It rained a lot in Austin the spring of 2010. I didn't realize how abnormal the rains were because it was my first season here. It was an El Nino year. I had taught Earth Science that fall, and we covered a unit on weather, so I had some vague notion of what that meant, but the three years of drought that have followed have certainly given me a greater appreciation for the rains that spring.
I was at a lake-side coffee shop one morning, watching raindrops fall into the water- splashes that spread into tiny waves that crawled away from one another until they met other little waves and were diverted, creating cool, concentric circle patterns that looked like something in a modern art museum. It was a slow, gray rain. The coffee shop was filled with people in scarves and skinny jeans, hugging white porcelain coffee mugs and clicking away on their silver Macbooks. Many were at tables together, huddled around large textbooks whose imposing titles stared at me authoritatively. Microeconomics, A History of Art, Calculus. Students worked purposefully around them, like drones in a bee hive. In a way, I wished for one of those textbooks to command my life, as well. "Memorize this chart. Apply that formula. Learn this lesson from that story." You don't realize it when you have those books- the way that they direct your life, how they squeeze your existence into the simplistic, and yet impossibly difficult, demands of scholastic achievement. I had those books once. My dog, Gatsby, hated them. He would sit on them when I'd leave them scattered across my bed in my college apartment. He'd sprawl out on top of their glossy pages and refuse to get off, leaving me with no choice but to spend a few minutes petting him before I pushed him off and went back to studying. You think you hate those books at the time. You can't wait to go down to the college bookstore and sell them back for 30% of the value you bought them for and be rid of them forever. But if you ever get lost like I did- if you're ever searching for your identity in the darkness, you might just miss them and the order that they brought into your life.
There were also some smartly dressed men in the coffee shop. Probably early thirties. Good-looking in a professional, intelligent, and slightly creative sort of way. Very cool. Very Austin. They seemed to be convening for some sort of business. Just the thought of a meeting was enviable at the time, though I'd often dreaded staff meetings and parent-teacher meetings when I was teaching. But a meeting implies that there's something worth discussing- something on the verge of being accomplished. I imagined what kind of business the young men were into- something creative and lucrative, I mused, something that was going to make a difference in their lives and other people's.
In contrast to the other coffee shop patrons, I sat at a table by myself and looked out the windows at the brownish-gray lake. I didn't have any textbooks on my table- just a beat-up-looking green NIV Bible. And I didn't have anyone important or cool-looking who was going to meet me there. I was very much alone. The rain continued to fall steadily outside, but, inside me, there was a greater storm. One word kept reverberating through my mind, shaking my insides, threatening to tear down everything that was in there- what little was left in tact. The word was appalling. It had been written in an email directed to Andy but it was about me. The person who wrote it was so fed up with me that they felt the need to let my husband of just a few months know that my behavior was appalling. I won't say who this person was- and won't go into details on why they said this about me. All I can say is that my husband & I had a relationship of sorts with this person and a few others, and that those relationships were crumbling- painfully and quickly.
This past spring, when Andy & I went to the Dominican Republic, he and a team of guys tore down an existing wall to make room for a new paved parking area for the Makarios School staff. A lot of us stopped what we were doing the day they tore down the wall, and watched as the guys on the "Chain Gang" work crew took turns with the sledgehammer. Each full-force swing made a dent in that wall, and in surprisingly quick time- only a matter of minutes- the wall was down. For me, the word in that email was like a sledgehammer- making mighty, forceful blows into my identity, leaving me crushed and broken inside. The process of identity- demolishing had started months ago- I was getting married, I was leaving my family, I quit my job so that I could move to Austin, where Andy had a job as an engineer. I believe those circumstances were big enough to create some sort of dent in my identity on their own. But then the conflict started a few months before our wedding, and there were cutting words and then sledgehammer words, and by that gray morning in the coffee shop, I was almost completely destroyed.
I didn't know who I was anymore. I couldn't find me. I didn't even know who to be looking for. Maybe I really was the appalling person others were convinced that I was. That thought rolled through me like thunder as I sat and watched the rain fall steady as a metronome. The inside of me didn't feel gray and steady like the rain I was watching- it felt swollen and purple and threatening, like the summer afternoon storms of my childhood- the ones that forced us inside while wind splintered the boughs of pine trees, and lightning streaked the sky. If appalling was the thunder inside of me, then my reaction to it was the lightning. For every ounce of pain that word and other similar judgments had inflicted inside of me, my defensiveness compensated with an equally penetrating measure of meanness that flashed like lightning- blazing through my mind with vengeful thoughts, and occasionally striking my poor, confused and hurting husband with harsh, critical words My confusion over what was happening howled like a desperate, damaging wind. I was lost inside of that storm, and I didn't know where I was. I didn't know who I was, and I didn't know how to make any of it stop.
That morning, I sat there, with the steady rain outside and the howling storm inside, and I remembered a story I'd heard in church. The story was about a little girl- I think she was about three years old. Her dad was a pastor at our church and he told us that during the time that he and his wife were anticipating the arrival of their second child, the little girl began to kind of act out and do odd things. He didn't go into a lot of detail on that, but he did mention that one of the things that she was doing was bringing her baby photo album into the new baby's nursery. She'd plop down in the middle of that unfamiliar territory, and open the book. Her dad sat down beside her, and began to go through the pages with her. He described, snapshot by snapshot, the events in the little girl's life. "There you are and you're still in Mommy's tummy." "There you are with your Grandma when you're brand new." "Here you are sleeping in your crib when we first brought you home." What amazed me most about this story was that, at each picture, when her dad would tell her the story of who she was in that moment, the little girl would reply, simply, "I know." I know. I know who I am. Even in these circumstances that are changing, I know who I am. When we sit here together, and you tell me my story, I know that it's true. I know who I am because I believe you. I know who I am because you've told me, and I knew that it was true. I couldn't make sense of very much that rainy spring, but I knew that morning that I wanted to be like that three year old- more than I wanted to be one of the students whose next move was as clear-cut as making it through their next exam, more than I wanted to be like the young professionals in their respectable, trendy attire, even more than I wanted to go back to my life before I came to Austin, before any of the crumbling inside of me began.
