didn’t mean it. Don’t go." When he’s begging to be allowed to keep the memories that are perfect and precious. When they’re talking in the house, about why he ran away, as the waves are washing in, and the house is falling down around them on the sand: "I wish you wouldn’t have run away." "Me too." "Was it something I said?" "Yeah, you said ‘Just go,’... you said it with such disdain..." "Aw, I’m sorry..." "It’s ok." For all their violent moments, when their defenses are down, they’re tender with each other. They’re forgiving and generous. They’re the people they really, in their heart of hearts, want to be.

This film didn’t present chick-flick love. There’s no illusions of perfect tranquility at the end... it’s more of a "Here’s who I am. I’m messed up some times. And it scares the crap out of me to even begin to try, knowing that... but I still am going to love you, damn the consequences." "Me too." "OK." "OK."

If only more people started out with that kind of honesty, rather than being shocked when their partner isn’t that perfect person they’d idealized.

*Small group at Wes and Kari’s was awesome last night. All people new (within two visits or so) to NewLife. Such a nice fresh perspective. So not-churchy. Jules and I go to a miscellaneous group, all ages, from about 19 to 60-something. I absolutely loved it. Which was a pleasant surprise. I went to this mixed ages group because at least there, I could justify feeling awkward and shy. (It’s always more painful when you’re with those your own age and still feel weird and out of place). But it was strangely comfortable. I loved hearing people’s stories. I loved watching people in their fifties share that they’re still figuring out their life’s purpose, still running after God. I left encouraged.

[Yes, that’s right folks, I’ve joined the masses: for the next forty days I am a Rick Warren minion. I am reading the Purpose Driven book, I’m in a group. I expect to be a complete failure when it comes to reading the book with any semblance of consistency, but in a group with ears & eyes open to learn, I remain. (I’ve tried four times, and on my best attempt, read through day 10 or something. That really made me feel purposeful...)]

picking up pennies

It is still the first week in January, and I've got great plans. I've been thinking about seeing. There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But--and this is the point-- who gets excited about a mere penny? If you follow one arrow, if you crouch motionless on a bank to watch a tremulous ripple thrill on the water and are rewarded by the sight of a muskrat kit paddling from its den, will you count that sight a chip of copper only, and go your rueful way?

It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get.

-Annie Dillard, from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

eternal sunshine...

"Valentine's Day is a holiday invented by greeting card companies to make people feel like crap."

Best opening line in a movie. Ever.

I am, after a forever-long wait, FINALLY ingesting the beauty that is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

It had the indie-ish quality of limited release, so every time I'd go to see it, it would be just out of that particular theatre, or not yet in. Ticked me right off. So, of course, first chance I get, I'm watching it. And loving it.

Kevo just got home and was jealous, so I started it over for him. It's that good.

I just figured I'd share my jubilant enthusiasm for what promises to be a wonderful movie. Reports tomorrow. If I ever wake up. It will be a late night.

everywhere you look, everywhere you look...

My insecure, bit too honest moment for the month:

If writers were TV shows, would I be Full House?

I hope not. As a kid, I always walked away from Full House feeling a) a contact sugar high, b) sick of those cutesy Olsen twins (geez, some things never change), c) enamored with Jesse's mullet, and d) discouraged that my mom and dad didn't sit down on my bed, soft music playing in the background, and solve whatever problem we were facing, (from homework to cancer), within the half hour, or worst case scenario, a two-week special. My family (especially with two redheads thrown in the mix) lived life on a slightly louder volume setting when it came to "talking things out." (We go to eleven).

Here's the deal: I'm a bit nervous that in all this rambling on about grace and redemption and seeing God at work in the everyday, I've unintentionally presented an airbrushed view of my life, a spruced-up look at who I am. In this strange online world, I can set the filter however I choose. Stacey: the girl who never loses sight of God for more than a day; who can always attempt to find some way to wrap up what she's going through in a nice, pretty little two-liner. The thing that was annoying about FH was that it was never an accurate picture of reality. No one's family looks like that (and if it did, there's no way in hell I'd want to live there. I'd kill that goofy Bob Saget within the month).

If you're just popping in for a visit on this puppy, go read something else, like this post I dearly love about my brother's deodorant. But for those of you wonderful constant commenters, and you lurkers (you know who you are)... hear my heart, and then I'll go back to being my normal self, a bit lighter hearted for my bit of disclosure. (For all the seeming non-personal-ness of this whole thing, this is somehow personal to me, and I consider some of you long-distance friends, so, for better or ill, I feel the need to say this. Any friend will tell you... I am morbidly addicted to disclaimers).

Much of my life was spent without a very good picture of God, and so now, much of my time is spent searching for clearer glimpses of this God I've been introduced to. I used to live my life with a constant list on-hand in my head of all the things going wrong in my life (mostly petty little things). I felt lonely and unlovely. Now, if I seem overly awestruck by grace, it's because I am; if it seems like I'm trying hard to be joyful, it's because I am. If I seem like I'm starting to get comfortable in my skin, it's because I think I might be getting a little closer.

I know that it's sometimes more attractive for people to act like they've got this huge deep inner struggle going on about their faith. It seems deeper somehow, and there have been times that I have been tempted to try to wear that mask. (Anyone who genuinely is going through that, I'm truly blown away by your guts and your honesty. I'm sure I'll walk that path again before my journey's through, and hope I can walk it with as much fortitude). But at this point in my life, that's not my struggle. I've walked that season, at least for now, and I see no reason to return to those heart-wrenching questions for the sake of seeming deeply intellectual.

Once certain questions are answered, however, a new hoarde of them follow. This new season is full of a new kind of tension. My dear wise friend Josh, Mr. Mars Hill Sem. Student, calls it "the tension of the not-yet." I am happy for the most part; but there is a quiet stirring that keeps me up at night and wakes me up sometimes a bit too early in the morning. I live in expectation of God's blessings in my life, but a lot of those fall into the not-yet category. Some of them are the biggies. I may be hired on as Comm. director in January, but then again, the funds might not be there, and I'll end up working another year of full-time papershuffling plus full-time volunteer work, living my life in a constant dichotomy. I see some of my former youth group girls getting married (19!! 20!!), and feel a definite not-yet tension in that moment. I hold baby Klara and have a ninja-fight with Austin (5), and know a quiet rumble off in the distance. Those ones come and go. Some of them are the smaller, everyday ones I laugh at myself over: my desperation for work to be OVER, my girlish waiting for the phone to ring; my impatience as that last 20 cents of gas oozes into my tank. (Why do they slow it down so early? It takes me an extra minute. That minute is precious). The questions I'm asking now are "How long? How long, God?" The words I write are sometimes straight to myself, reminding myself of who's got me in his hands.

So, anyway, all that to say - I hope that in my writing, you see hope. Not well-put-togetherness, not a nice annoying Sunday-schoolish moral to the story everyday, because that would be a wrong impression, by a long shot... but I hope you see this: that where God is sought, God is found, even if he comes in small bits and pieces, in sunsets and moonlight and music and laughter. I hope you can see that even in the messy, even in the unsure, God is really here. That his grace is found even by us "ragamuffins" as Manning loves to call us.

That's why I write.

Thanks for listening.

eyes wide open

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." - Albert Einstein
***
Bellingham is full of old houses, brimming with character and faint reminiscences of a simpler time. I know there are those who would argue with me, but I think I lived in some of the best.

I dearly cherish the only place I ever lived alone: apartment 8, 500 East Myrtle Street, three blocks from Western's campus. The venerable building, constructed in 1925, was a three-story vision clad in pink stucco. Its subtle charm was based mainly on the premise that old and worn meant homey and comfortable. (As my mom said with a wry laugh, "It's so ugly, it's cute.") The front steps were missing chunks of concrete; the stairs leading to my little piece of the world creaked and groaned with every advancing step. The indoor hallway leading to each apartment was a mix of several aromas, typically, tons of incense (wonder why?) from apartment 4 and whatever was cooking in apartment 7.

I loved it. The more I lived in it, the more I loved it, the way you love a friend you've known your whole life. You know their secrets, you know their quirks, but you also find a quiet comfort in them. Among my favorite quirks: My front door had a chain-bolt, just like in the movies. Friends waiting at the door often had to humor me: I'd open the door three inches or so to the end of the chain. They'd see in my face a quick sign of recognition, then, abruptly, the door would close again. My friend would then hear the clink and clatter of me clumsily fiddling with the chain to get the door unlocked - sometimes for a few moments - they'd hear me muttering to myself, and then, welcome to my humble abode. I never got tired of my little ritual. My friends - well, that remains to be told.

The interior consisted of a bedroom that lived up to its name (a bed was all that fit), a small kitchen with a genuine article icebox, and a living room with windows that overlooked Bellingham Bay especially well when the only blocking trees lost their leaves in the fall. It was a tiny place of the world to call my own, but I did so happily, in spite of its chipped beige paint and old-fashioned fixtures. (The world hasn't outgrown its use for huge porcelain bathtubs, that's for certain).

Out in front of the building, there was a small yard of sorts, enough room for a few people to sit and have a chat, or for one lonelyheart to sit and read her book. This small space, and the memory that accompanies it, is one more reason why this place will always be special. For me, it's holy ground. It was here, in this spot, that God made sure I knew he loved me. In a very tangible sense of it.

Summer was fading, and there was a slight hint of chill on the fresh breeze meandering through the air. I decided to take advantage of a quiet afternoon to read out on the lawn (quite the generous term for a small grassy patch). I grabbed a Mexico-blanket and my newest book purchase, and made my way downstairs to lay out in the sun.

It took me a few minutes to settle into my reading. I was a little too warm in my hoodie; once I took it off, goosebumps appeared and remained as I suppressed a shiver. I settled for wrapping my sweatshirt loosely around my shoulders. I read five words and realized that I had left my glasses upstairs (typical). A quick bound up the stairs, two at a time, and back had me resettled in my spot, a little breathless. Again, the chill, and again, the readjusting.

I lay on my stomach, propped up on my elbows. My bare feet hung off the bottom of the blanket, as I dug my toes into the cool, damp grass. The sunshine's warmth spread over my back. Comfortable at last, I finally settled into my book. And as I read, I found my heart aching at the piercing truth of the words I was seeing.

"The voice often comes in the middle of the night or the early hours of the morning, when our hearts are unedited and most vulnerable... Aren't you thirsty? Listen to your heart. There is something missing. We listen and are aware of... a sigh. And under the sigh is something dangerous, something that feels adulterous and disloyal to the religion we are serving. We sense a passion deep within that threatens total disregard for the program we are living; it feels reckless, wild. Unsettled, we turn and walk quickly away, like a woman who feels more than she wants to when her eyes meet those of a man not her husband... We tell ourselves that the malaise of spirit we feel even as we step up our religious activity is a sign of spiritual immaturity and we scold our heart for its lack of fervor."

OK. You have my attention. I'm busy. I'm worn out. I'm having a hard time seeing God in all of this. I read. And read. And came to a part in about the third chapter that talked about the author's struggle with believing that God enjoyed him. It basically said, Yeah, God, I know you love me. But do you like me? Are you pleased with me? Do you really truly love me? Am I worth having rescued? My heart echoed the words, as an anguished cry called out to God from deep within.

At this point I was forced to pause as my eyes were so full to the brim with tears that I couldn't decipher the words on the page. I blinked, and tear after tear streamed down my face. I was glad I was facing away from the sidewalk. I was happy for this honest moment, but also happy to avoid inquisitive glances.

It was at precisely this moment that a small red rose was dropped right beside me, on my left. Jerked from my thoughts, I glanced up at the giver of this strange token, astonished, but he was already making his way across the street. He wasn't someone I had ever met before, and I'd never be able to recognize him. He had his own hoodie and a fisherman's hat on. I called out a bewildered "thanks," and he raised his hand and waved, never turning around.

As I lay there, I reread the words. I let my heart hear them. I let my heart accept them. And I considered the rose I'd been given not a token from a stranger, who, in my neighborhood, could've been quite high, for all I know... I considered it a message from God's heart to mine. Hey, by the way. Love you. Really really love you. I still have the rose, it's kept in a small box of keepsakes, and whenever I see it, I'm reminded again of how God took a moment out of all he was doing in his busy schedule to whisper an "I love you" to my stubborn heart once again.

I believe that God is reaching out to our hearts not just once in a while, but constantly. The miracle consists not in him speaking to us, but perhaps more in our deafness receding enough that we hear his whispers (or in some circumstances, his shouts). The miracles take place when the veil of our blindness is lifted, for even the briefest of moments. We glance up, wide eyed in wonder, once again astonished at this unexpected, out-of-nowhere sign of God-with-us.

If there's anything I wish for you today, this week, this moment - it's this kind of miracle.

May you sense God's overwhelming love for you today. May you increasingly find your eyes and ears open to him everyday.

Amen.

Back in the saddle again...

OW. I. Can. Barely. Move.

Operation Prevent Ghetto Booty is now back in full effect. However, now I have a slightly different objective. I am now undertaking Operation LHBD. (Look Hot in Bridesmaid Dress). I figure if I start now, I can still stuff my face during the holidays (one of the best parts of the holidays) and do minimal damage control before Grace’s wedding in February. (Plus, my Grandma is moving up from California to live with my folks, and Grandma AND Mom’s cooking joining forces is going to be... double trouble. I can’t wait).

Props to Grace for picking a Non-Hideous Dress. One I’ll probably wear again, if a fancy to-do occasions it. It’s black, and quite lovely. As opposed to the lilac monstrosity from my last wedding that’s gathering dust in a closet at my parent’s house, where forever it will remain. Unless my kooky friends throw another "Wear Your Worst Bridesmaid Dress Party/Contest", in which case it will come in quite handy, and I will win. I’m not kidding. Do brides, envisioning their victory march down the aisle, purposely pick the homeliest dresses possible, in order to highlight their beauty by contrast? I’m not positive, but it’s a sneaking suspicion.

[By the way, I read Jeremy the Perfect Boyfriend, a link on Ochuk’s blog, a few days ago. Nearly fell off the couch laughing. Whoever wrote that is a genius. As a girl who survived Bible college for a year, I can vouch for the truth in much of what he says. If I saw one more bridal mag... or one more door covered in cutouts from a bridal mag... I was gonna puke. I think I’ve already shared my distaste for this, so, moving on...]

Kevin walked into the kitchen and saw a catalog on the counter... one that Grace had given me that has my dress in it. He looked at me disapprovingly. "Stace... what is the meaning of this?" As in, who are you and what the heck have you done with my sister? "Get a grip, Kevo. I haven’t gone crazy or joined the desperate masses. It’s for Grace’s wedding." "Oh." Relieved.

So anyhow, I’ve been working out Tuesday nights with Wes’ wife, Kari. Good plan... time to gab (she’s a main mentor-type friend in my life), a guarantee that I’ll work out at least once a week, and great motivation. She just had her third baby five months ago, and is a woman on a mission. I, nine years younger, am in no way going to let a 33-year-old kick my tail. So we both are ridiculously sore Wednesdays and Thursdays, is the basic story.

Today is Monday, however. Why am I limping around? Glad you asked. Like you care, but this is my blog. Deal. (Sounds like someone has a case of the Mondays).