I knew that little girl had experienced something that transcends age or personal experience. And her insistence to sit still in the midst of the unknown and wait for her dad to speak words of truth about her identity inspired me. I wanted to do the same. I wanted to sit still with my Father, my heavenly Father, and listen to Him speak to me about who I was. Because the thunder was destroying me, and the lightning was destroying Andy, and I was terrified of it all. As arrogant and awful as I was then, as much as I tried to convince others and myself that I knew the Bible and I knew what I was doing- inside, I was a three year old- a really scared, often petulant child- but one who needed, more than anything else- for her Dad to tell her the truth. I needed his reassurance. I needed Him to tell me who I was. Because I knew that if I listened to someone else- even myself- then I'd hear a lie and I'd just remain lost.
"Who am I?" I wanted to know. I was crying it, practically screaming it at Him- because I didn't know where He was then, either. There wasn't an easy answer. It didn't happen as quickly or as sweetly as the story of the little girl and her dad in the nursery. But it did happen. And I hope it happens for other people, as well. Because I think that there are a lot of people out there with storms inside them, too. People who have been ripped open inside by words and events far more dangerous and damaging than what I went through. Life is scary, and painful and chronically changing. What we do to ourselves and what other people can do to us has no end. We get lost. I still get lost. I am by no means an expert on any of this. I'm not permanently fixed or found. I have no authority whatsoever- a good reason for me to have not written anything more than a blog about this stuff- I don't have credentials. I'm just a person who sat- very lost, very hurt, and very capable of inflicting pain on others- in a coffee shop one day, and asked Dad to tell me- snapshot by snapshot- who I am. The posts that follow will include His answers.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Foreword
In the summer, I love to read. I love books that take me to far away places, and also books that help me learn something. This summer, I first went to ancient Rome, Ephesus, and Jerusalem and wanted to be just like gentle, humble Hadassah in Francine River's "Mark of the Lion" books. Then, I hiked the Pacific Crest Trail with Cheryl Strayed in Wild. Dan Brown took me on another wild ride that combined literature and art history (his old staples) with my fave- genetics- in Inferno. I've visited Afghanistan once again with Khaled Hosseini in And the Mountains Echoed. And somewhere mixed into those trips, John Grisham told me a funny little story about how to get out of prison in The Racketeer. When I read, I inevitably want to write, because even though I slack off during the school year, once my mind gets slightly quiet, and I'm not consumed by doing, doing, doing, then I can hear my writer's voice in my head...always writing, always.
It's been this way since I was a child- I think that it began somewhere around the 5th grade, but I didn't really know what it was. I kept up journals in those days, keeping track of mundane events like lots of little girls do, but using too many words and writing with what I am pretty sure was an excess of emotion for a 5th grader. I remember reading the Diary of Anne Frank when I was in the 6th grade and thinking that I had found a kindred spirit. I didn't really understand why at the time. I found her story so captivating, and I immediately became consumed with all things Holocaust related. I told Andy the other day that there was a time when I could have named and located on a map nearly all of the death camps in Europe. I realized later, though, that it wasn't the suffering or the fear or even the captivity that I related to- how could I? My childhood was almost ideal. The greatest suffering that I knew was being left out of building a fort in the woods by my brother and our friend, Brad. As for captivity, I was home-schooled for a couple of years, which might have led to some connection on the plane of feeling kept from the rest of the world, but today, I'm convinced that the main connection was the voice. Anne's voice, her writer's voice- the voice that went into great detail, that analyzed events and then drew conclusions, the voice that forever works to make sense of the madness and the mundane. I knew that I didn't have much of a story, but I knew that I did have a voice.
Throughout high school, the voice would come and go. But I can't say, as some writers can, that I always knew that I was a writer. Probably because I wasn't actually writing- not with any actual effort anyway. There were freak moments when the truth about my writer's voice would come to light. For example, my Senior year, my high school gave away subject awards. The writer's award did not go to me- it went to another girl who helped edit the yearbook, and who had hopes of going off to New York and becoming someone far more cosmopolitan than I aspired to be. I can't say that I blame the teachers for giving her the award, though I have no idea if she was a good writer. I had done absolutely zero to prove myself as a writer. I received the "Sam I Am" award, a sad acknowledgement of my devotion to my high school boyfriend. But I remember that when AP scores came out that summer, I got a five on English literature and composition. The girl who received the award got a four.
In college, I went back to my childhood dream of wanting to become a veterinarian. As I trudged my way through science courses that were more like a foreign language to me than the Spanish that I was pursuing as a minor, I was asked to be a part of an honors program, not because I was naturally gifted at science- I was not. Nor have I ever been. But because I had worked hard and scored the GPA points to be asked. It was in this honors program, though, that I had the opportunity that undergrads dream of- the opportunity to work closely with researchers and professors, to be a part of the "real" science at NC State. And, the opportunity to be noticed, which could lead to recommendations that might help you get into grad school, which was paramount to everyone at the time. In one project, I worked with a group of students researching the sad events involved in the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment. We watched documentary films and discussed bioethics together as a group, but the fruit of that process was meant to be a paper, which I volunteered to write it, mostly because the rest of the group members were good scientists, and I didn't trust their writing. Ha! I remember staying up late into the night, fretting over the words. In the end, the paper was twenty-seven pages long, the most I'd ever written. The professor who advised our group sent it to Tuskegee University, where it was well received, according to my professor. (I'll never really know) Nearly a year later, that professor invited me to join his research team, an invitation that practically guaranteed me acceptance into a graduate program, a nearly unheard-of opportunity. I declined. He was a professor whose research was in the area of poultry science. I'd written a good paper, and it was the writer, not the scientist, who had caught his attention- I knew that, even if he didn't. I had no interest in research at that time (though I've grown so much fonder of science and research since then) I've never regretted that decision.
There were stabs at writing here and there as the years went by, but nothing solid. It was like dipping a toe, maybe even an entire foot into the pool, but never actually jumping in. There was an acceptance into a masters program in creative writing at Dallas Theological Seminary, a few columns published by local newspapers, a writing class I took, and this insufferable blog. But writing was never truly an intentional driving force for me, as it is for many other courageous creative types who work sacrificially at menial jobs so that they can practice their craft at night or on their days off. I was never willing to take that plunge, but how can I dismiss the importance that my writing has had in my life? I met Andy when I was at a pub to write an article for a local arts & entertainment journal. One could argue that, if I were not a writer, I'd have never even met him. I got my current job as a science teacher at Hill Country Christian School, not because of my college GPA, my years of teaching experience or the relatively high standardized test scores my students received in North Carolina. My headmaster has told me more than once that he read my essay that I submitted as a part of my application, and was convinced that I needed to teach at Hill Country.
An editor once told me that I needed to "write a book before life got in the way." And it was that advice, and my own similar thoughts that led me to start Snapshots of Who I Am in early 2010. The editor had told me that I had a strong writer's voice, and that might be true, but what I've always lacked, what I still lack- is story. I read books like And the Mountains Echoed, and I am in awe of the vivid and intricate story that Hosseini can tell. I have an incredibly limited imagination. I can't write about anything that I don't see happen in front of me. For those things that do happen, I can weave together nouns and verbs- in fact, I have to. It's a compulsion, not a talent. But I cannot come up with anything new. I wish I could because I love fiction, but I most certainly cannot write it. So it stands to reason that Snapshots came about because of something that I was hearing, seeing, experiencing. It was a book about finding your identity, and I felt like I could write it because I had lost mine.
In 2010, I had just gotten married, had moved more than a thousand miles from my home and family, and was experiencing one of the greatest heartaches of my life thus far. I wasn't teaching, wasn't working at all for a while, and was trying to force myself to write something that made sense in the middle of my completely disheveled, painful, nonsensical life. And yet, on some days, I actually thought it might all come together. Hubris, I now think. Or just the desperate hope that it would all knit together into something meaningful, if not beautiful, something that could help other people, because that would at least make the pain of it a little more worthwhile. That never happened the way that I once hoped it would. But I do think that some of the lessons that I learned from the process- from the events themselves, from my reactions, from the words that God spoke to me in the pain- have forever changed who I am, and that's what it was all about anyway.
I remember writing the intro of the book and talking about the search for identity. I wrote about a trip I took to San Francisco when I was a girl. We visited Alcatraz, of course, and I remember the tour guide taking us to the cells where prisoners were kept for solitary confinement. She told us that, to pass the time, prisoners would tear a button off their uniform and toss it into the darkness. Then, they would search for it on all fours, feeling the cold, concrete ground with their fingertips until they finally found what they were looking for. Then, they would toss it again. That's how my life was in 2010. Like my identity had been tossed out into the darkness, and like I was trying desperately to find it.
Snapshots of Who I Am was a book about finding identity. The blog postings that follow will tell, in some shape or form, its story. It's the only story I have. Remember, I can't write fiction.
It's been this way since I was a child- I think that it began somewhere around the 5th grade, but I didn't really know what it was. I kept up journals in those days, keeping track of mundane events like lots of little girls do, but using too many words and writing with what I am pretty sure was an excess of emotion for a 5th grader. I remember reading the Diary of Anne Frank when I was in the 6th grade and thinking that I had found a kindred spirit. I didn't really understand why at the time. I found her story so captivating, and I immediately became consumed with all things Holocaust related. I told Andy the other day that there was a time when I could have named and located on a map nearly all of the death camps in Europe. I realized later, though, that it wasn't the suffering or the fear or even the captivity that I related to- how could I? My childhood was almost ideal. The greatest suffering that I knew was being left out of building a fort in the woods by my brother and our friend, Brad. As for captivity, I was home-schooled for a couple of years, which might have led to some connection on the plane of feeling kept from the rest of the world, but today, I'm convinced that the main connection was the voice. Anne's voice, her writer's voice- the voice that went into great detail, that analyzed events and then drew conclusions, the voice that forever works to make sense of the madness and the mundane. I knew that I didn't have much of a story, but I knew that I did have a voice.
Throughout high school, the voice would come and go. But I can't say, as some writers can, that I always knew that I was a writer. Probably because I wasn't actually writing- not with any actual effort anyway. There were freak moments when the truth about my writer's voice would come to light. For example, my Senior year, my high school gave away subject awards. The writer's award did not go to me- it went to another girl who helped edit the yearbook, and who had hopes of going off to New York and becoming someone far more cosmopolitan than I aspired to be. I can't say that I blame the teachers for giving her the award, though I have no idea if she was a good writer. I had done absolutely zero to prove myself as a writer. I received the "Sam I Am" award, a sad acknowledgement of my devotion to my high school boyfriend. But I remember that when AP scores came out that summer, I got a five on English literature and composition. The girl who received the award got a four.