Lili and Wes and I did a race at the end of June (the three guys still interning with us at that point all bailed, I think that says something). I think the race was called "10k to Hell" but I can’t really remember. My body was screaming and cursing at me at about mile four... but dang it, I finished. I, total wimp extraordinaire, finished.

And sort of took three months off to recuperate. I am pathetic.

Yesterday morning was a rare slow paced, no place to be sort of morning. I read for a while, I strummed for a while (I sounded out Mindy Smith’s Come to Jesus, kinda fun)... and then the urge hit me.

So I threw on my tennis shoes, grabbed some tunes, and out the door I went. It was perfect. Still a bit foggy, 65 degrees. Unfortunately, Western Washington is all hills, and my route is either downhill first, uphill all the way back, or vice versa. Being an instant gratification type, I chose the former, and felt like a total stud for the first half my jog.

Nearly suffered a coronary on the way back.

Awesome.

I’m back in the game.

Dreadfully sore after a mere sad two miles, but back in the game.

Hopefully it won’t be three months before my next attempt. If so, I might be relegated to Operation FIBD. (Fit Into Bridesmaid Dress).

Happy Monday, everybody, everybody! I have the night off, and plan on chilling out. A beautiful thing.

Hey, Mt. St. Helens is rumbling again! (We're pals, she blew three days after I was born...) Could be exciting...

music in laughter

Tonight an old friend breathed fresh life into my weary heart.

As I was walking into the auditorium tonight, Melissa caught my eye, so I went over and said hello. We hugged, and she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as we chatted for a few before the service began. A few minutes later, she was searching for a spot to sit, so I slid on over. And got the privilege of hearing her laugh - loud - in my ear the rest of the night. I love that laugh. I'd missed that laugh. You haven't heard music in laughter until you've heard hers.

Melissa and I have known each other since we were nine years old, when I moved up to Washington from California and began attending the same church. We were "best friends" in seventh and eighth grade. (A very important title). We eventually grew apart as many childhood friendships do; and years later we both found ourselves at NewLife, living totally different lives: she, married and busy raising three children. Me, not married, really proud of myself that I keep my bamboo plant alive.

A casual eye would miss the miracle that walked through those doors tonight. Less than a year ago, Melissa was diagnosed with a rare and agressive form of bone cancer. She was experiencing pain in her side, but since she had just started a workout regimen, she attributed the pain to exercise. Eventually the pain couldn't be ignored or rationalized any longer, and tests confirmed that she had a tumor on her right side larger than a papaya, and growing fast. The next few months were a flurry of tests, trying to determine what could be done.

I couldn't even imagine. When I was nineteen, I discovered a small tumor on my side that had to be removed. I was told that the chances were small that it would be anything bad, but still had to wait a nervewracking month for my surgery to take place (it was benign, everything was ok, but I have a little badge of honor in the form of a scar...)

Her situation was far more terrifying. To know that something was definitely wrong, and still have to wait in agony... wondering if you were going to be around to raise your kids, or if your husband would be forced to walk it alone... there aren't words. We finally heard the awful news: less than a fifty-fifty shot at surviving this monster. The odds were even worse that she'd be able to keep her leg; we were told that she might be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

She was 25. Nine months older than me. And staring Death right in the face.

I remember the moment I found out. After service, a small group of people were gathering around Melissa to pray for her. My mom, in tears, grabbed me and I joined her parents, her sister, her husband, and a few others to pray. I still had no idea what was going on, until I heard the desperate cries for God's mercy to be shown. In moments like those, you have no idea what to say, but you try your hardest to get over the "hey, it's been a while," awkwardness. Life and death have a way of cutting through things like that. I read these words somewhere: "Don't just do something; stand there." Stand there I did.

Melissa's lengthy surgery required half of her pelvis to be removed & replaced, and the doctors were still holding their breath that they got it all. So far, the surgery seems to have been a success. She was able to keep her leg, and now runs after her three kids with the aid of a cane. She's quick, lemme tell you.

Her faith is... real. A lot of people would, even after the fact, be asking, "Why me?" after much more minor trials, and here she is, nodding her head emphatically at everything Wes is saying. (He preached tonight on our life's purpose). Some would be pitying themselves off in a corner somewhere (it's natural), but here she is, still being her slightly larger-than-life self, laughing and having a good time (Melissa is constantly the life of the party - she's hilarious). Most would, in her circumstances, turn their back on God, but she, a bit distant from God when this whole thing started, allowed the painful process to draw her close in Jesus' arms. I'm not saying she hasn't had moments, because I know she has, but I'm just in awe of her heart's response to God during this time. It's worship, pure worship.

Moses saw the face of God and was forever changed; whenever the people looked at him, they walked away different as well. I think the same goes for those who have seen the hand of God work on their behalf. After seeing Melissa for a bit tonight, I walked away a little different; grateful for my friend's joyful heart, for the fact that her life was spared.

I walked away grateful for my own life once again, and determined to quit taking so much of it for granted. Walked away determined to live out my days as fully and as beautifully as I can.

Her laugh is still ringing in my ears. God is good.

it's a beautiful day...

It was gorgeous out today, crisp and clear, still a little warm at 70 degrees...

so as usual I got a little camera happy

and went down to the waterfront park a few minutes from my apartment.

Here's Dyes Inlet from the Silverdale Pier...

and with Mount Rainier in the distance...

Pretty, huh? It's nearly impossible to take a bad picture here in the NW. I love it.

By the way, you simply MUST see The Forgotten. Saw it tonight with the folks.

(If you do go, and you hear some chick scream, don't worry, it's just me).

[not in this thing alone]

Every Thursday, I get the privilege of walking into a room of people who I know love me and believe in what God is doing in my life. I'm so thirsty to learn how to make this dream happen, and every Thursday, I take a few more steps toward that realization. I walk out ready to conquer the world.
Every Thursday, I get a fresh reminder: I'm not in this thing alone.

John pointed out something I hadn't noticed before: my description of our Thursday intern meetings could also be a good description of what church should look like. I hadn't really thought about it before. But it's been bouncing around in my head ever since.

Granted, my Sundays for sure don't look like my Thursdays. Sundays are typically a sixth work day for me. We show up at two p.m. to transform a school into a meeting place. We unload two huge trailers with EVERYTHING - all our media, sound, walls for classrooms, nursery, a bounce house, a climbing wall... After two services, I head home around nine, completely exhausted. But it's ok. I don't think God is real concerned with days of the week. Besides, giving up my Sunday experience is a part of enabling a lot of other people to experience what I do on Thursdays. It all works out.

At NewLife, we're wrestling with what our true mission is, and whether a lot of what we do is program based or mission based. As long as whatever programs we use are in line with our mission, we're fine. But the second our program starts dictating our direction, we're sunk. The moment we start limiting God based on the timelines and systems we've put in place, we've started operating on our own. As a person, that's a scary place to be. As a church, it's tantamount to a death sentence. How many churches have the same members they've had for 20 years because their program wouldn't budge in the face of the needs of those outside their walls? The mission will never change, but our methods may have to.

The mission statement we operate on is simple: people becoming the church. A little understated, perhaps. Maybe bordering on "duh" territory. Until you think about how many folks see the church as a building. As choir practice. As a sermon. As a list of dos and don'ts. As a place where it's the pastor's job to reach everyone. As a single day of the week. When the church is really the body of Christ, his people, reaching out in the world 7 days a week.

It's been amazing to witness the response firsthand. People getting beyond the hi-my-name-is, to developing authentic relationships. People beginning to understand that it's not all about "getting something" out of church; that it's about growing through serving -- not just inside the church, but out in the community as well. People understanding that ministry is not the responsibility of a select few - that the Great Commission is for all of us. I've been shocked to see people from high school and college that I never in a million years would expect to see... hearing the truth of the Word of God, but also finding acceptance and grace.

It's hit close to home in my own life. My parents, who literally sat in the pew for years, frustrated at trying to get connected and finding it near-impossible... finally gave in to my begging and checked out NL. (Even though they had this notion that it was for twenty-somethings). They now meet in small groups at their house 2 nights a week. I swear, they don't have time for me anymore. I'll call, and get a "Oh, I'm sorry, honey. Can I call you back later? We have small group here right now. Ok catch you later, bye." "Ok Mom. Love y--" click. I love it. I love that they're making new friendships, reaching out to their unsaved friends... my parents are growing, too. Not to mention that they had four baptisms in their hot tub about a month ago. Which is about one of the coolest things ever.

I have to be honest, some of this has been a stretch for me as I've worked here this last year. Not so much because I'm threatened by the changes -- most have them have come as an absolute relief -- but because I'm not used to thinking in these terms. I always feel a few steps behind. I'm used to the traditional worship service based approach. I'm not used to thinking, "Is this connected to the mission? If not, we'll scrap it." I'm having to sift through a lot of what I'm used to. It's a challenge.

So I'd like to open up for discussion: if the Church is fulfilling its mission... what does the community look like? What does it NOT look like? What are we doing that's really making an impact? What is merely religious activity? What has been the most attractive thing to you about a church community? The most frustrating? Maybe these are complete "duh" kind of questions, I don't know... but I'm finding my perspective increasingly stretched on these things. I have some thoughts, but I'm also curious what others are thinking. If you fear your comments might be too long for Halo (space-Nazi's...) email me. Or, something fairly typical will happen and I'll receive no response on this one, but get a huge one on what's-your-favorite-80's-TV show. lol. Oh well. Worth asking, anyway.
***
Oh, one last thing... as Comm. Director (they've ceased calling us interns... but so far my title comes without a paycheck... :) ), my first beast, er, project, is developing all the content/some of the design for our new website. (The old one is rather painful). I'm trying to take a look at as many intelligent church websites as possible, to get some good ideas. If your church has one, or you have any to recommend, please send them my way. If not, I'll just keep googling away. Sigh.

weird dream

I'm in a bit of a random mood, so I shall now share the strangest and best dream I ever had. It went a-like so:

I was heading out to Lynden to help my buddy, the non-evil Chad, out with his youth ministry. I get there, and it's the same kids, but we're in a completely different building. (which is sort of typical of dreams, everything is a little wonky). We're getting ready to begin the evening, and - lo and behold - a huge pimped-out tour bus pulls up.

It's Steven Tyler! Here to lead worship!

It was incredible. The rockin', the screaming, the scarf tied to the mic stand ... all of it. I would pay money to be able to remember what songs he did. Awesome. I can still hear him in my head.

After his set, I'm kinda standing in the doorway, and I notice a loner kid sitting in the metal folding chairs, all by himself. I've always had a heart for the loner kids in youth ministry, so I go up to Steven and say, "Hey, Steve, could I get a quick favor? See that kid over there? Yeah, the fat sad one. Well I think it would really make mean a lot to him if you'd go over and talk with him for a bit. It'd make his night, if not his month."

So there the three of us sat. Steven Tyler, the fat kid, and me, all there in the metal folding chairs, sharing a moment together. It was beautiful.

Alas, the night had to come to an end. Everything was getting packed up and ready to go. I ran up to Steven as he was about to leave us, and thanked him for coming, and for spending time with the lonely kid. I then added one last comment: "Um, and if you get a chance, would you let your daughter know... I thought she was incredible in the Lord of the Rings movies."

Steven Tyler then said to me, "Sure thing, Stace." He gave me a quick hug, and he and his tour bus drove away and out of my life.

The end.

I plan on naming my next guitar Steven, in honor of my lovely dream. Steven Taylor.

The only thing even remotely close to being that cool was in high school when I had a recurring old-Western themed dream, starring all my friends. Different dream = different episode. That, too, was awesome.

Another notable weird dream is this one right here.

What was the weirdest (or best) dream you ever had? That's appropriate to share with the world?

OK I'm off to catch some badly needed zzz's. Have a great Saturday.

lili, stace, wes

These are two of the most special people in my life. Whatever extraordinary things God has in store, whatever my future holds, I'll have my family and these two people, especially, to thank.

Lili, my comrade, my partner in crime, my friend. She is already doing, at 22, what most of her fellow students at Northwest are only talking about. Last Sunday night, she had her first official youth gathering, and spoke her first message. (To fifty kids... all getting connected in groups). I am challenged by her drive and her courage; sharpened by her standards and her commitment to never doing anything halfway. I couldn't imagine this journey without her. Our support for each other often has to be an unspoken one - we're each busy chasing different dreams... but it's there, all the same. I had no idea what this internship would bring my way, but I'm thankful for one constant in all the twists and turns - her friendship. Her appreciation of my sarcasm. Her gratitude that I know how to write a thesis statement. Her willingness to listen when I need someone trustworthy to lean on.

Wes, my pastor, my coach, my spiritual dad. If there's one thing I'm most grateful for concerning Wes, it's this: he's always believed in me more than I believed in me. Told me often. And he's shown incredible commitment to helping me grow so that potential can be realized. I have no idea how I got so lucky... some people would give their right arm to be working with this guy, at this special church... and God just dropped the opportunity in my lap. There's such a comfort in working with someone who's been there so many years, praying for you and with you. Who's seen firsthand what God's grace has done in your life... who knows God's not done.

Every Thursday, I get the privilege of walking into a room of people who I know love me and believe in what God is doing in my life. I'm so thirsty to learn how to make this dream happen, and every Thursday, I take a few more steps toward that realization. I walk out ready to conquer the world.

Every Thursday, I get a fresh reminder: I'm not in this thing alone.

just a little smoother in Your hand

Rolling River God
Little Stones are smooth
Only once the water passes through
So I am a stone rough and grainy still
Trying to reconcile this river's chill

But when I close my eyes and feel you rushing by
I know that time brings change and change takes time
And when the sunset comes my prayer would be this one
that you might pick me up and notice that I am
just a little smoother in your hand

Sometimes raging wild, sometimes swollen high
never have I known this river dry
The deepest part of You is where I want to stay
and feel the sharpest edges wash away

And when I close my eyes and feel You rushing by
I know that time brings change and change takes time
And when the sunset comes my prayer would be just this one
that You might pick me up and notice that I am just a little smoother in your hand
***
[Although there's a lot of Christian music I've given up on, one of my favorite singer-songwriters - period - remains Nichole Nordeman. Her songs are lyrically some of the most deeply stirring that I've ever come across. She's more than simply a nice voice; she's a beautiful poet. And her songs dare to travel deeper than most Christian music, in its addiction to only telling pretty parts of the Story.]
***
When it comes to growth, I desperately want to rush the process. Forget this stone smoothing stuff. I hate still being rough around the edges; I hate that I still don't have myself figured out. Or the world around me figured out, for that matter. I get discouraged that there are still some dragons in my life that haven't been slain. I'll slam up against some brick wall of habit, and still find myself slightly surprised. What? I thought I had this licked! (Sike).

Couldn't you just fix me all at once, God? I think that's a great plan.

My boss and I had a great talk today at work. (Bob is the coolest boss ever, hands down). Number one, it was great because he said, "Now, don't get a big head, but you're the best assistant we've had. Ever. So don't be so hard on yourself. We expect you to make mistakes as you're learning this stuff... so just know that it's ok." (my project load has grown a ton and I get frustrated when I miss details) Who doesn't want to hear that from their employer? Who won't work their arse off after hearing that? (genius plot of his: respect employee)

Second, it was great because we got lost on a tangent (typical, although usually it's politics) and talked about life experiences, and how it's only in looking back that we see how far God's brought us. (Well, he said, how far he's come... I said, how far God's brought us... working on him). In hearing him talk about some of the character flaws he's overcome as he's grown older, I found my heart growing hopeful. I've got time. If Bob can still be growing and conquering his demons at 50, surely there's hope for me.

It's an agonizingly slow, painful process to grow into myself. In the blur of the day-to-day, despite my efforts, I see nothing. Nada. I see same old me... and a lack of progress. But when I look back at who I used to be... I see that God's been at work perhaps more than I think. The farther I look back, the more I heave a huge sigh of relief.

I take painful glances at most of my photos growing up and am glad I grew out of my decade and a half of bad haircuts. I look back at elementary school; it's pretty great that no one calls me "a total dog" anymore. (take that, suckers! I think I turned out alright!) On a more serious note, when I look back, I'm relieved that I no longer see embarrassments and heartbreaks as permanent blights upon my life; seasons without end. I'm resigned to the fact that I'll inevitably embarrass myself, pretty often. But now, I gut-laugh over it (although I still cast furtive glances around the room to see who saw me). My heart has grown stronger, too: the day I said goodbye to the first person I'd really fallen in love with, I thought that love would never smile upon me again. It hasn't grinned yet, but I'm more full of hope than ever. And I'm unafraid. It's a great place to be.

We're probably lucky God takes his time on us... rather than tearing us limb from limb in order to reshape us in the instant-fix it method we typically desire. He works bit by bit, and although it's slower, it's more gentle and more lasting. I'm not very far along in this process, but I thank God that I'm living life more comfortable in my skin, freckles and all. I'm learning to relax and enjoy (bear?) this smoothing of my rough edges. Even if it's slow.

We've come a long way, baby.

AND WE KNOW THAT IN ALL THINGS GOD WORKS FOR THE GOOD OF THOSE WHO LOVE HIM, WHO HAVE BEEN CALLED ACCORDING TO HIS PURPOSE. - ROMANS 8.28

prayer

This morning was one of those mornings.

Some mornings are a slap in the face; this morning was more of a stiff right hook to the jaw. I’m still trying to steady myself. Trying to quit seeing stars. Trying to wake myself up from this nightmare of a day. I want a do-over.

It’ll get better; all things do. I’ve journeyed through enough valleys to know that they don’t go on forever. It’s one of the most grounding things about life experience and growing older (and hopefully wiser) – you realize that this, too, shall pass.

Sometimes things get worse before they get better, however. Sometimes one bad day or even one bad moment can turn into a whole season of frustrations. Not always, but sometimes. This has potential. And so I find myself praying, as I sit here at my desk. Praying that God’s grace and mercy would cover me in this moment when I know I need it. Not because I deserve it by any means, but because I know He wants to hear me ask it of Him. I know I need to humble myself, quit trying to be strong on my own, and talk to God about the small yet heavy things on my heart.

So Lord, I need You today. I know I need You everyday, but sometimes I forget. Sometimes I get busy and lose sight of what’s really important. This one hurt, Lord, but thanks for the reminder. I will trust You always, although I may seem to be lost...

And on my prayer will go.

a good movie

Exhausting day today. Emergency hearing in Seattle for the boss = lots and lots of hurried typing for the lowly assistant. Ended the day with a good movie and a dear friend though, so no complaints.

I know I'm probably the millionth person to say this, but if you haven't already, rent In America.

I don't really have words; it was just simple and powerful. To dissect it would mar its beauty, so I'll just say: watch it. Watch it soon.

Thanks to Jules for coming over and watching it with me. And for not mocking me for being such a crybaby.

the standoff continues...

Apparently Kevo and I are at an impasse regarding who will give in and buy groceries first. Inconceivable.

I walked into the kitchen to discover Kevin preparing his gourmet meal for the evening: Bread. Bread with a puddle of mystery sauce on top.

S: Kevin, what the heck are you eating?
K: Bread. We have no groceries.
S: No, I mean, what is that... is that bbq sauce?
K: No...
K: Yes...
S: Sick.
laughter...

TEN MINUTES LATER:
S: How'd your bread treat ya, Kev?
K: (strumming guitar) Uh, not very good.
S: Aw, that's too bad.
K: Well, the bread was sort of stale to begin with, so...
S: (speechless)

and apartment living has reached a new low.

MEMO TO KEVO: You work at a grocery store. In fact, you worked tonight. Buy some freakin' groceries! Or, if you prefer you can always put catalina on your bread tomorrow night. Genius.
***
IN OTHER NEWS, I'm sad, bordering on bitter. I lost two important CD's somewhere between California and home. Jamie Cullum has now left a void in my life, which is most upsetting. I've been craving his songs, and despite searching my car, my parent's car, and their house, he is nowhere to be found. Also a slight bummer is that I lost my only copy of the background track for my song... dang. Sad in my heart...

the me too club

"I have invariably found that the very feeling which has seemed to me most private, most personal and hence, most incomprehensible by others, has turned out to be an expression for which there is a resonance in many people. it has led me to believe that what is most personal and unique in each of us is probably the very element which would, if it were shared and expressed, speak most deeply to others." -- Carl Rogers
***
I have come to the conclusion that "me, too" is one of humanity's most beautiful phrases. "Me, too" expresses many things. It says "I know how you feel." It says "You're not as strange as you think you are." The best thing it says is this: "You are not alone."

I've been writing almost daily for three months. Some of my entries have been about where I went, who I went with, what we did. Some have been sarcastic tales of all things ridiculous and awkward (the main inept character in these tales being me). Some have been, admittedly, total crap. And others have been simply me expressing what's on my heart. A lot of what I write probably reads more like a confession than an essay... something I have yet to be able to change. Something I have yet to desire to change.

A question I've been asking myself lately is, why? Why do I feel compelled to record my days and moments for friend and stranger alike to read? Why wear my heart on my sleeve? Why let people see the mess that is me?

Good question. Here's the answer, as best I can figure it out:

When I yell out into the great deep void, "THIS IS HOW I'M FEELING!" - regardless of whether or not it's pretty - and a voice echoes back, "ME TOO!" I am utterly relieved. My human experience has been validated; I become more real, somehow. I have struck a chord of truth that resonated not solely in my own heart, but in the heart of another person as well. The most beautiful thing is, I realize that I am not alone; I discover that the face in my mirror is not my only companion. I may have found a friend. Even if only for a brief moment, I have found a kindred spirit.

What has shocked me is this -- it's the parts of me that I'm most reluctant to expose that elicit this "me too" response in people. I grew up feeling a lot like a puzzle piece... one that went to another puzzle. Somehow, I just got shoved into the wrong box. I was no Napoleon Dynamite growing up... it wasn't that bad... I just didn't fit right, and I felt it intensely. I was awkward and clumsy. NO, I take that back. I felt awkward and clumsy, which doomed me to sometimes becoming awkward and clumsy. I was more sensitive than those around me, and thought about things way more deeply. Somehow I felt more lonely in a crowd of people than I did on my own. I just felt out of place, in most places. I could go on, but if any of the following apply to you, then you already know what I'm talking about anyway, and I might as well save my breath:

• My Stupid Mouth by John Mayer could be your life anthem.
• Although you're normally a sociable person with close friendships, the words "mix and mingle" strike a note of sheer terror in you; the pressure of a first impression renders you so incapable of normal conversation that you save yourself the trouble and simply write "social retard" on your forehead. If the opposite sex is involved, run. Just run.
• No matter how old you get or how great a job you have, you're still intimidated by the "cool kids" that ring up your purchases at the GAP. You can see them judging you in their hearts: S/he is SO not cool enough to wear our clothes. (this is overdramaticized, but only slightly).
• Your most embarrassing moment is easy to recall. It's pretty much birth through right now.

If you can relate, #1, I'm sorry, and #2, welcome to the club.

Although I used to try ridiculously hard to act like I had things together, I've sort of given up. I don't have the energy, and the me too's are too precious. I need communion, and I can't have it when I'm trying to be someone I'm not.

All of us long for communion. With God, with each other - we are desperate for it. We long to understand and be understood; to somehow bridge the immeasurable distance between the soul in here, and other souls out there. In some perverse twist of our nature, however, we only want to show up at the party well-dressed and well-mannered. We still think our acceptance is based on performance, and so we perform away. We paste a smile on our face, we laugh, we say all kinds of pretty things -- and walk away in bewilderment as to why our time together felt so... shallow. Empty. False.

We keep each other at arms' length because we're utterly convinced that if we show our real selves, the automatic response will be rejection. The bitter irony is that, if we could just let down our defenses for a moment, we'd find what we're really searching for: common ground. Common experience. Without vulnerability, however, we remain mere acquaintances with even our most constant friends. Our fear of loneliness keeps us lonely. There's no opportunity for someone to say "me too," because we really haven't said anything of consequence. Being myself is one of the most scary things I can possibly do, but it sure beats the alternative.

If we have the guts to seek it, there's beauty in stepping out to discover common ground. Not only beauty, but hope too. As we see God at work in the lives of those around us, we see that God is, believe it or not, at work in us, too. Our stories of struggle are also stories of eventual redemption in Christ.

This is why I share my life: The mess that is me is day by day being redeemed. Stay tuned...

so that no one fears I'm dead

Apparently I'm such an obsessive blogger that if I don't post for a day, folks respond in one of the following ways:

a) Stacey hasn't posted today. She must be dead.
b) Stacey hasn't posted today. Maybe she fell down the stairs and broke her leg. Maybe she hit herself in the face with a kitchen cabinet door and knocked herself out. (Actually that cabinet thing happened. A few times. Except for the getting knocked out part. Stop judging me. I have no depth perception without my glasses, but don't wear them often because I don't like how I look in them).
c) Maybe she's been kidnapped.
d) Maybe Stacey got a boyfriend.
e) Stacey hasn't posted today. I'm annoyed, because now I have nothing to read in my boredom at work. I will simply complain next time I see her.

Fear not, I'm fine.

And for the complainers (you know who you are), I quote you Strongbad, who knows exactly how I feel:

"Auggh! You people and your demands! I'm not here to fulfill your every freakin' whim, alright? Make a song about me. Send Trogdor over to my house. Put on a purple thing and dance around. Well, I've had it."

Just kidding. Because I haven't really been in a deepish mood, here are notes from all over.
***
Jules and I went to go see Napoleon Dynamite Friday night after the 20-30's Grand Disappointment (there is nothing that makes me more shy than a group of 50 that I'm supposed to mix and mingle with. I left slightly depressed and more convinced than ever that I am hopelessly awkward). Maybe the most random movie I've seen. But because I love random humor, it was great. I do worry for Lili, though, because she's proudly seen it twice in the theater. I find that troubling slightly. Some of the truly great quotes:

Napoleon: Girls only want boyfriends who have great skills. You know, like nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills...

Napoleon: I see you're drinking 1% milk. Is that because you think you're fat? Because you're not. You could probably be drinking whole milk.

Boy on Bus: What are you going to do today, Napoleon?
Napoleon: Whatever I wanna do, GOSH!
***
I bumped into my friend Brent last week at NewLife, he played in my worship band up north in Bellingham. Apparently he has a pretty good studio setup at his place, and so I now have a place to record if I want. For free! I'm happy in my heart. Kenny, my most unexpected cheerleader, says that I should just do a raw worship CD, just me on a piano or guitar, no fufu stuff, just a worship session like we used to do in chapel for the internship. It would be fun... it'll take me a while to get up the guts to put myself at the mercy of hearing myself in playback again... it's always sort of a love-hate thing. But I'm excited that the opportunity has presented itself again. I'm at my happiest when I'm singing.
***
Last night I decided that I'd really like to resurrect the word "sike". I miss saying stuff and then completely negating it while at the same time mocking someone. "Not!" annoys me. "Sike" is cool.
***
I finally have the new Alias season 3 DVD. I will be watching it by myself because my friend Tawny chose entertainment over friendship and watched it without me.

T: "I can't wait til the new season comes out so that then we can have an Alias party and watch them while hanging out!"
T: "Sike!"

why does it say paper jam when there IS no paper jam?

In honor of Friday, I give you some thoughts from the I-Ching of office life:

***

BOB SLYDELL: Y'see, what we're trying to do here, we're just trying to get a feel for how people spend their day. So, if you would, would you just walk us through a typical day for you?

PETER: Yeah.

BOB SLYDELL: Great.

PETER: Well, I generally come in at least fifteen minutes late. I use the side door, that way Lumbergh can't see me. Uh, and after that, I just sorta space out for about an hour.

BOB PORTER: Space out?

PETER: Yeah. I just stare at my desk but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch too. I'd probably, say, in a given week, I probably do about fifteen minutes of real, actual work.

BOB SLYDELL: Uh, Peter, would you be a good sport and indulge us and tell us a little more?

PETER: Let me tell you something about TPS reports...

***

PETER: I realized something today. It's not about me and my dream of doing nothing. It's about all of us together. I don't know what happened at that hypnotherapist the other day; maybe it was just shock. It's wearing off now, but when I saw that fat man keel over and die, Michael, I realized that we don't have a lot of time on this earth. We weren't meant to spend it this way. Human beings weren't meant to sit in little cubicles, starring at computer screens all day, filling out useless forms and listening to eight different bosses drone on about mission statements.

***

Yesterday as Lil and Kenn and I sat in Barnes & Noble for our intern meeting, I realized that I have a pretty Chandler-esque trait. No one knows what I do for a living. I was telling Kenn that we had a busy day because my boss had to be in court that afternoon.

K: Uh-oh. What happened... is it bad?

Me: Um... he's a lawyer. (Lili snickering in background)

K: What? I thought you worked at a bank or something... When did you get this job?

Me: Before our internship started a year ago. I'm a legal secretary.

K: Oh.

Me: Yeah.

Lili: still snickering...

Here is where I spend a third of my life. I have a pretty great boss, all things considered. Although I could think of about thirty things I'd rather be doing other than prepping for his hearing this afternoon, today was pretty decent. For the following reasons:

1. I remembered to turn on the coffee pot when I got up this morning. I also remembered my car was running on fumes (you know, where the fuel light has given up and turned off), BEFORE I was already running late for work. While pumping gas, I stopped on EXACTLY $6.00 without even trying. A good omen, I'd say.

2. I waltzed in the door ON TIME, coffee in hand. Ok, well, five minutes late. Which is sort of my normal time.

3. On my desk, lo and behold, a coffee card from Starbucks! Thanking me for working so hard on the last project! Way to whisk away my bitter feelings of underappreciatedness! Coffee is a mystical and miraculous gift.

4. It's Friday (weekend on the horizon), and tonight is our very first get together for our "20-30 Club for People Who Don't Have 2.5 Kids Yet." At least, that's the working title. Another one I like is "Opportunities for Stacey to Feel Slightly Awkward as She Is, Once Again, The Single One in a Sea of Married-ness. Or Engaged-ness." Actually, I'm totally looking forward to getting to know some folks from NewLife, rather than showing up and leaving still rather unconnected. I think God is going to really use this.