In college, I went back to my childhood dream of wanting to become a veterinarian. As I trudged my way through science courses that were more like a foreign language to me than the Spanish that I was pursuing as a minor, I was asked to be a part of an honors program, not because I was naturally gifted at science- I was not. Nor have I ever been. But because I had worked hard and scored the GPA points to be asked. It was in this honors program, though, that I had the opportunity that undergrads dream of- the opportunity to work closely with researchers and professors, to be a part of the "real" science at NC State. And, the opportunity to be noticed, which could lead to recommendations that might help you get into grad school, which was paramount to everyone at the time. In one project, I worked with a group of students researching the sad events involved in the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment. We watched documentary films and discussed bioethics together as a group, but the fruit of that process was meant to be a paper, which I volunteered to write it, mostly because the rest of the group members were good scientists, and I didn't trust their writing. Ha! I remember staying up late into the night, fretting over the words. In the end, the paper was twenty-seven pages long, the most I'd ever written. The professor who advised our group sent it to Tuskegee University, where it was well received, according to my professor. (I'll never really know) Nearly a year later, that professor invited me to join his research team, an invitation that practically guaranteed me acceptance into a graduate program, a nearly unheard-of opportunity. I declined. He was a professor whose research was in the area of poultry science. I'd written a good paper, and it was the writer, not the scientist, who had caught his attention- I knew that, even if he didn't. I had no interest in research at that time (though I've grown so much fonder of science and research since then) I've never regretted that decision.
There were stabs at writing here and there as the years went by, but nothing solid. It was like dipping a toe, maybe even an entire foot into the pool, but never actually jumping in. There was an acceptance into a masters program in creative writing at Dallas Theological Seminary, a few columns published by local newspapers, a writing class I took, and this insufferable blog. But writing was never truly an intentional driving force for me, as it is for many other courageous creative types who work sacrificially at menial jobs so that they can practice their craft at night or on their days off. I was never willing to take that plunge, but how can I dismiss the importance that my writing has had in my life? I met Andy when I was at a pub to write an article for a local arts & entertainment journal. One could argue that, if I were not a writer, I'd have never even met him. I got my current job as a science teacher at Hill Country Christian School, not because of my college GPA, my years of teaching experience or the relatively high standardized test scores my students received in North Carolina. My headmaster has told me more than once that he read my essay that I submitted as a part of my application, and was convinced that I needed to teach at Hill Country.
An editor once told me that I needed to "write a book before life got in the way." And it was that advice, and my own similar thoughts that led me to start Snapshots of Who I Am in early 2010. The editor had told me that I had a strong writer's voice, and that might be true, but what I've always lacked, what I still lack- is story. I read books like And the Mountains Echoed, and I am in awe of the vivid and intricate story that Hosseini can tell. I have an incredibly limited imagination. I can't write about anything that I don't see happen in front of me. For those things that do happen, I can weave together nouns and verbs- in fact, I have to. It's a compulsion, not a talent. But I cannot come up with anything new. I wish I could because I love fiction, but I most certainly cannot write it. So it stands to reason that Snapshots came about because of something that I was hearing, seeing, experiencing. It was a book about finding your identity, and I felt like I could write it because I had lost mine.
In 2010, I had just gotten married, had moved more than a thousand miles from my home and family, and was experiencing one of the greatest heartaches of my life thus far. I wasn't teaching, wasn't working at all for a while, and was trying to force myself to write something that made sense in the middle of my completely disheveled, painful, nonsensical life. And yet, on some days, I actually thought it might all come together. Hubris, I now think. Or just the desperate hope that it would all knit together into something meaningful, if not beautiful, something that could help other people, because that would at least make the pain of it a little more worthwhile. That never happened the way that I once hoped it would. But I do think that some of the lessons that I learned from the process- from the events themselves, from my reactions, from the words that God spoke to me in the pain- have forever changed who I am, and that's what it was all about anyway.
I remember writing the intro of the book and talking about the search for identity. I wrote about a trip I took to San Francisco when I was a girl. We visited Alcatraz, of course, and I remember the tour guide taking us to the cells where prisoners were kept for solitary confinement. She told us that, to pass the time, prisoners would tear a button off their uniform and toss it into the darkness. Then, they would search for it on all fours, feeling the cold, concrete ground with their fingertips until they finally found what they were looking for. Then, they would toss it again. That's how my life was in 2010. Like my identity had been tossed out into the darkness, and like I was trying desperately to find it.
Snapshots of Who I Am was a book about finding identity. The blog postings that follow will tell, in some shape or form, its story. It's the only story I have. Remember, I can't write fiction.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Freedom in the the absence of doing
It's mid-morning, and I'm sitting on the sofa drinking coffee, still in my PJ's, staring at debris on the floor that my dogs tracked in over the weekend. I'm not going to sweep it up.
There was a Body Pump class at 10AM, and I seriously contemplated going, thinking about how the handful of other Body Pump classes I've gone to over the summer will really mean nothing at all unless I go consistently enough to actually change my body- whatever that even means. I didn't go.
A load of laundry sits in the dryer- towels and rugs from the bathrooms. It's been in there since about 3PM yesterday. I'm not going to fold it. Not right now, anyway.
Our church is doing Backyard Bible Club this week around the city of Austin, and they needed more drivers to get kids to their clubs. It was announced at church on Sunday, and I got an email about it, as well. I didn't sign up.
I'm tired of doing. Not just physically, but mentally, spiritually and all those other words that end in "-ly." It might just sound like I'm being lazy, and that's fine if it sounds that way to you, I'm also tired of worrying about what other people think of me- because that's another form of doing, and a really exhausting one at that. I'd like to offer that it's a lot more that that, though, that I'm not doing because I'm choosing not to. Not because I'm unwilling, lazy, lethargic or lacking in desire. It's because I'm weary of doing, and weary of all of the mess that comes along with it.
There's a time for doing- doesn't Solomon say something about that in Ecclesiastes?- but for me, now is not the time. I've been consumed by doing for years- and years and years. Now, I'm really tired. No, not tired. Weary. There's a difference. I'm experiencing that difference right now. I don't know how to put it into words, but if you've been there, you probably know what I'm talking about anyway.
I'm not saying that this weariness is a bad thing. In fact, in a way, I'm really excited about it. Again, it's hard to articulate, but I'll try to give you some examples.