HAVE A LOVELY WEEKEND GUYS. I'M OUT.

small

Things are as they should be in my little world tonight (and it's not just because Kevo came home from work with Ben & Jerry's to make up after our stupid argument yesterday). The rain is singing gently outside my window, and my feet are warming up beneath my blankets as I sit here on my bed. I feel blessed and at peace.

And yet, not completely at peace. Outside my little world, there are many things that are not as they should be. Pain looms large wherever I allow my eyes to wander. No matter where I look -- toward Beslan, Fallujah, Darfur, toward any number of places -- heartbreak and desperation stare me back in the face with a morbid intensity. They dare me to continue to look into the abyss; they mock me for my pitiful, self-centered, shallow efforts at attempting to care.

I have no idea what to do with that. I feel guilty. I feel powerless. I feel small. I feel like closing my eyes and plugging my ears and slamming my door shut on realities that are, for me, uncomfortable; for someone else, an earth-shattering, mind-numbing siege. Every single day.

When Darfur finally reached my radar, and I had no clue what was going on, I realized I was woefully out of touch with what was going on in the world. Since then, I've been attempting to keep up. I'm searching out the less-likely-to-make-the-front-page stuff. I'm trying to widen the focus past what directly affects me. I'm trying to be a slightly less selfish American. If that's possible.

Where has it left me? Still here in my cozy bed, only now I feel like I have a mass of faces staring at me with their hands and noses pressed up against the window. My heart hurts, but in that same heart I know it doesn't hurt like it should. Regardless of what emotions register, my sudden feelings of concern don't put another bite of food in someone's belly. They don't bring one bit of comfort to someone dying of AIDS. They don't make the slightest difference. I'm paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of suffering. I feel the urge to say "I'll pray" but hear in my own voice these words instead "...go; keep warm and well fed."

What does God ask of me? I honestly am not sure. The temptation exists to scurry back to my blissful ignorance; to turn off the noise now blaring in my ears. But Jesus cares deeply and without reservation for the suffering and the poor, and so I can't imagine that he asks nothing of me as his disciple; in fact I'm somehow sure that I'm now accountable to do something with what I've seen and heard. But I remain, well, small. Small and distant. What do two hands and a heart millions and miles away have to offer? Not much.

The one thing I can say for sure in my tired ramblings tonight is that while my concern for the out-there world MUST grow, there is a reason why God placed me right here. I don't mean to turn the focus right back inward again, but there are people outside my little safe world that are still in my accessible, reachable world, and they are dealing with immense need right in front of my face. No question exists as to what God asks of me there. Poverty exists right next door, at my job, in my church community. And I must choose to see it; not only to see it, but to reach out towards it as Christ's hands would. My gift: not a cup of cold water, but attention. Concern. Listening. Grace. Love.

Mother Theresa's words to end tonight's rambly little post: "I think that the work of the Church in this developed and rich Western Hemisphere is more difficult than in Calcutta, South Yemen, or other areas where the needs of the people are reduced to the clothes needed to ward off the cold, or a dish of rice to curb their hunger -- anything that will show them that someone loves them. In the West the problems the people have go much deeper; the problems are in the depths of their hearts.

In the developed countries there is a poverty of intimacy, a poverty of spirit, of loneliness, of lack of love. There is no greater sickness in the world than that one."

a virtual plethora of good stuff

Check out my new links on the left. Now you can read my ramblings and study the Bible. Lucky dogs!

Iraq according to the Bush administration: "Once upon a time..."

I read an article this morning that helped me not feel so guilty about my future vote. Apparently I am not the only person who, although they typically would consider themselves a Republican, find themselves deeply critical of the current administration, and its poorly-written fairy tale about what's going on in Iraq. I wince at the thought of voting Kerry... I'm not a huge fan, but Bush has left me with little choice. If you'd like to read the article fully, it's here.

Here's a piece of the article that I think illustrates pretty well the conflicting versions of where we're at in the war on terror & the war in Iraq. (No amount of rhetoric will make me believe that the war on terror and the war in Iraq are the same thing).There seem to be two Iraqs. One according to W and his camp (the Get-Bush-Reelected Iraq), and one according to everyone else, including Republicans who served under his father.

What troubles me is this: if Bush's administration sees an Iraq so wholly different from what is reflected in reality, is it unfair to say that they probably see an alternate-reality United States as well? Just a thought.

By the way, I really like that Colin Powell. Wonder how long he's going to last if he keeps telling the truth.
***
...Among those making critical remarks were the two senior Republican members of the Foreign Relations Committee: Chairman Richard Lugar of Indiana and Chuck Hagel of Nebraska. Sen. Hagel said the situation had gone beyond "embarrassing" and had entered the "zone of dangerous," and that the entire effort in Iraq was "in deep trouble." Sen. Lugar was also blunt in his assessment of the situation.

'Our committee heard blindly optimistic people from the administration prior to the war and people outside the administration what I call the "dancing in the street crowd," that we just simply will be greeted with open arms,' Lugar said. 'The nonsense of all of that is apparent. The lack of planning is apparent.'

US senators weren't the only ones critical of the effort in Iraq. In an article in the Guardian newspaper, US journalist Sydney Blumenthal (who was one of the first journalists to report on the torture of Iraq prisoners by US soliders at Abu Ghraib prison) quoted "leading strategists and prominent retired generals" who told him the "war is all but lost."

Retired general William Odom, former head of the National Security Agency [under the first President Bush], told me [Sydney Blumenthal]: "Bush hasn't found the WMD. Al Qaeda, it's worse, he's lost on that front. That he's going to achieve a democracy there? That goal is lost, too. It's lost." He adds: "Right now, the course we're on, we're achieving Bin Laden's ends." Retired general Joseph Hoare, the former marine commandant and head of US Central Command, told me: "The idea that this is going to go the way these guys planned is ludicrous. There are no good options. We're conducting a campaign as though it were being conducted in Iowa, no sense of the realities on the ground. It's so unrealistic for anyone who knows that part of the world. The priorities are just all wrong."

The above sentiments are greatly at odds with those of US Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, who last Friday told an audience at the National Press Club in Washington that as far as the war on terror and Iraq were concerned "so far, so good ..."

'The Taliban regime is gone. Those still not killed or captured are on the run. Despite a campaign of violence and intimidation, over 10 million Afghans have registered to vote, including 4 million women . . . And they've registered to vote in what will be the first free election in that country's history. Saddam Hussein's regime is finished. His sons are dead. He's in a prison cell, where he awaits the justice of the Iraqi people, which he will soon face. Libya has said now that it is renouncing its illicit weapons programs, and it says it will cooperate with the efforts to stop the spread of weapons of mass destruction and that it's seeking to reenter the community of civilized nations. Time will tell, but so far, so good ...'

The administration's positions on Iraq took another hit on Monday, however, when Secretary of State Colin Powell told a Senate Governmental Affairs Committee meeting that it was unlikely that any weapons of mass destruction would ever be found in Iraq. Mr. Powell further "shocked" his audience when he said that "some US intelligence officials knew that many of the claims about weapons and terrorist ties were suspect" at the time he gave his speech to the United Nations saying Iraq had WMD, but they didn't tell him or other officials about their doubts.

Powell also said on Sunday that there was no evidence that Saddam Hussein was "linked in any way" with the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington on Sept. 11, 2001, a position that puts him at odds with statements repeatedly made by Vice President Dick Cheney that Mr. Hussein could have been involved.
***
So far so good? What planet are you on, Mr. Rumsfeld?

last ridiculously long post for a while, guys! :)

daisies and sunshine and Ivan the Terrible

I've been keeping up on coverage of Ivan the Terrible, particularly interested in his rampage through the Cayman Islands. I think it's true that once you've set foot on certain soil, you carry with you a special concern for it forever after. (I also carried with me the actual soil; I have a glass bowl of it on my dresser. In moments when I need a touch of the tropical, I run some through my fingers and remember how good it felt on bare feet). I worked with a missions team on Grand Cayman five years ago, and it's sad to see Georgetown torn apart, and the gorgeous white coastline of Seven Mile Beach completely distorted, littered with shredded palm fronds and trees torn up by their roots. It will be a long time before the Islands and their people return to a former version of normal, if ever.

Isn't it the same with our lives? We live long seasons of relative tranquility, of daisies and sunshine and predictable beauty. We bask in their comfort, we relax in their gentle warmth. Then an Ivan screams through our world without warning, and all we're left with are fragments and remnants of the beautiful security we once took for granted. The familiar has become foreign overnight, and we are left to stumble though unkind and unyielding territory. Often, we walk it alone.

In these moments, where is God? What happens when he doesn't say "Peace be still"? What happens when he seems to be driving the wind and waves in your face?
***
MAJOR GRACE MOMENT #2: Two years ago on Friday, the biggest storm I'd ever faced completely ravaged my world. It came in the form of a wayward roadside construction truck, which decided to cut across two lanes of freeway at 40 mph, when morning traffic - and my 2door Mazda - were going 60. My car was totalled, and my body, very nearly so. Funny thing... when your car is forced to stop its forward motion, your body doesn't. It just flings itself around the seatbelt.

What saved my life was also what did the most physical damage. (WEAR YOUR SEATBELTS, FOLKS, the alternative is much worse). I had some pretty burly burns across my body from the seatbelt, and nearly cracked my sternum where the shoulder belt crossed (instead, I simply cracked and tore all the cartilage in my chest... nothing hurts like that). I severely messed up the muscles and ligaments in my left shoulder, neck and back, and hit both knees on the dash hard, leaving big ugly L-shaped bruises. The next few weeks were a daily game of find-the-new-bruises.

SOMETHING I'VE LEARNED: Ambulance rides aren't as thrilling as you'd think they'd be. I endured my lonely ride strapped tight to a board, staring at the ceiling, wishing my parents weren't three hours away, and desperately hoping I'd be able to get ahold of a friend to meet me at the ER (everyone else was on their way to work, too). My friend Aaron, after what seemed an eternity, made his way back to my ER bed and quietly held my hand as I quietly cried, still strapped to the board. He drove me home and bought me a pizza (I thought it sounded good) and stayed with me for the next few hours til my folks finished their frantic drive north.

What I didn't know was that I'd just made it through the easy part. I remember thinking that first few days about how awesome I was going to be about the whole situation -- how superfaithfilled I was going to be. But God was in the process of taking my health, my independence, my ministry opportunities, my emotional well-being, my normalcy. When you take those things away, impressiveness isn't really an option.

My life was hellish for a long time. I couldn't do anything. I went to class on Percoset (I practically lived on painkillers). I had to get a lot of rides... humbling. I had to give up most of my ministry involvement, because my shoulder was too messed up to play an instrument without severe pain. When I did try to lead worship, I was so emotionally spent already that I really had nothing much to give. I traded my part time job for daily appointments: doctor, chiropractor, physical therapy, and massage. (Don't give me that ooh, you're so lucky, maSSAGE crud... it was the hurty kind). My former fun outdoors was also out of the question -- I could barely carry my stupid groceries up the stairs. I hurt from the moment I woke up til the moment I finally drifted off to the crazy-dream sleep enjoyed by those on meds.

I was so miserable that even I didn't want to be around me. Everything about me that made me feel worthwhile had vanished. I was one of two things: angry or sad. I felt like a monster; I felt bad for being in the depths that I was in, and didn't want to bother people with it. No one wants a counseling patient for a friend. I got real quiet. Quit calling my friends. I even quit talking to God for the most part, because the only thing I'd be able to say to Him was "Why? Why the hell now, when everything was going so well, and I was serving You with everything I've got in me? Where do You get off?"

My friends fought hard for me, telling me they didn't care if I felt crappy, or acted crappy, or just was crap in general, they still loved me and wanted me around. I was astonished at their grace towards me and patience with me, when all I had to offer was my worst. I remember the day Rachel chided me for trying to tough it out alone: "It's not like there's no reason for why you're having a tough time. You got wrecked! I love you and want to be there for you as you're going through it, not leave and come back again once things are great again. That's what friendship is... (you big dork, so cut it out)." My church family took basically the same approach and just loved me through it.

Their grace gave me courage. After a while I ventured out into the scary territory of telling God exactly what was on my heart. Shock of all shocks, he was God enough to take it. In all my years of trying to earn God's acceptance, I had never fully known what it was like to come to God fully knowing I was empty, with nothing to give, no way to serve at all, broken beyond mending -- and still find His love enough. It was probably the ugliest, gutwrenchingest, most honest time I've ever had with the Lord. His grace was enough. At my worst. At my most faithless. At my most bitter. He never left my side the whole time. And although I'm not anxious to repeat the circumstances that brought this about, I do know that this season of trial reshaped my walk with God in ways that are too deep to be fully recognized or explained. You just come out different after the storm.

UNFORTUNATELY, what I thought was the end was merely the eye. As I was leaving physical therapy January 30, feeling a bit more like myself... I got rear-ended by a pizza driver. (Boycott Pizza Hut!) Back to square one. Except this time, work wasn't willing to wait, and I lost my job. I then had to drop school. I had a week and a half to pack up and move out of my pink stucco apartment and move home to let myself recuperate. OK God... what now? I felt like a failure.

What seemed like failure was, in retrospect, part of God's plan. You see, a few weeks before my Ivan, I had an honest conversation with my Mom about my calling, and school, and how they were, frustratingly, headed in polar opposite directions. I knew I needed to be pursuing ministry, but felt like I needed to quit being a flake and finish something. My plan was to get the piece of paper, and then in a few years, pursue what was really on my heart. That seemed like the wise thing to do. Evidently, that wasn't the plan that mattered. Ministry NOW seems to be more what he had in mind.

I don't know all the reasons for why God allowed the pain he did, but I can say that he used it in many ways. I'm stronger than I was two years ago. The daily stuff that used to throw me for wild emotional loops really doesn't affect me so much anymore. In the grand scheme, it's just not that big a deal. I've found solid ground. (And it's not me). I wouldn't trade the lessons I've learned. I wouldn't undo this. (I'd like to undo my medical bills, but that's for another day).

Two years later, I love my life more than ever. (At one year, I was still sort of a mess; at a year and a half, I started feeling markedly better; this is the big one...time to celebrate). My back still gives me some grief sometimes, but it's ok. My life has been given back, and it's been given back better. God has opened up door after door after door. With my job, my internship, ministry... everything. Praise be to God for his goodness to me.

***

"Where is God in my pain?" is a tough question to ask, an even tougher question to answer. I find that asking "Where was God in the midst of my pain?" is better. That one I can answer with perfect certainty. He was with me. And since he doesn't change, I can trust that he'll be with me now, in whatever circumstances life tosses my way.

God is still the same God he was the last time he walked with you through your storm. He has not changed, and neither has his concern for you. It may seem to take forever, it may seem to be a lost cause, but at the exact right moment, he will say, "Peace be still." We live in hope. Peace will come. God is near.

Psalm 103.11-12
As high as heaven is over the earth, so strong is his love to those who fear him.
And as far as sunrise is from sunset, he has separated us from our sins.

Jeremiah 31.34
I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more.

stumbling into grace

I am an incurable klutz. Whatever I'm doing involves a whole lot of tripping over, bumping into, and knocking over. When my pastor Wes is in the mood to mock me, he reminisces about when I tripped & fell off the stage just prior to leading worship. It's sad that someone in the conversation inevitably asks "Which time?" Walking through downtown last night is another prime example. Darn those uneven sidewalks! I completely tripped but caught myself, continuing on my way without comment in the darkness, when I heard Julie and Steph, nearly in unison... "One!" (It happens so often we keep a daily count. Our hike up Mt. Rose last month was well into the thirties...).

My relationship with the Lord has involved a lot of stumbling as well. When I speak of this stumbling, I'm not talking about the kind of stumbling you automatically think of when someone mentions it in their story -- although my life has had those kind of moments of failure. I mean the moments I stumbled into God's grace in the most unusual and unexpected circumstances. My next few posts will be dedicated to these moments. Not because they're rare -- every Christ-follower has their own -- but because they're mine. My story is the only one I can share, and God deserves honor for his blessings in my life.

***

The first time I truly encountered grace, I didn't even know I was looking for it. Raised in church, a Sunday School poster child, I knew all about grace -- in theory. I could tell you the verses, the statement of faith, the story of the cross... all of it. But I grew up in a church that, in all it's teaching about grace, missed the practical application of it in some important ways. Or, in fairness, perhaps it wasn't the church at all. Maybe it was simply me not getting it. I'm never quite sure. I've ceased placing direct blame on anyone... but the fact remains that while I could write a paper on grace, I lived my life outside it.

On the outside, it looked like everything was near-perfect. I was smart -- had skipped a grade, and still was near the top of my class. I was known for being musically talented. I began singing solos in church at four, started piano at six, and shifted to leading worship at 15. I was a good kid; although I'm sure I had my moments of struggle, I never had a long period of rebellion against my parents or of running away from my faith.

On the inside, however, I was a mess. Everyone has some view of God, whether it’s that he’s non-existent, unpleasable, unfair, gracious, loving – any number of things – and I believe it colors their view of their life as well. If someone had asked me, I would’ve replied with a well-practiced God loves me or Jesus saved me or something else equally expected. But in the deep places of my heart I was convinced that while God loved me in some distant, theological, attribute-of-God sense of it, he did not like me and was reluctant to accept me. My mental picture was of a cosmic chalkboard upon which a tally mark was made every time I fell short. God did not see me, he saw my board full of chalk. God’s grace meant that at the end of all things, the marks would be erased, and I’d get let into heaven, but until then, I needed to try to get as few marks against me as possible, to try not to disappoint him.

Try as I may, I couldn’t get even a single day right. I’d literally lie awake at night counting up the day’s mistakes and vowing to do better when the sun rose. "Jesus, I’m so sorry, I’ll do better," was my habitual prayer.

It wreaked havoc on me and my relationships. People thought I was witty and funny, when I was really just making fun of myself to beat them to the punch. My parents had no idea. They showed their love for me a ton, but they never knew til years later how hard I took it when they’d prod me to try for the A next time, or if they’d catch a mistake in the solo. I became the consummate people pleaser, trying to keep people happy and being heartbroken when I’d disappoint them. I lived in constant fear that someone was upset with me, but hadn’t told me why yet. This was a very strange kind of self-centeredness – if someone was tired, angry, having a bad day, I read it as being somehow linked to something I had done. I started keeping people a little more at arm’s length – if people weren’t close, then they wouldn’t be able to see the real me, the real disappointment. I could remain what people wanted me to be. The weight was unbearable.

Things came to a breaking point in the summer of 1997. I was seventeen and had just graduated from high school that year. The youth pastor at the church I grew up in... I don’t even know how to say it. He had a lot of issues that years later led to his removal from full-time ministry. All I knew was that I couldn’t do anything right. I walked away from that church with his angry words and stinging harsh criticism still ringing in my ears. I knew that something wasn’t quite right, that things weren't as they should be, but still, I couldn’t completely dismiss his writing-off of me as not somehow reflecting God’s verdict as well.

The "try" in me didn’t feel ok with walking completely away from God, so one random September Tuesday night found me at a church in Poulsbo, 15 minutes away. At summer camp that year, a tall blonde guy had spoken, and I thought he was funny, so I decided to check out his youth group. Couldn’t hurt – I couldn’t leave feeling any worse. The message I heard that night was the catalyst for a revolution in my heart that would change the rest of my life. I still remember the title: "Does God Forget Our Sin?" The gist of it was this: God is not stupid; God’s not forgetful; but in his power he chooses never to bring up our sin against us in his mind again. We can forgive (barely), but we can’t forget. God does both. God accepts us AS IS. Jesus died not only for the sins of our past before we came to know him (in my case, any sins up til the age of four); but also for our sins now.

I talked to that pastor afterward, and while I don’t remember any of the diagrams he drew on a bright orange flyer as he was talking with me, I do remember this: Wes didn’t seem to think I was as far beyond the reach of redemption as I felt I was. My heart began to come alive in a way it never had before. God’s grace was big enough for even me. Not only that, but it was available to me daily, in the here and now. I had peace with God, even in my incomplete imperfect state.

My whole being heaved a huge sigh of relief. Although I’d been a Christian nearly my whole life, I finally understood what it was to live life free – even if I understood it just a little bit.

The seven years that have followed have been a process of understanding that freedom a little more with each step. There are still habits of thought that rear their ugly heads from time to time, and I still have to consistently remind myself that I serve God, not FOR his approval, but FROM his approval. As I go through my internship, Wes is still having to remind me that I'm doing alright. I’m still in the process of learning that it’s okay to be human and flawed and that true friendships aren’t earned. The full beauty of this redemption will take time, and will likely not be completed this side of eternity, but I’m fine with that.

The reminders and shadows of what it was like to live without knowing God’s grace toward me are partially what give my life so much joy today. Whenever I see glimpses of grace, whether it’s in the patience of a friend when I’ve said the wrong thing (again), a hug and kindness from my mom or dad when I’ve screwed up, or the presence and assurance of God’s love in spite of my stubborn earn-it mentality, my breath catches in my throat and I’m caught off guard all over again. I still can’t sing Amazing Grace without the tears filling my eyes, but honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve been forgiven much; I love much. The best part is that I’ve stopped having to try so much.

****

A lot of people think that it’s only the missing who suffer when churches don’t make clear the message of grace; but those inside it are in just as much bondage, only perhaps it’s a more deceptive one. When churches set out boundary markers of what is and is not within the reach of redemption, people don’t live purer lives, they live secretive ones. When those "outside" aren’t allowed to come to God as they are, those "inside" realize that the only way to keep up acceptance is to keep up pretense. People on both sides of the line live their whole lives without knowing God’s heart, and it breaks mine.

So when I get all lippy about someone calling my community the kegger church, there’s a lifetime of reasons behind it. Maybe more than anything else, I am passionate about people finding grace. Not only those outside the Christian community, but those within it as well. I hope with all my heart that my life is lived in such a way that if people see me, they see a glimpse of God's grace and a bit of his heart for them through me. That is worth trying for.

*** sorry for the long post, but if you've been reading my stuff for a while, you know better than to expect any different. :)

'cause it's root root root for the home team, if they don't win it's fully expected...

I sang those exact lyrics at the top of my lungs, which amused folks around me... it turned out to be prophetic.

Final score: Anaheim 5, Seattle 1. Sorry, Steph the Hard Core Fan. Just wasn't meant to be.

But we were in AWESOME SEATS! Row 27, almost directly behind home plate. The guy in front of Steph caught a ball from Vladimir Guerrero's foul (Much to her chagrin, as he was an Angels fan and because of it she was determined to hate him... despite the fact that he was (a) extremely handsome, (b) really nice, and (c) shamelessly flirting with her throughout the course of the game).

In other news, I REALLY HATE THE MARINER MOOSE. He was running around in our section and messing with people, hugging kids and taking pictures with people... so I got the bright idea that it would be fun for the three of us to get our picture with him. We were finally about to catch up with him, which was not easy, because he's mobile for a stuffed head... and the jerk bolts back to the field for some photo op with someone more important. Do you know what it's like to be snubbed by a MOOSE in front of a few hundred people? Slightly embarrassing. Stupid moose. Dumb antlers. Can't even dance that good.

Moving on... as both of us are habitual people watchers, Julie and I were quite entertained by this person two rows ahead of us. We affectionately called her Beer Girl. She first caught Julie's attention because she was talking her poor boyfriend nearly to death, the entire game, gesturing with huge animated movements. His eyes, meanwhile, were fixed on the game, but he contributed an occasional "mm-hmm" just to keep her going. Poor guy. Just wanted to catch the game... Julie and I find helpless valley girls pretty amusing.

From there, it got more interesting. She went to the bathroom (directly behind our section) and got lost. Not sorta lost. Totally lost. Twenty minutes to get back to your seat lost, in an uncrowded section. She returned to abovementioned boyfriend with an exasperated sing-songy "[Boyfriend!] Don't you leave me on my own! (own being sung in two syllables)" giggle giggle. Maybe a slight fit of laughter was exchanged between Jules and me. Maybe.

The moment of truth came about twenty minutes later when she got excited about something she was talking about, forgot she was holding a beer in her hand, threw up her right hand, and completely dumped about half her beer into the seat behind her. Classic. At this point Jules and I were done. There's a point at which you attempt to be subtle in your laughter, and then there's a point at which you completely abandon it. I'll leave you to guess what kind of moment it was. Tears were shed. It was a beautiful moment.

Anyway, a good time was had by all... as I am incurably and unabashedly camera happy, here are tonight's photos for your viewing pleasure... despite weather reports, it was a good day to live in Washington, and an especially good day to be on the boat.

Go M's... please...

Headed over to Seattle for what seems like the 10th time this month...

For the game! I haven't been to the Safe yet this year, so this is a welcome last minute surprise.

Thanks to Julie's dad for giving her the tickets, and thanks Julie for passing the blessing right along... free BOX SEATS. Never been all high class & fancy at the safe before. Hmm... (hey Jules, call me about what boat we're gonna catch, ok?)

Peace out folks. Have a lovely day. Even if the M's totally suck, I'll still get to be here.

on beauty

(if you've known me a while, this could be a re-run, but I stressed today and needed to hear it again. maybe you did too).

I struggle sometimes with feeling that if I were that much prettier, that much thinner, that much more in shape, then people would enjoy me more or guys would notice me some or I would be more content... I fight back with all my heart against these thoughts, but it's so easy to fall for the lie that we are our image in the mirror, and nothing more. Why do we do this to ourselves? I saw a poll recently that said that 8 in 10 Americans want to lose weight... what kind of crazy obsession is this? We end up spending our whole lives so unsatisfied...

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not going to give up my gym membership and I'm not looking for a second job to support a Ben & Jerry's habit. I want to be healthy and strong, and I think it's important to take care of what I've been given. But this emphasis on outward appearance extends far past health & fitness issues. Even beyond needing to be crack-skinny... does our hair look just right? Are we wearing what's in?

I'd be lying if I said I don't enjoy a good hair day or new clothes, but when I'm honest I admit that so much time is spent on my outer self that sometimes I know my inner self care (examining my spirit in the mirror of the Holy Spirit) is neglected. Neglecting the eternal for the temporary. How sad.

The truth is that the 99.9% of us who don't look how the magazines tell us we should, we live our lives uncomfortable in our own skins. We spend our time trying to become someone else, rather than accepting with gratitude that gift which God gives only to us individually -- our unique smile, our particular eye color, our specific body type -- a million little things that make up the Artist's joyful expression of Himself in us, His masterpieces.

"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him, male and female he created them... God saw all that he had made, and it was very good." Genesis 1.27,31

We are an expression of who God is. As is.

Remember this --

It is not the sum of your parts, but rather the beauty that lies within your heart that holds true importance. Any outer beauty we hold claim to will soon fade unless it's simply an extension and expression of the joy of Christ flowing from our lives. If we fail to allow God to develop a loving heart and tender spirit within us, all that will remain is a shriveled, small soul -- embittered by the loss of yesterday's vainglories.

A world which majors on the outside will always minor on the inside, but don't allow yourself to be caught up in the lie. Remember who you are when you are your most vulnerable, your most naked, your most un-made-up. Come face to face with the fact that you are loved deeply and unconditionally, as you are -- FOREVER -- as a precious child of God. Even when you've just rolled out of bed, your hair's a la Madusa, and your left eye is still kinda droopy. (Oh wait, that's just me...)

Go ahead -- fix your hair, put on some paint if you must -- but please don't hide behind it and don't confuse today's temporary fuss with the eternal beauty of a life lived in response to the abundant love and grace of Jesus Christ. Beauty, real lasting beauty, begins within.

"The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart." 1 Samuel 16.7

look out folks... big red's on the web

Whelp kids, it's funny how things change. My dear friend, who once made fun of me for being such a blogging nerd, now considers my site her sunday paper, and has been inspired to begin her very own, very pink, blog chronicling the adventures of your favorite massage therapist and mine, Tawny. Her link is big red thoughts at the right.

Since she came over to have me help set things up, I finally got my grubby paws on our photos from kayaking in Liberty Bay... hoping to get out there at least one more time this year, but it's supposed to rain for a month, so we'll see. OK back to my coffee and my book. Nothing like a rainy Sunday morning when you don't have to be at church til evening. Brilliant.

McLaren on worship

The new worship pastor at Christ the King in Bellingham has a blog mostly dedicated to discussion on worship. A particular post caught my attention, as it was an article from Brian McLaren, and he's all the rage these days. You can visit it here. Here's an excerpt, just to give you some sense of what I'm talking about.

Too many of our worship songs are more about us than God. Yes, we say the words "praise/thank/bless God," but mostly, what for? For glorious attributes and wonderful mysteries? For historic deeds and cosmic judgments? For rescuing the widow and orphan? For setting the captive free? For humbling the arrogant and sending the rich away hungry? For spinning galaxies and salting starfields with glorious light? Uh, no.

Rather, we praise God for holding us close, for keeping us secure, for making us feel loved and blessed and forgiven and warm and cozy in our electric blanket of eternal security (with a warm comforter of national security thrown in too). We congratulate God on how well God is meeting our needs. When we say, "You're such a good God," it sometimes sounds like comforting words spoken to a pet. It pains me to say that, but I think it needs to be said.

I read that and automatically felt the kind of conviction I always feel on reading some critique of worship, or when I hear the lyrics to "Heart of Worship." I felt it strongly.

And then I started thinking.

And while I'll keep the sentiment of the lyrics of Heart of Worship, I think I'm tempted to dismiss 70% of what McLaren is saying as, well, I don't know... too far.

The 30% I agree with: as Rick Warren & Matt Redman have made perfectly clear, worship isn't for us, and it isn't about us. Also, I agreed that too much of our focus is on ourselves, and not on those who are yet to come. I agreed with what he said about our consumer religion, and the fact that we too often think we are the stars of the show. Right on.

From there, I began to differ, not with his point, but the extent he took it to. McLaren seems to pursue a pattern that bugs me about a lot of Christian thinking. You're either this, OR you're that. You're on this side, OR that side. Rarely is life -- our hearts, our minds, our worship -- so simple. You either sing about God in all his glorious majesty, OR you sing that in his arms, you're safe and secure. You sing of his heart for the lost, OR you sing of his heart for you, despite your failures. For his setting the captives free, OR how your heart responds to Him now that YOU ARE FREE...