Last week, Andy & I were at a party where a gal was wearing a t-shirt that said, "Run, Wendy, run." Wendy being the outspoken Democratic leader who has made national headlines for her die-hard support for women's rights in the abortion debate that has had pro-choice and pro-life Texans in a political fight that reminds me of two male deer with locked antlers. I felt no desire to judge her for her t-shirt or her lifestyle that's "alternative" to mine. Nor did I want to storm the steps of the Capitol alongside her with my own "Wendy" t-shirt. But I was happy to see her at our soccer game on Sunday. We chatted, laughed, and played well together.
Over the weekend, I spent time with a young friend who talked to me about some things going on in her life right now- questions she has, new experiences she's having. I took it in, listening, occasionally commenting. But as we walked together and she talked about her own unique life experiences, I realized, with great relief, that I didn't have any answers for her.
In another situation, Andy & I had a couple over and met their new baby boy. I asked questions of the new mom and dad, and never once did a thought pass through my mind about how I could or would try to do something differently or better than they were doing with their child. I just took it in- their little family- complete in its own uniqueness, living its own little story.
Finally, I learned this weekend about some marriages that are having a hard time. And never once did my mind think- well, if they just read Tim Keller's "The Meaning of Marriage" (though that is a really good book), then all will be well. I knew not to assume that I have any say-so whatsoever into the depths of someone else's marriage. Those waters, deep and private, are not for me to chart, or for me to assume that any other person's map would lead to a way-out. There's a song of the Christian radio right now about broken marriages. I turn it off every time I hear it. It says that if you just turn it over to the Lord, He will restore. For some people that might be true. He is the Restorer. But how He restores, when where and with whom is His own business. I know people who have turned their marriages over to the Lord, and they are divorced. It's just not simple. I don't have an answer. I don't have a song lyric or a book to offer. I just prayed.
This is the freedom of not doing. The relief that comes with meeting each person at the place they are in their journey, not with advice, not with the desire to compete with them or to prove to myself that I can out-do them, or to make sure that they know all of the areas in which they are wrong. I'm weary of that- weary of my own arrogance, my own self-obsession that is so compelled to prove- to whom?- that I am right or better or whatever. I'm not. The relief that comes with the absence of doing is tremendous. It's everything- it's Good News. It's what people in churches have, for a long time, called "The Gospel."
In this freedom, I've also met again with a desire I had a few years ago to write a book. It was a book about identity, and that idea, that theme of identity and the desire to write about it swells within me when I am not completely consumed by my actions. An now, the desire carries with it greater fear- the good kind of fear, I think, the kind that keeps you from getting too big for your britches- than it did three years ago, when I thought that I would be able to just sit down and make it happen. God has a way of putting britches on you that fit your insides, that make your ego shrink down to a size that He can stand to be around. I love him for that. I'm not going to write a book. I don't have time for that, and I don't have the desire to prove myself by seeing my name on a book cover anymore, or the anxiety that went along with that desire. But the message of it was something that I wanted to explore, and something that I needed to put down- so that I could know it in my heart and not just my head, because those places, though they mysteriously somehow inhabit this 5 foot 4 inch piece of real estate that God decided to give to me, seem to be so incredibly far away from one another. Anyway, I thought, that, since I've got some freedom, and I'm in no particular hurry right now to do my laundry or sweep my floor or plan for another year of school (though that time will eventually come) that I might write again- about those verbal snapshots that I tried to take three years ago when my heart was broken and my head was swollen and I didn't know where God was. Things are different now. I don't know all the answers, but I thought I'd take up the journey again, and write a bit as a I go along... until August, when the doing will probably start once more.
There was a Body Pump class at 10AM, and I seriously contemplated going, thinking about how the handful of other Body Pump classes I've gone to over the summer will really mean nothing at all unless I go consistently enough to actually change my body- whatever that even means. I didn't go.
A load of laundry sits in the dryer- towels and rugs from the bathrooms. It's been in there since about 3PM yesterday. I'm not going to fold it. Not right now, anyway.
Our church is doing Backyard Bible Club this week around the city of Austin, and they needed more drivers to get kids to their clubs. It was announced at church on Sunday, and I got an email about it, as well. I didn't sign up.
I'm tired of doing. Not just physically, but mentally, spiritually and all those other words that end in "-ly." It might just sound like I'm being lazy, and that's fine if it sounds that way to you, I'm also tired of worrying about what other people think of me- because that's another form of doing, and a really exhausting one at that. I'd like to offer that it's a lot more that that, though, that I'm not doing because I'm choosing not to. Not because I'm unwilling, lazy, lethargic or lacking in desire. It's because I'm weary of doing, and weary of all of the mess that comes along with it.
There's a time for doing- doesn't Solomon say something about that in Ecclesiastes?- but for me, now is not the time. I've been consumed by doing for years- and years and years. Now, I'm really tired. No, not tired. Weary. There's a difference. I'm experiencing that difference right now. I don't know how to put it into words, but if you've been there, you probably know what I'm talking about anyway.
I'm not saying that this weariness is a bad thing. In fact, in a way, I'm really excited about it. Again, it's hard to articulate, but I'll try to give you some examples.
Last week, Andy & I were at a party where a gal was wearing a t-shirt that said, "Run, Wendy, run." Wendy being the outspoken Democratic leader who has made national headlines for her die-hard support for women's rights in the abortion debate that has had pro-choice and pro-life Texans in a political fight that reminds me of two male deer with locked antlers. I felt no desire to judge her for her t-shirt or her lifestyle that's "alternative" to mine. Nor did I want to storm the steps of the Capitol alongside her with my own "Wendy" t-shirt. But I was happy to see her at our soccer game on Sunday. We chatted, laughed, and played well together.
Over the weekend, I spent time with a young friend who talked to me about some things going on in her life right now- questions she has, new experiences she's having. I took it in, listening, occasionally commenting. But as we walked together and she talked about her own unique life experiences, I realized, with great relief, that I didn't have any answers for her.