Some thoughts:
1. Let's not forget where we're at in the food chain, huh?
God is God, and I'm not. I'm human. And when I'm not trying to sound super spiritual, I admit that I can't get excited about God setting the captives free until I realize that I used to be one... and that He set me free. We don't have altars today that we can set up with huge stones to continually remind us of what God has done (like was done in Biblical times)... I see some of the songs we sing as my altars. My opportunities to revisit and remember and thank God for what he has done. If it never moves beyond that to a concern for those who have yet to experience it, then we have a problem. But I'll never apologize for being so self-centered as to thank God for what he's done in MY life, in MY circumstances. That's a load.

2. We're not the ones making it personal for our own sakes - God made things personal long time ago.
There's not much I'm sure of regarding God, but on this one, I feel I'm close to certainty, at least in general. God could have, in his infinite authority, chosen to remain the God of the mountains, the God of the universe, of sacred mystery... he could've remained the God of the unknown. From the beginning, however, we're told that God wanted relationship with us. He walked and talked with Adam and Eve in the Garden. He spoke to Abraham. Moses. Gideon. Elijah. Oh yeah, and then he came and walked among us and healed our sick and fed our hungry and loved our unloveables. The Bible is full of accounts of God showing that he cares not only about the big historic moments, but about little details. Personal ones. God cares about people. As individuals. He is not at my beck and call, he is not a pop machine, but he IS personal and he DOES care about my needs. He reserves the right to meet those needs in whatever way he sees fit, and he reserves the right to be as mysterious as he chooses to be, but the one thing that I do know is that I am on his heart. Without grasping this, what's the point?

3. Communication is NEVER one way; why would it be any different with worship?
These two statements are not mutually exclusive: 1) Worship is not about meeting my needs. 2) Worship meets a need in my life. !!!
Why do we assume that this single act of communication is different than all others? It doesn't make sense. Even if I were to walk up to my mom, tell her to not say anything in return, and tell her how wonderful I think she is, my having said the words to her would still have an effect on my heart. It would be quite rare, however, that she would say nothing in return. As we speak to God from our hearts, he speaks right back to us. Although it's not my goal, most times of worship are times of mutual blessing. As I spend time with God, giving him the honor he deserves, my heart responds and I am changed just a little. By focusing my gaze on him and his power, his faithfulness, his grace, whatever -- I am once again at peace. It's not the goal, but it's an awful nice by-product. I hope that in our desire to get people to worship without being self-centered, we haven't pushed people to the point where their self is not involved. Where they feel guilty for "having gotten something out of it."

4. David's example
Read Psalms, for Pete's sake. It's all ME ME ME ME ME, and HOW I FEEL. Most of the time, he even feels rather sorry for himself. Well, it applies to the first half of most Psalms, anyway. The second halves consist of BUT GOD, BUT GOD, BUT GOD, BUT GOD YOU ARE... I tend to try to worship the way David did. David was described as a man after God's own heart, not dubbed a self-centered jerk who was always whining to God. He wasn't so concerned with impressing God with his fortitude and self-denial and sounding spiritual that he couldn't be honest with God about his heart and his needs. He knew who he was, and he knew who God was, and he didn't get the roles mixed up. I think I'll stick with his example.

5. It's all connected. These issues aren't "either/or", they are "AND".
God is personal with me, AND he remains God. Holy, mysterious, powerful, awe-inspiring. Yet still Abba (Daddy-God), Jehovah-jireh (God meets my needs), Jehovah-raah (God, my shepherd), and Jehovah-shalom (God, my peace).
I need to respond with all my heart to what God has done for me, AND I need to pass that love and grace on to the needy and the poor and the lonely.
I give my worship to God in order to thank him and bless him, AND, often, I too am blessed just in the giving.
I can ask him to bring peace to our brokenhearted and tempestuous world, AND I can ask him to bring peace to my heart.

Most of all, I can tremble in awe at God's bigness, his power, his unfathomable nature - AND I can call him Daddy.

I worship him for all of it.

diary of an old soul

If though wouldst have me speak, Lord, give me speech,
So many cries are uttered now-a-days,
That scarce a song, however clear and true,
Will thread the jostling tumult safe, and reach
The ears of men buz-filled with poor denays:
Barb thou my words with light, make my song new,
And men will hear, when I sing or preach.

--George MacDonald

speaking of kegger...

It occurs to me that people are a bit easier to love when they're not loud and drunk. Ha ha. This would happen the night after I write the kegger church post. You're the jokester, God!

Melanie, Julie, Steph and I caught a ferry right after work and met some of our friends Linnea & Shannon on the other side. I haven't seen Mel or Linnea or Shannon in months, so this was welcome. It was so good to hear the stories of what God is doing in everyone's lives -- the jobs being provided, the new opportunities, the places to live... the way He's weaving together such beautiful stories, even in the midst of hard questions. I left so encouraged. We just laughed a lot. Had a great dinner then walked across the skybridge to Nordstroms, bought truffles and coffee and sat and talked. It was a great way to celebrate Jules' birthday.

We got back on the ferry to come home, and it was fairly crowded as everyone was coming back from a Mariner's game. A game where Boston whipped us 13-2. (let's hope they do better when I go to the Safe on Monday - Julie's dad gave her box seat tickets... given their season, I'm not holding my breath). There were no booths left, so we sat in the chairs out in the middle. Fairly safe pick, right?

No. The answer is no.

We got surrounded by the loudest most obnoxiously drunk folks on the ferry. Who wanted to chat (translation: yell) all the way home. They didn't sit next to us. They surrounded us. Needless to say our conversation sort of died. One gent laughed and yelled into me and Melanie's ears FOR HALF AN HOUR. Some older guys from my former church who know us well were watching intently. We were laughing at how all three of them had their eyes sternly and protectively fixed on us. Not that I would have wanted to see it, but one of the guys, John, has a rough past in the Hell's Angels... he would have busted some heads in a heartbeat were it necessary. Which would have been sorta funny because he's Mr. Upstanding Citizen/Mr. Choir solo now.

Some priceless tidbits:

**To Julie, our lucky birthday girl: "You want my son's number?" Poor thing. (son was equally, um, done... but if she likes dudes in rainsoaked wifebeaters, she's all set)

**To all of us: "Are you guys strippers?" "no." "Would you like me to strip for you?" "no." "Cause I'd do it... I'd do it right now... for $190." His friend: "I might pay five dollars."

**To all: "So where ya from?" Stephanie: "Home."

**To no one in particular: "That's what I get for being a pretzel." ??

**Dad, to me, the girl closest: "Soh nay?" holds out his hand. "I'm sorry, what?" "Soh nay?" "What?" "Your name?" (it took me a while to figure out that he was speaking a different language, that it wasn't just drunkspeak) "Oh! My name's Stacey." shook his hand. Girls around me feeling deep and sympathetic pity for having to introduce myself to scary man... but I didn't want to be rude.

Dad, to Steph, also close: "Soh nay?" holding out his hand. "I'm Stephanie."

Him: "WOW... ARE YOU ALL NAMED STEPHANIE??" Me: "NO... my name is STACEY."

Me: "But their names are all Stephanie."

I love Seattle on a rainy night! 

kegger church

I got a huge compliment.
Apparently I’m an intern at the "kegger church."
Translation: we’re reaching out to people outside.
This is causing a ruckus.
I’m thrilled.
***
I spent time with three of my favorite people yesterday: Wes, Lili & Kenn. Wes - pastor & mentor. Lili & Kenn - the other interns. They’re incredible. I love our weekly time together. We use current happenings as our training tools, so today, we talked about how, in some circles, we've been dubbed the "kegger church".

We had a great discussion about the temptation towards defensiveness (& how character & impact speak for themselves), about Matthew’s model for Biblical confrontation when you have first hand knowledge of someone in sin, about staying focused on the mission you know you’re supposed to be on and not running after distractions. I always learn a lot from these conversations, and leave still thinking and processing.
***
Kegger church. What a compliment. Unintended, however. I also took it as a compliment when Christ the King, my church in Bellingham, was tagged as the biker church or the smoker church (ash trays out front, for your convenience).

What people are basically saying is this: "You have sinners at your church!" Geez, we should get right down on our knees and pray for forgiveness for the outlandish sin of ... accepting the people Jesus did in His own day. Hmm.

There’s a war of a debate in churches today and it’s a fight between being a church where the truth is preached, and being a church where people find grace. You’re one or the other. The church of truth may preach grace, but it’s hard to find there. The little sins of pride and gossip and a hard heart are ok, but please don’t sin outside the box, or we’ll Matthew 18 your arse right out the door. The church of grace accepts everyone, as they are, but never expects them to be anything but what they are. It doesn’t want to come off as judgmental, so it never ventures into the scary territory of telling someone what they need to hear.

Jesus called us to be full of grace AND truth. Not one or the other. It’s not an easy line to walk... there are people on both sides trying to tug you a little more in the direction they’re comfortable with. Jesus faced the same thing as some people thought he was a little too hard-lined, and others, well, they were ticked off because he would turn around and go hang out with prostitutes and drunkards. I wonder if they called him the kegger rabbi.

"Later when Jesus was eating supper at Matthew’s house with his close followers, a lot of disreputable characters came and joined them. When the Pharisees saw him keeping this kind of company, they had a fit, and lit into Jesus’ followers. "What kind of example is this from your Teacher, acting cozy with crooks and riff-raff?"
Jesus, overhearing, shot back, "Who needs a doctor: the healthy, or the sick? Go figure out what this Scripture means: ‘I’m after mercy, not religion.’ I’m here to invite outsiders, not coddle insiders." MATTHEW 9, MSG

Jesus didn’t just talk about accepting people... he touched them, he embraced them, he healed them. And because he loved them, he told them the truth about the kingdom. He had mastered what it meant to be both.

I love being a part of the kegger church. I’ll love it no matter what nickname or reputation it receives, as long as it’s a reputation for going after people God loves, instead of sitting inside our neat little cozy orderly BlessMe Club (which has its own issues, they’re just not talked about– trust me, I grew up in the club). You don’t want messy people with issues? Send ‘em here. But don’t complain and get bent out of shape when they come here.

The amazing thing is, once people get around Christ, get around grace and truth, they don’t typically remain the same. We may have people who are not living God’s way, I admit it. But we also have a lot of folks who used to be this or that, any number of things. We have folks who used to have a drug problem, or used to have a rocky marriage, or used to have a prideful attitude toward other people’s sin. The thing is, they had to find a home where people would love them and show grace towards them where they were at, AND they had to find a place where someone could tell them the truth. That’s the calling of the church.

Full of grace and truth. It’s what our lives are meant to be. God, make us more like Jesus and help us to love those you’ve called us to. Amen.

happy birthday to you...

ahhh... the photo box

I got a scanner/copier/printer the other night cause I'm tired of having to email stuff to work to print it (best buy is awesome, and not just cause of the Webb boys).

My latest endless project is scanning the family photos so that Kevo and I can have them on CD, instead of in the family album, er, box. I love looking through these pieces of my past... it's amazing the memories that come back. And the terrible haircuts that I had mercifully forgotten. I was looking in sheer horror at my own self in one particular pic, trying to convince myself that No, it couldn't be a mu...

Enter Kevin, peeking over my shoulder: "Dang." (snicker) "Nice mullet."

He can make fun all he wants, but due to what I've found so far, the folks love and admire me, their firstborn child, at a rate of 10 to 1 over him. This I deducted from the fact that so far there are 30 baby pics of me, and 3 of Kevin. My pictures... Stacey 3 days old. Stacey 3 1/2 days old. Stacey 3.75 days old. Stacey doing nothing. Stacey still doing nothing, but in another outfit. Kevin... well, he has a picture of his first birthday's cake -- but a picture of him at one year old is nowhere to be found. Hmm...

Here's me when I was still cute and when Kevin wasn't rotten (the mullets will be saved for another day):

This bottom one, a lovely photographic masterpiece entitled Child in Bucket on Poloroid, is me doing one of my favorite odd things growing up. For some reason it was perfectly logical for me to run and get a bathing suit on every time mom or dad washed the car, and to jump into the bucket. I tried doing that a few weeks ago while visiting the folks, it didn't work so well. Still, this picture has always been one of my favorites... it reminds me that there is potential for joy in nearly everything we do. Even if you are no longer three.

behind closed doors (and thin walls)

Right now, as I type, there are children screaming and crying. Things are being thrown at the wall. Doors are being slammed, and parents are yelling at each other. A family is troubled, and not very far away.

About 12 feet away, in fact. 12 feet below me, in apartment #201. They moved in a few weeks ago, a family with at least three kids. Family of five, stuffed into a two bedroom apartment. Since then, at least every other day, I either wake to the sound of screaming matches, or I fall asleep to them. I don’t think there is any sort of physical abuse happening, and I don’t feel the need to add to their frustrations by calling and complaining to my apartment manager about the noise, so I call no one. I try not to hear the bitter words, but I can’t avoid them; I am a captive eavesdropper. I seem to be forever stumbling upon someone’s private quarrel, but am denied the escape of quickly turning away in embarrassment.

I feel guilty for being privy to what’s happening in their lives, even if it’s limited to only slightly muffled shouts and shuddering walls. This is the stuff you know you’re not supposed to hear. But short of moving, I can’t avoid the constant reminder that behind the door I pass countless times each day, there’s hurt and hostility that always seems about to boil over.

I was lucky to grow up in a family where fighting and arguing were the exception and not the rule, but to say that my Irish-German family floated through the years in constant peace and tranquility, never raising their voices or getting mad, well – it didn’t happen. Even then, we had the luxury of fighting through things in private. And we had the space available to go cool off. If all four of us were stuffed into a 1000-square-foot space and told to live there, we’d might be ready to kill each other too. Still, my heart hurts that I don’t hear the "good" sounds too: kids playing games, laughter.

I’ve seen the two older kids a few times as I climb the stairs to my own apartment, they’re probably about 12 and 8. For the volume they’re capable of, they are sheepish and quiet when I attempt small talk. I don’t really know what I’m attempting to accomplish, if anything. I just try to be friendly in the hopes that a little kindness will somehow counteract the sea of conflict they live in. Sort of ridiculous, really.

Is that all I can do? It’s frustrating. I’m called to be an ambassador of Christ’s love in the world, but I can’t even figure out a tangible way to show it to the family who lives below me.

This is even more ridiculous, but the only thing I can think is: peanut butter cookies. I make great peanut butter cookies; they’re my specialty. I’m going to make peanut butter cookies and take them downstairs and hope and pray to God that somehow these cookies will be used as silent (tasty) instruments of God’s love. (I’m also hoping and praying that they don’t look at me like I’m crazy).

Admittedly, my peanut butter cookies probably can’t make much difference in the world. (Unless you talk to Dad; he’s a fan). But prayers for a hurting family plus a little reminder that someone cared enough to bake – well, that may just make a teeny tiny dent. I’m praying so.

choosing what is better

I bet God wishes I’d talk to Him as much as I talk about Him.