In another situation, Andy & I had a couple over and met their new baby boy. I asked questions of the new mom and dad, and never once did a thought pass through my mind about how I could or would try to do something differently or better than they were doing with their child. I just took it in- their little family- complete in its own uniqueness, living its own little story.
Finally, I learned this weekend about some marriages that are having a hard time. And never once did my mind think- well, if they just read Tim Keller's "The Meaning of Marriage" (though that is a really good book), then all will be well. I knew not to assume that I have any say-so whatsoever into the depths of someone else's marriage. Those waters, deep and private, are not for me to chart, or for me to assume that any other person's map would lead to a way-out. There's a song of the Christian radio right now about broken marriages. I turn it off every time I hear it. It says that if you just turn it over to the Lord, He will restore. For some people that might be true. He is the Restorer. But how He restores, when where and with whom is His own business. I know people who have turned their marriages over to the Lord, and they are divorced. It's just not simple. I don't have an answer. I don't have a song lyric or a book to offer. I just prayed.
This is the freedom of not doing. The relief that comes with meeting each person at the place they are in their journey, not with advice, not with the desire to compete with them or to prove to myself that I can out-do them, or to make sure that they know all of the areas in which they are wrong. I'm weary of that- weary of my own arrogance, my own self-obsession that is so compelled to prove- to whom?- that I am right or better or whatever. I'm not. The relief that comes with the absence of doing is tremendous. It's everything- it's Good News. It's what people in churches have, for a long time, called "The Gospel."
In this freedom, I've also met again with a desire I had a few years ago to write a book. It was a book about identity, and that idea, that theme of identity and the desire to write about it swells within me when I am not completely consumed by my actions. An now, the desire carries with it greater fear- the good kind of fear, I think, the kind that keeps you from getting too big for your britches- than it did three years ago, when I thought that I would be able to just sit down and make it happen. God has a way of putting britches on you that fit your insides, that make your ego shrink down to a size that He can stand to be around. I love him for that. I'm not going to write a book. I don't have time for that, and I don't have the desire to prove myself by seeing my name on a book cover anymore, or the anxiety that went along with that desire. But the message of it was something that I wanted to explore, and something that I needed to put down- so that I could know it in my heart and not just my head, because those places, though they mysteriously somehow inhabit this 5 foot 4 inch piece of real estate that God decided to give to me, seem to be so incredibly far away from one another. Anyway, I thought, that, since I've got some freedom, and I'm in no particular hurry right now to do my laundry or sweep my floor or plan for another year of school (though that time will eventually come) that I might write again- about those verbal snapshots that I tried to take three years ago when my heart was broken and my head was swollen and I didn't know where God was. Things are different now. I don't know all the answers, but I thought I'd take up the journey again, and write a bit as a I go along... until August, when the doing will probably start once more.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Myrtle Beach
This past weekend, I got to go the Myrtle Beach with my mom. I haven't been down there in four years, but things were much the same- which is a good thing. :) It rained a good bit while we were there, but we enjoyed ourselves regardless of the weather. We went shopping when it rained, I enjoyed running and walking on the beach, and we both enjoyed some great seafood. It was a great trip- wonderful to hear the sound of the waves again and feel the sun and the wind. Here are a few pics that I took from an early morning walk. Neither mom or I are big on taking pics in our swimsuits, so this is all I've got. ;)
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| Not a great angle, but I had to get a shot of the moonlight on the water while I was at the beach. It was absolutely gorgeous. |
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| The next morning, I got up early and went for a walk. |
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| It rained a lot while we were there. This giant "puddle" was in front of one of the high-rise hotels. |
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| Someone from Texas already beat me to the Apache pier this year. |
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| I thought I would just take a few snapshots of folks doing what they enjoy on a beautiful Sunday morning at Myrtle Beach. Fishing. |
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| Searching for buried treasure. |
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| Dog Walking. |
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Running. |
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Where the Wermels live...
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| The natural skylight is perfect for my air plants that live in this birdhouse we found at City-Wide Garage Sale |
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| Hallway bathroom- came out kind of blurry |
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| Daisy in our bedroom |
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| Daisy relaxing on her bed :) |
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| Not much furniture in the dining room, but that's okay |
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| Finally a place to hang this print I got years ago in Paris. |
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| Guest bedroom...mom was a good sport to sleep on the mattresses. Black wrought-iron bed should be delivered soon. |
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| Doggies in the hallway |
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| Kitchen |
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| Kitchen Table |
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| Living Room |
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| Peonies say summer! |
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| Study/"Man Cave" |
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| Home is wherever Andy is. :) |
moving... a few silly pics
On Memorial Day, Andy & I moved into a house! We're just renting the house, but it's really exciting for us. So far, we really love it. But we couldn't have gotten into it without the help of some of our Hill Country friends- so LOTS of thanks to Jack Horton, Preston Glace, Tom Ebner, Cody McCourt, Robin Inks, Paige Womble, Jennifer Neumann, and Grace Neumann for all their amazing help! You guys are a HUGE blessing! :)
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| Tom helps Andy load up Jack's truck. |
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| Jack carries my "favorite" chair... |
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| After hours of hard work, Jack & Preston found Andy's stash of swords. Of course, there was a minor delay while they intimidated Senorita. |
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| Jack holds the sword to Preston's throat! |
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| Andy prepares to get involved in the fight! |
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| Preston fights back with his iPhone...? |
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Thankful for...
I'm up this morning, enjoying the relative quiet of my first Saturday in our new house. Andy's at drill, so I have the place to myself. I've got the backdoor open, and I can hear my neighbor's lawnmower and birds chirping- new sounds, good sounds.