Frustrated. It’s difficult not to get sidetracked... not to start falling into the subtle but serious misconception that frenetic activity for God is a substitute for relationship with God. Especially when you start mixing your career, your livelihood, with ministry. I get so busy doing that I’m not listening; I’m not talking. But man, I’m workin’ hard! It’s never very long before I begin to wear out when I let myself wander into this kind of season.

The truth is, there have been some times when I have been on-stage leading worship when all the previous week I had forgotten God. My life still looked the same, I wasn’t going out and doing stupid things – but I hadn’t sought real and true communion with God all week. Except maybe a few hours before worship practice started, when I realized I was ridiculous to get up there without hearing from God and worshiping God myself first. Even then, skewed motives, wrong heart. When I think of His grace toward me in showing up in spite of my God-as-coke-machine mentality, I am humbled.

The same thing seems to be happening now, with writing, especially as I near the day where I’m employed "in the church." I have begun to see most experiences as potential material, rather than just living in the moment without a need for it to be "useful." My pastor related to me that there was a time when he found himself, whenever he was reading his Bible, not approaching it as learner, as child of God; but as pastor, preacher. It became duty, not devotion. Research rather than rest. It wasn’t that he shouldn’t be doing his job and preparing sermons. Of course he should approach Scripture with a desire to spread its message to others. But first and foremost he needed to approach it not as pastor, not as man of God, but as simply, himself. No title or job to be done.

That’s exactly the step I’ve been missing. Well, that, and the actually opening my Bible part, lately. Jesus told Martha, hard at work, that Mary, sitting as His feet, "had chosen what is better."

I miss the times when I used to just spend time with God for no reason other than just to be. When I’d find a piano with no one around and sing and cry and pray, with no concern for right notes or getting more skilled. When I’d rant and rave in my journal, still coming around in the end to the fact that God is trustworthy and faithful, but writing with no real concern for style or how it could come across. I’m glad that I now have more opportunity to use the gifts God has given, but there was a purity to things early on when seeking God made me no better at anything, because I had no position or spotlight. I came to God just because I wanted to be with Him.

I don’t think the tugging on my heart is asking me to stop doing altogether; that would be foolish and selfish. I do feel that I’m being reminded that, first and foremost, my role is simply this: daughter. Child. Friend. And it’s ok for me to come just like that, with no purpose in it at all, other than drawing near.

I’m going to go take some time. Don’t count on hearing about it. :)

few random thoughts

I feel like I hit a home run in our NL staff meeting this morning, and it felt really good. I've been on a happy high ever since. Basically had to do a presentation on where we're at with the church website (which I'm drafting and writing content for... a heinous beast of a task). For once -- I was prepared and professional, with packets for everyone and my little shpiel prepared. And although my heart was in my throat the whole time, I made it through. Someone (Merton?) says that you know you've found your true vocation when you quit thinking about how to live, and begin to live. I think that's happened for me with writing. It doesn't feel like work... it just flows. Everything else was complete procrastination war. Not this. It's bewildering. Afterwards, one of the pastors said that they'll need to look out... I'm working myself into a full-time job on staff. :) YES!
_________________________________________________________________________________
Yesterday my brother Kev was making fun of me as I hung my feet out his car window, telling me I had cankles. (calf-ankles that blend into each other). Jerkface.

I retorted that I don't have cankles. In fact, I said that I would hopefully not end up being super duper overweight when I got older because I have skinny ankles. "You can always tell by a girl's ankles," I said, in a sister-who-knows-more-than-you-do-and-who-is-sick-of-your-lip tone. Case closed, leave me alone and quit telling me I have cankles.

Pause.

K: "Or, you won't be able to walk because your ankles can't support your body weight."

Hysterical laughter.
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deep and thought- provoking question that came to me today as I was scarfing down breakfast:

If you could only have ONE cereal for the rest of your life, which cereal would you want it to be?

(And you folks thought I was incapable of a short post).

Friendationships

Normally I'd just post the link, but I know people are sometimes too lazy to add that additional mouse click into their day, and I just thought this was too funny not to share it. It's by a girl named Tara Leigh Cobble. (visit her site by clicking on the link). I found it on Ochuk's blog (ridiculously smart & funny), and you can find his link to the right. You know, if you all decide you're feeling delightfully not-so-lazy today.

___________________________________________

Friendationship: (n) frin-DAY-shun-ship

A male-female relationship, which has exceeded the normal level of friendship, but has not yet acquired official relationship status; a phenomenon that is prominent in the Post-Joshua-Harris era; often occurs pre-DTR; i.e. Greg doesnt want to date Sally, because hes not sure if shes The One, but its obvious to everyone that they are in a friendationship. Synonym: Just Friends; Antonym: Friends With Benefits.

I invented this word a few years ago, because I sensed a great need for it. My friends and I have used it frequently in everyday conversation, and they have recently encouraged me to release it to the world. It hasnt been entered into the dictionary yet, but I figure that if enough of us start using it, those days cant be too far off. As a matter of fact, bling-bling was just added to the Oxford English Dictionary. Im not even kidding. I heard that they credited some rapper with it. So, lets just all operate on the safe side here and make sure you credit me when you use the word friendationship. Then Ill be rich enough to have some bling-bling of my own someday.

Friendationships are a confusing thing. First of all, I haven't come up with an official word for what its called when you hang out with the person you're in a friendationship with (is it a frate, an abbreviation of friend-date?). Furthermore, what do you call that person? Until now, I've just referred to the person as your friendationship (instead of your girlfriend, your boyfriend, or the person you are always with but won't admit that you like) but I'm not sure if I like that either. If you think of anything better, let me know.

I'm not going to go into any details about my personal experiences with friendationships; but I will tell you that I think they are the best new trend in dating (or non-dating, whichever you prefer). And as a matter of fact, the best relationships that I've had have been friendationships. I fully endorse them. They're also fun to witness.

Two friends of mine, whom I will call Adam and Eve, have just recently admitted to each other that their friendship is, in fact, a friendationship. I've been telling Eve this for six months. Everyone else knew it, too… Adam just finally admitted it to himself. I feel so relieved. So maybe they will get married someday. Or maybe it will all end weirdly, and none of our friends will feel comfortable hanging out with each other anymore. But that's the beauty of the friendationship: total uncertainty, total lack of commitment.

To find out if you are currently in a friendationship, take this simple quiz:
1. Have you ever read I Kissed Dating Goodbye by Joshua Harris? (yes)(no)

2. After reading the book, did you burn it? (yes)(no)

*disclaimer: Joshua Harris is actually a friend of mine, and I have personally read everything he has ever written, including his private journals, which he keeps in his hall closet. Josh, I mean you no harm, and I think you and Shannon are amazing. Have a nice day, and please don't hate me this is all in good fun. (P.S. Can you make the word friendationship hugely popular?)

three times a bridesmaid!!!

I have one more wedding to go before I’m officially a lost cause. Grace and Andy, my dear wonderful friends from Bellingham who transplanted down here to Bremerton a few months after I came home, have set the date. Finally. I love these two people deeply and am so excited for their lives together. I’ll be a bridesmaid and sing at the wedding. We sat in her apartment the other night and looked through bridal mags... it was nice to have an excuse to. (Most of the time bridal mags are nausea-inducing, because I see stacks of them on the coffee tables of girls who have no boyfriend, probably because of ownership of said mags... and thus, no chance of wearing one of those gowns any time soon until they master the art of at least appearing less desperate. Bible college girls were the worst. “What are you here to study?” “Oh, well I feel called to be a pastor’s wife.” ).

I wasn’t really going to write about relationship stuff, but I just read this Ochuk blog and he can pull it off, so... besides I’m in the mood to laugh at myself just a bit, and once I get it out of my system, I’ll be fine.

FAVORITE THINGS I’VE HAD SAID TO ME

1. “We need to get you married, so we can hang out more.” -Recently married friend
2. Rebuttal to statement not remotely related to marriage: “I remember thinking that before I got married... [but now that I’ve been married for two months I’m dripping with wisdom]. - Another recently married friend
3. “Why aren’t you married?” To which I pick any of the following as responses: It would make my folks too happy... I’m waiting for my boyfriend to get out on parole... Because I just enjoy getting asked this question too much...
4. My Aunt, as we’re driving to a restaurant: “Why aren’t you married yet?” My reply: “Don’t know any nice guys who have jobs.” My cousin Leiske, married to my big-brother cousin David: “Girl, you’ve got some high standards going there... you’re never going to get married. You’re going to have to settle for one or the other! I figured I got both, but it turns out I was only right on the job part... (jab jab)”

People are hilarious. It’s really hard to understand why any girl in her right mind wouldn’t be married off by the time she’s twenty-five. At the age of thirty, it’s an all-out pity-fest. I feel bad for my thirty year old unmarried friends, not because they’re unmarried, but because people treat them like old maids.

I used to be sort of offended when people would ask why I’m not married yet... I love Bridget Jones’ response: “Well, I think it might be because, under our clothes, we are all covered in scales...” My particular reason? It’s not rocket science. Haven’t met the person who A) I really would love to marry, and B) who really wants to marry me (translation: who can put up with me!). C) My pastor, Wes, has yet to hook me up. (Detect the note of sarcasm... he takes credit for matching nearly every couple in the county... as his intern, I’m a prime target...) Now, I’ve simmered down a bit (in my old age... ha ha), and I actually see the nosy question as the compliment that it was intended to be, not a coarse upbraiding for not joining the married masses. Most of the time, I think it’s meant to communicate this – “Wow... can’t believe you haven’t been snatched up yet... you have a lot going for you.” Now, WHY couldn’t someone just say that, rather than, “When you gonna get yourself a husband?”

Random thought #2: THE DREAD CHAD ADDICTION

This is going to be one random post, I can tell now... this has no connection to the above. My crazy love life! It’s funny even to me. You can’t write stuff this good. I was really into long term relationships when I was the least ready for them: dated one person in high school for two years, dated one guy in college for two years. In the five years that have followed, I’ve been on my own except for brief “friendationships.” (My new favorite word). It’s been a while even since one of those, so I feel entitled to laugh at myself and vent about the plight of the old maid. (Slight disclaimer so I don’t sound like a total idiot: I don’t date casually... but I haven’t signed on to the Joshua Harris club for people who have kissed dating goodbye either. That said:)

It didn’t take long for healing to happen and for this to become a source of laughter: How does a fairly normal girl such as myself end up briefly dating three different Chads? (Not at once. Glad I cleared that up). I could see a name repeated like Mike, or Aaron, or any number of popular names. But three Chads? Actually, two Chads with the same last name. Two Chad Smiths. Like that’s not confusing. Chad the first, Chad the second, Chad the third – or Chad Smith the first, Chad Smith the second... it just all gets so mixed up! (It wasn’t Smith, names have been changed to protect the innocent/guilty)... My friends have had a field day with this one, let me tell you. If I meet someone, the first question is (mockingly) “Is his name Chad?” (I could meet Chad Pitt, and I’d pass him up just cause of the name, I swear...)

Funny story: the guy who comments sometimes here is not one of those Chads. He is affectionately dubbed the non-evil Chad, just to keep things clear. Aaron, Brent, Zach and I took a trip up to Bellingham a while back, and were at a party with some friends of mine. (The boys had nothing to do, so they hung out). I, unthinkingly, introduce them to non-evil Chad (but without the distinction of the title). Did I mention they’re slightly protective of me? All three of them get up out of their chairs in unison. Zach stands up straight, with his arms crossed over his chest. Brent takes a slightly tough guy stance as well. I think Aaron may have tossed a “nod” in there. (You know the guy nod). They proceed to shake his hand, and basically give him the strong arm. A few minutes later, they received a call from their buddies up there and go to leave. All of a sudden, I realize what they were thinking and ran outside to tell them... this guy wasn’t one of those Chads. They all exchanged guilty glances... “Oh... um... tell your friend we’re sorry...” In the day and age we live in, it’s not easy being a Chad.

Random Piece # 3: THE REALITY

The reality is, sometimes it’s kinda tough. Oh, I could try to pull off a brusque “I’m absolutely fine single, never wish for more,” but neither of us would buy it. The more people say they’re fine with being single, the more I tend not to believe them, so I won’t do that here. The strange thing is how unexpectedly the moments hit me, how random the catalysts of loneliness are. Watching people say goodbye at the airport, I think of the comfort of knowing someone will miss me til I come back. Going to the movies, I wish ever-so-slightly that there were someone there, to hold my hand and put an arm around me during the scary parts. Other times, the torture is self-induced – watching a chick flick or listening to a country song or watching a Hallmark commercial. Then, I get what I deserve. Sucker!!!

So, yeah, I won’t say I never want more. I will say this: I trust God for what He thinks is best for me. He’s been pretty good to me so far, so I have no reason to think He’ll botch this important area up. Only person who could seriously botch it up is me, in my impatience. So I try to focus on other things. Luckily, I live here, where there are few hottie-who-love-Jesus distractions... And the lonely moments aren’t my all-encompassing reality. I let it ache for a moment, then I go back to the task at hand - what God has asked of me now. I think it’s ok to say it hurts a little sometimes without sounding desperate or needy. It hurts a little, but all the same, I’ve got a life to be lived. That doesn’t wait. You either choose to live, or you waste time. The reason I was so frustrated with the Bible-college M.R.S.-degree girls was not simply that they were annoying in their hunting habits, but more the feeling that somehow they were missing out. Missing out on discovering if God had a plan for them as ministers and servants in their own right, not mere appendages to the calling God had for someone else. (I know plenty of great pastor’s wives who kick tail and love God and people - I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about the ring-by-spring, my-calling-is-to-be-a-pastor’s-wife types that anyone who’s attended a Bible college could tell you about). Maybe it’s the feisty in me, but I refuse to wait for marriage to run towards the calling God has for this season of my life. Maybe I put it a little too bluntly, I don't know. I just believe strongly that women have something to offer, but if their focus is on the supposed "finish-line" of marriage as the end-all-be-all of accomplishments, they'll miss it.

Plus, I’ve decided that once I’m in a house (hopefully soon, still checking it out), I’m getting a dog. That’s a simple way to take care of some of those aches. Yeah, you have to pick up their crap off the lawn, but they’re always glad to see you. And if it doesn’t work out, there’s always the pound. Just kidding. What to name the dog though? (I’m planning on getting an Alaskan Malamute puppy).

Has it already been a year since this pic your last night here? I'm glad you're back for a visit Car! You've been missed! 

G-rated

I wrote this a few weeks ago, but didn't post it, trying to avoid ruffling feathers. Thankfully, the GQ article has already done so, and I can now proceed with sharing my own thoughts.

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Tooling around in my car today, I had a slight brain lapse and hit #3 on my radio... it happens to be the local Christian music station. It was sad. Most tracks were, on average, five to fifteen years old. (I've got nothing against Newsboys, but anything that takes my mind back to Christian Skate Night as an eleven-year-old is not exactly what I'd call cutting edge). The new tracks? Even sadder. I heard the "Christian" N'Sync, the "Christian" Britney Spears... and on the list goes.

In my opinion, it's bad enough that I have to be subjected to blonde (or dyed brunette, just to be different) poprock (the Britney-Christina-Mandy-Jessica conglomerate comes to mind) and cookie-cutter bands on a daily basis on regular stations. It's why I usually stick to CD's in the car. Now I'm flooded with Christian copycats of what was (to me) not super original in the first place, which is even worse. Who's the next Christian Ashlee (never mind that she, like her twit sister, got her start in the church... Jessica used to sing for True Love Waits, if you can believe it, but moving on...), Who's the next Christian Avril (although I actually sort of like Avril when I'm in a certain teen angst mood). Sigh. I found myself frustrated. I konw that all music reminds us of other music-- we use combinations of bands to describe a new band's sound or feel... nothing is truly new, or absolutely original. But I don't think that any musician growing up dreams of being a complete re-make, either.

Rory Noland says in Heart of the Artist that it used to be, when people looked for excellence in the arts, they'd find it in the church. God inspired artists such as Michelangelo, Bach, Handel... set the standard. Their talent and skill were so great that, although the work they produced was undeniably "religious" in content, it raised the bar for artists all over the world, and it's still regarded as "the good stuff" today.

These thoughts relate to the arts in general, but being a musician, I'll pick on my own territory. How come, hundreds of years later, "Christian music" in general is relegated to only copying and straining through a G-rated filter the music the rest of the world produces? What happened to being at the forefront of creativity?

(I was tempted to use the term "secular music" in there, but I'm coming to believe that almost all art points to God in some fashion (thank you, Madeline L'Engle)... the line has become blurred for me. When thoughtful human beings are creating, they are, at least in some ways, reflecting the creative heart of God, and many times, though they don't know it, they are reflecting a longing to be completed by God. Let me be clear -- not all art points to God, but almost all art can point ME to God, and can give me fresh perspective).

GQ mag is not the only place I've heard this. I watched Macaulay Culkin on Conan(?) and he was doing research for his movie "Saved" so he went to a Christian music festival. He named off all the Christian versions of several bands. My first thought was GRRR and my second thought was "but he's right." Don't think that Christian music copycats? Play some for a friend from outside the Christian culture scene. See what they think.

In an attempt to be relevant to today's culture (or in an attempt to provide a Christian alternative to today's culture), folks take a look at what's popular, and say, ok, let's do that, only Christian style. I can picture marketing geniuses sitting down with a budding young (and still original) artist, saying, "I can see it now, you'll be the next Christian ." (insert name of current flavor-of-the-week). How tragic. The result of this kind of thinking has been some of the cheesiest, most out-of-touch and out-of-date music the world has seen yet. It's embarrassing how content we've been to tag along a few steps (or miles) behind what is impacting the music community. It's lazy. Worse, it's a waste of talent and a waste of breath. The message is incredible (the Gospel, when spoken honestly, will always be something that knocks folks on their arses... look at the Passion), but the tired methods used to present it don't often earn the right to be heard in the fast-moving frenzy we live in. It feels weak and diluted even to those who do agree with its message. Simply put, artists in many arenas have ceased being salt and light to the people they are called to. Better to be unoriginal than to have to sweat through the creative process and risk rejection.

Some have managed to avoid this entanglement. They dared to do something new, and since they did it with excellence, they got away with speaking (or singing) a lot of truth. I'm not aware of all who've succeeded in this but the few that pop immediately into my head are of course, Jars (remember Flood back in the day?), POD, Switchfoot, and even Mercy Me (How did "I Can Only Imagine" end up on the regular charts? I'm still blown away). These bands were known first for being excellent, and second (or maybe not really at all) for being "Christian" or "religious."

The world doesn't need another mediocre Christian version of anything it's already seen... not in film, not in drama, not in literature or music or in visual arts. (Can you imagine if Mel would've done the Passion the way most Christian movies are done? Scary.) What it needs is (in the words of someone I read recently and can't remember) a viable alternative to what's already been presented. We don't have to carbon-copy something people have heard before in order to be relevant. We do need to communicate in ways that connect to the heart & inspire. Originality & excellence accomplish both.

We must dare to create rather than duplicate. And we'd better take the time to be good at it. Otherwise, we squander what God has blessed us with. And we miss an opportunity for God to work through us as artists in revealing His grace and His love.

(I realize as I type that it sounds like I don't think there should be a genre devoted solely to a Christian audience, unless it's worship, in which case, Christians are still not the audience, they are the participants, and God is the audience. I'm not sure what to do with that, but I'm not altogether sure I disagree with myself. Hmmmm...)

the show

Finally... a show where all the bands were worth my time. Translation: nobody sucked.

United States of Electronica opened... I was surprised, but I actually really enjoyed them. They're techno-ish, I wouldn't be able to listen to them all day long, but... You could tell they were genuinely having fun, and they had some great chicks on vocals.

Ahh... Death Cab... one of my favorites this year. They were just all around good. They reminded me of the Pale, another band I was familiar with up in B-ham. (If you like Death Cab, you'll probably like the Pale too, check it out). I wasn't as familiar with the Death Cab stuff because I only have the Postal Service CD, but I'll need to pick up theirs too.

Presidents of the United States of America... proving that they still absolutely know how to rock. When they busted out Video Killed the Radio Star the place went nuts. And for Peaches, and for Stranger... good stuff. It's nice when people can pull off sounding as good as their recordings. More and more rare these days, but so refreshing when it happens.

Highlight: getting to hang out with my long lost intern friends Tyne & Stacey
Lowlight: Collin, Kevo & Dusty. Just kidding.
Highlight: Watching crowd surfers land on their heads... I try not to laugh, but it's so funny...
Lowlight: Getting kicked (hard) in the face/ear/neck by one of those crowd surfers on his way down... (I hit him back... just kidding... well sort of...)
Highlight: the few moments I was actually tall enough to see the stage
Lowlight: this was my view for most of the show:

my view 

three day weekend, i love you...

I love it when I don't even remember that it's a three day weekend and then someone clues me in... what a lovely lovely surprise.

Whelp, by some miracle, I scored getting out of work a few hours early... so I actually get to go to Bumbershoot! (every year I say I'm going to go, and every year it doesn't work out...) Yay me.

The brother & some other folks are over there already, so it's gonna be fun.

Just hope I make the ferry in time... rather than watching it sail away right as I drive up, like what normally happens...

a week in the ark... GQ magazine

Someone just emailed me this article from GQ about Christian consumer culture... it's a must-read.

http://www.klife.com/resources/staff/media/GQ-WWJD.html

Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch.... but right on...

pointing at the sky

Children, especially small ones, have a corner on the miraculous. They live in the same world we do, experience the same daily routines, but the world has not yet grown old to them. Put more precisely - their hearts have not yet grown old to the world. They are still tender; still easily moved. Yeah, they’ll pitch a loud angry fit over life’s injustices – a scraped knee or denial of ice cream before dinner – but a moment later will be engaged in uncontrollable giggles at the slightest provocation. Kids are still capable of awe in wonder in a way that you and I will never be, this side of heaven.

I think of Mena, my favorite two-year-old, and the delight in her eyes at a million bubbles dancing all around her in the evening breeze. I remember eavesdropping on Kali and Austin (8 & 5), on a late night drive home a few months ago, preaching the best sermon I’ve ever heard on the beauty of Creation and the goodness of our Creator, speaking in hushed and reverent tones as they pointed at the clear night sky: "Look at all the stars! Aren’t they pretty?" "God made those stars! He made the whole world!" "Just like God made us." "And He loves us so much..." Their pastor dad would be proud. Me? I just tried to swallow the huge lump in my throat at how precious they are.

I think of all the pudgy little pointer fingers I’ve followed to whatever scene of beauty lay in that general direction... I’ve seen the wide-eyed faces and heard the excited high-pitched "Look! Look at that! Do you see? Do you see?" And as I pause, I do begin to see. They’ve translated the seemingly mundane into awe-inspiring. With a simple pointing finger and an exclamation, they ask the world to stop and take notice. And sometimes, it does.

When I think of my role as an artist and a Christian, the picture I get in my mind is exactly what I just described. For some reason, God gave me a heart that is easily moved. Still tender. I used to see it only as a curse, because it also meant that I was easily hurt. (And I’m too old to pitch fits now). I was frustrated at this seeming deformity God had made me with. I remember praying so hard that God would make me tough, a go-getter. Fortunately, He denied that request and instead helped me learn how, with maturity, my temperament could serve His purposes.

The world around me is busy. Fast-paced. Preoccupied. So preoccupied, in fact, that many have lost the ability to see the beauty right in front of their faces. Life is just one huge task to be done, with no respite from the to-do’s. Though they’d never want to admit it, they’re tired. What’s the point of plugging away through the day if there’s no goodness, no newness to it?
There really isn’t one. And people end up living their days only half-alive.

So, in the midst of all this, what’s my job? What do I have to offer God and the world around me? It takes on many forms, but whether it’s in writing a song or poetry, leading worship, taking a picture, or posting a thought, they all have to do with this: a pointing finger and an exclamation. Look! Look at what God’s doing. Look at God’s grace and how big it is, even when we mess up... Look at the people around you. Aren’t they precious? Look inside... what is God speaking to your heart in the quiet stillness? Do you see? Do you SEE? I am still lucky enough to be surprised at what this life presents me... if I can point others to their own breath-catching-in-your-throat view of God and of the joy of really living... that’s me at my best. That’s me full of joy, yet somehow meeting a need at the same time.

Despite the cynics and the skeptics and their dim view of the world, despite the wounds this life will no doubt deal me – my prayer is that I’ll never stop being wide-eyed with wonder, and that I’ll never stop pointing at the sky in amazement.

i love you relevant!

Be happy with me!

When I wrote to relevant magazine, I sent two articles, hoping that one of them would make it in. When they posted "looking up" and didn't say anything about the one I really liked, "confessions of a flake", I just figured they thought it sucked. I was ok with that.

Just got an email, they liked the other one a lot too. You can visit them below:

http://relevantmagazine.com/article.php?sid=4538 Confessions of a Flake

http://www.relevantmagazine.com/article.php?sid=4423 Looking Up

I'm a happy girl today... thanks God. You're pretty cool, You know that?

bouquets of sharpened pencils

KEVIN JUST GOT HOME AND HAD THE BEST IDEA IN THE WORLD... POTATO SANDWICHES!! Frying them up as I type... yum. (Eat your heart out Dr. Atkins.)

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As if responding to the fact that today is, indeed, the first of September, autumn seemed to arrive with a bang today. Several bangs, in fact. Storms up here are the coolest thing ever.

I came home for lunch today and the breeze had a bit of bite to it, a bit chillier than the 100 degrees I experienced in Stockton, CA. The air was full of the pungent smell of fresh rain on parking lot... a favorite smell. I ate lunch to the sound of an absolutely torrential downpour outside. I'm used to rain, but this was AWESOME! Then, the thunder... I hated going back to work. It was a day to change into cozy clothes and curl up on the couch with a good book and some cocoa. It got sunnier later in the day, but the damage was done. I am officially ready for fall.

I LOVE fall. It's my favorite. Well, tied with winter, anyway (awful hard to beat out Christmas). I love the feeling of change and of new things kicking into gear. I love busting out my sweaters and jackets, and going to coffee shops way too often to drink extra-mocha mochas and attempt to be pensive. I love school supplies. I have absolutely NO reason to go buy school supplies, not really being a student, but it's all I can do not to go get some cool pens and a trapper keeper. (Maybe I should... maybe it would get me motivated to be more diligent with my minister's classes).

The hard part is that nothing is really changing for me, while all around me, people are doing cool adventurous new things. Lili just started attending Northwest College part-time, and it's making me antsy. I know that it's not the right timing for me to finish school at this point, but man... I miss the student life. (It didn't feel carefree, but it really was). It was great to get a fresh start with new people and new classes every three months or so. Always new possibilities. I've been behind the same desk for over a year now... typing... and I'm going a little stir-crazy. I know it's just restlessness, not anything too serious. I'm doing what's important to me. What's weird is that I'm finding it actually takes more faith & guts for me to stay where I'm at then it would for me to run away to another big change of location. I don't know if that makes sense, but I just have a feeling that God's saying, "Stay. Stick it out." God, are you SURE?

I think the thing that's the most scary is facing up to the fact that where I'm at is where I'm at... what I've become is what I'm going to be. When you're in school, when the focus is still on development, it's easy to focus on what you have yet to become, who & what you'll be when you grow up. When you realize that you've now grown up (or at least substantially so)... you have to take stock of what it is that you've grown into. It's a bit scary, and I find myself wanting to run back to where I felt safe, where I had plenty of distractions. Luckily, chickening out and running away is way scarier than doing what scares me, so here I remain.

A little college memory, since I'm stuck on it...

Every September 1st, I think back to five years ago. I was 19, a Junior at Northwest College (dang... how could it have possibly been that long ago?), experiencing the first day of the best class I ever took. Faith in Contemporary Lit. The books I was asked (forced) to read changed my faith, my life, my relationship and view of God (to think of still living without Merton... shudder). The prof who taught the class, Debbie Pope, a feisty teeny tiny little still-single spitfire, impacted my life in a huge way... in the few semesters I had the privilege of being her student. Her faith looked different than mine... it seemed, somehow, more real and more honest than I had ever dared to be. She didn't seem to feel the need to pretty her prayers up, to be anything less than authentic and real before God, even if that meant being a bit of a mess sometimes. As a recovering lifelong churchgoer, it intrigued me, and eventually, it changed me. (She also was one of the first to really believe in me as a writer... I still have the paper that she scribbled all over in green marker, "Stacey Alida Rich... you are one heck of an excellent writer!!! This paper was better, richer than cheesecake! (Please get your late papers in to me as soon as possible so I can pass you...)."

Another reason I have to thank her: She read to me the first bit of Buechner I'd ever heard, from a devotional called Listening to Your Life. September 1st's passage, which brought me to tears sitting there in class that day, and which I revisit every year (partially because it reminds me again that each day brings to me a fresh beginning and a new opportunity to BE more, no matter how "grown up" I may be forced to become), looks like this:

Today

It is a moment of light surrounded on all sides by darkness and oblivion. In the entire history of the universe, let alone in your own history, there has never been another just like it and there will never be another just like it again. It is the point to which all your yesterdays have been leading since the hour of your birth. It is the point from which all your tomorrows will proceed until the hour of your death. If you were aware of how precious it is, you could hardly live through it. Unless you are aware of how precious it is, you can hardly be said to be living at all.

"This is the day that the LORD has made," says the 118th Psalm. "Let us rejoice and be glad in it." Or weep and be sad in it for that matter. The point is to see it for what it is because it will be gone before you know it. If you waste it, it is your life that you're wasting. If you look the other way, it may be the moment you've been waiting for always that you're missing.

All other days have either disappeared into darkness and oblivion or not yet emerged from them. Today is the only day there is. -- FREDERICK BUECHNER
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My tater sandwich was lovely, by the way.

b-b-bumbershoot, anyone?

I think I'm gonna head across the water & hit Bumbershoot this weekend, if anyone wants to join me.

If I can get off work in time to go Friday, the Pres. of the United States of America & Death Cab will be playing...

If I can't, I can still go Saturday and catch Pedro the Lion...

Any takers? Lemme know.

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