There are still things to be done around the house. My fine China is still tucked away in layers of bubble wrap, and our new guest bedroom is lacking some necessities that I must purchase before my mom gets here on Wednesday. :) But I don't feel hurried this morning. I don't feel the anxiety that I often do when facing a new project. Sitting here, watching the sunlight play peek-a-boo through the gray morning we see so often in Austin, I realize that I am just thankful. It would be easy to obsess over our need for a new sofa to accomodate more people, easy to worry about how we'll pay two rents for two months, easy to get overly concerned with the ever-growing weeds & grass in our backyard, and our lack of a lawnmower. But, I actually feel too overwhelmed with thanksgiving to care too much about those things at this moment.
The past year has been challenging in many ways- is any year without its challenges? But certainly, looking back, there's so much more to be thankful for than to get discouraged about. So I thought that I'd mention a few things on here- to acknowledge God's faithfulness. So often I go through the motions of the school year- just trying to make it through the next unit, desperate to set a good pace, and help the kids finish well. In that self-imposed struggle, I lose sight of the Lord and His beauty and wonder, His love for me, and His ever-faithful, compassionate provision. The very least that I can do is give Him some thanks after crossing the finish line. I haven't got anything particularly planned out- so we'll see what flows in this post.
I am thankful for my marriage. Yesterday, I watched my sweet husband dance to the rhythm of some hip hop song while he flipped burgers on a boat on Lake Travis. Who doesn't want to be on the lake in the middle of the afternoon, you might ask? Well, I think a lot of adults would pass when they realized that the boat party includes being responsible for 70 teenagers for three hours. But not Andy. This year, he has gotten to know my kids almost as well as I know them and it is an absolute JOY to see them enjoy one another. Yesterday, Tom saw him from a distance and cried out, "Andy!" like a giddy child. Just in the past couple of days, Andy has done everything he could to help me be settled and safe in the new house while he's gone for drill, has served my students and me with a tireless selflessness, and still had enough fun left in him to cliff jump with the kids yesterday on the lake. There is safety and sweetness every day with Andy, and that allows us to invite others into our life and our new home.
I am thankful for my students. After the boat party yesterday, a big group of us went to see "Now You See Me" (which is a great film, by the way). It had been a long and tiring day, and after my burger on the boat, I hadn't had any real food (just movie popcorn) As we stood around discussing the movie and joking around before going home, I started to giggle at some of the jokes in a particular way. Tom and Mitchell Butterfield (who we call Butters) said almost unanimously, "Uh-oh, Wermel needs to eat." They were so right. How funny to me, though, and sort of precious that we know each other well enough to recognize each other's idiosyncrasies. My students are my delight in life. I love to watch the grow and learn, and I love to have fun with them. They amaze me with their intelligence, their resolve, and their willingness to serve. There's hardly a piece of furniture in this house that Jack Horton didn't help Andy move in here. And Tom, Preston, Cody, Grace and Paige helped for hours, too. They are daring- Preston almost gave me a heart attack yesterday doing flips off the cliff. They are loving- Bella walked all the way back to the boat to "fetch" Andy for me so that he could jump before we had to leave. They are funny- we spend the majority of our time laughing (when we're not in class, but sometimes even in class) People send their kids to Hill Country for lots of reasons, and there are a lot of things that are said about the school about what makes it special, but for me, hands down, what makes the school special is that the students let the teachers into their lives, they give us a place in their hearts, and that is a precious gift. Their willingness to open their hearts to me and Andy, has caused us to swing the doors of our hearts wide open to them.
I am thankful for my co-workers. A couple of days ago, I sat in a room grading papers with a couple of other teachers. We were watching "Rear Window" and chatting about how diction and clothing have changed since the time of Hitchcock, Stewart and Kelly. It made the Chemistry finals go by a lot faster, that's for sure. When I left Jack Britt, I was sad to leave an amazing community behind me. I count myself blessed for having learned to teach in that environment. I still believe that God gave me the absolute best coming out of the starting gate. But I am also thankful to have developed rapport with the teachers at Hill Country- what a fun and quirky crew they are, full of talent and great love for their students, for one another, and for the Lord. I am particularly thankful for my friend, Robin Inks, who, for a reason only God knows, adores the students just as much, if not more, than I do. We've spent more time than I can even think about hanging out with students together, and she is always my go-to person when I need to chat over an issue or go to the Lord in prayer about something regarding one of our students. In Anne of Green Gables words, she is a kindred spirit, and I'm so thankful the Lord chose to put us both at Hill Country at this same time.
I am thankful for the summer that is to come. Since I moved to Texas, I've viewed summer as a chance to escape- from the heat, from the traffic, from the loneliness. This summer feels different. Life has taken on a sweetness this year, even in the midst of some real difficulties, and, though I'm thankful for the time to get away and see my family & friends in NC, and the 'ventures that Andy & I will hopefully get to have in these few relaxed months of the year, I don't feel the need to escape, as I have in the past.
The song of my heart right now is Psalm 16. Verse 6 says, "the boundary lines for me have falled in pleasant places, surely I have a delightful inheritance." It's taken years for my heart to get to this place where I feel overwhelming gratitude to the Lord for His plan to bring me here and keep me here. But I'm thankful that He's made everything work together for my good, just as He promised. Right now, there is trouble, but He is my refuge. He's provided security, joy, purpose and life. Thank you.
There are still things to be done around the house. My fine China is still tucked away in layers of bubble wrap, and our new guest bedroom is lacking some necessities that I must purchase before my mom gets here on Wednesday. :) But I don't feel hurried this morning. I don't feel the anxiety that I often do when facing a new project. Sitting here, watching the sunlight play peek-a-boo through the gray morning we see so often in Austin, I realize that I am just thankful. It would be easy to obsess over our need for a new sofa to accomodate more people, easy to worry about how we'll pay two rents for two months, easy to get overly concerned with the ever-growing weeds & grass in our backyard, and our lack of a lawnmower. But, I actually feel too overwhelmed with thanksgiving to care too much about those things at this moment.
The past year has been challenging in many ways- is any year without its challenges? But certainly, looking back, there's so much more to be thankful for than to get discouraged about. So I thought that I'd mention a few things on here- to acknowledge God's faithfulness. So often I go through the motions of the school year- just trying to make it through the next unit, desperate to set a good pace, and help the kids finish well. In that self-imposed struggle, I lose sight of the Lord and His beauty and wonder, His love for me, and His ever-faithful, compassionate provision. The very least that I can do is give Him some thanks after crossing the finish line. I haven't got anything particularly planned out- so we'll see what flows in this post.
I am thankful for my marriage. Yesterday, I watched my sweet husband dance to the rhythm of some hip hop song while he flipped burgers on a boat on Lake Travis. Who doesn't want to be on the lake in the middle of the afternoon, you might ask? Well, I think a lot of adults would pass when they realized that the boat party includes being responsible for 70 teenagers for three hours. But not Andy. This year, he has gotten to know my kids almost as well as I know them and it is an absolute JOY to see them enjoy one another. Yesterday, Tom saw him from a distance and cried out, "Andy!" like a giddy child. Just in the past couple of days, Andy has done everything he could to help me be settled and safe in the new house while he's gone for drill, has served my students and me with a tireless selflessness, and still had enough fun left in him to cliff jump with the kids yesterday on the lake. There is safety and sweetness every day with Andy, and that allows us to invite others into our life and our new home.
I am thankful for my students. After the boat party yesterday, a big group of us went to see "Now You See Me" (which is a great film, by the way). It had been a long and tiring day, and after my burger on the boat, I hadn't had any real food (just movie popcorn) As we stood around discussing the movie and joking around before going home, I started to giggle at some of the jokes in a particular way. Tom and Mitchell Butterfield (who we call Butters) said almost unanimously, "Uh-oh, Wermel needs to eat." They were so right. How funny to me, though, and sort of precious that we know each other well enough to recognize each other's idiosyncrasies. My students are my delight in life. I love to watch the grow and learn, and I love to have fun with them. They amaze me with their intelligence, their resolve, and their willingness to serve. There's hardly a piece of furniture in this house that Jack Horton didn't help Andy move in here. And Tom, Preston, Cody, Grace and Paige helped for hours, too. They are daring- Preston almost gave me a heart attack yesterday doing flips off the cliff. They are loving- Bella walked all the way back to the boat to "fetch" Andy for me so that he could jump before we had to leave. They are funny- we spend the majority of our time laughing (when we're not in class, but sometimes even in class) People send their kids to Hill Country for lots of reasons, and there are a lot of things that are said about the school about what makes it special, but for me, hands down, what makes the school special is that the students let the teachers into their lives, they give us a place in their hearts, and that is a precious gift. Their willingness to open their hearts to me and Andy, has caused us to swing the doors of our hearts wide open to them.
I am thankful for my co-workers. A couple of days ago, I sat in a room grading papers with a couple of other teachers. We were watching "Rear Window" and chatting about how diction and clothing have changed since the time of Hitchcock, Stewart and Kelly. It made the Chemistry finals go by a lot faster, that's for sure. When I left Jack Britt, I was sad to leave an amazing community behind me. I count myself blessed for having learned to teach in that environment. I still believe that God gave me the absolute best coming out of the starting gate. But I am also thankful to have developed rapport with the teachers at Hill Country- what a fun and quirky crew they are, full of talent and great love for their students, for one another, and for the Lord. I am particularly thankful for my friend, Robin Inks, who, for a reason only God knows, adores the students just as much, if not more, than I do. We've spent more time than I can even think about hanging out with students together, and she is always my go-to person when I need to chat over an issue or go to the Lord in prayer about something regarding one of our students. In Anne of Green Gables words, she is a kindred spirit, and I'm so thankful the Lord chose to put us both at Hill Country at this same time.
I am thankful for the summer that is to come. Since I moved to Texas, I've viewed summer as a chance to escape- from the heat, from the traffic, from the loneliness. This summer feels different. Life has taken on a sweetness this year, even in the midst of some real difficulties, and, though I'm thankful for the time to get away and see my family & friends in NC, and the 'ventures that Andy & I will hopefully get to have in these few relaxed months of the year, I don't feel the need to escape, as I have in the past.
The song of my heart right now is Psalm 16. Verse 6 says, "the boundary lines for me have falled in pleasant places, surely I have a delightful inheritance." It's taken years for my heart to get to this place where I feel overwhelming gratitude to the Lord for His plan to bring me here and keep me here. But I'm thankful that He's made everything work together for my good, just as He promised. Right now, there is trouble, but He is my refuge. He's provided security, joy, purpose and life. Thank you.
Psalm 16
1 Keep me safe, my God,
for in you I take refuge.
for in you I take refuge.
2 I say to the Lord, “You are my Lord;
apart from you I have no good thing.”
3 I say of the holy people who are in the land,
“They are the noble ones in whom is all my delight.”
4 Those who run after other gods will suffer more and more.
I will not pour out libations of blood to such gods
or take up their names on my lips.
apart from you I have no good thing.”
3 I say of the holy people who are in the land,
“They are the noble ones in whom is all my delight.”
4 Those who run after other gods will suffer more and more.
I will not pour out libations of blood to such gods
or take up their names on my lips.
5 Lord, you alone are my portion and my cup;
you make my lot secure.
6 The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.
7 I will praise the Lord, who counsels me;
even at night my heart instructs me.
8 I keep my eyes always on the Lord.
With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.
you make my lot secure.
6 The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.
7 I will praise the Lord, who counsels me;
even at night my heart instructs me.
8 I keep my eyes always on the Lord.
With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.
9 Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
my body also will rest secure,
10 because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
nor will you let your faithful[b] one see decay.
11 You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.
my body also will rest secure,
10 because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
nor will you let your faithful[b] one see decay.
11 You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.
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