I have started up a new blog address in addition to this one. It is called Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture. For some time I have been trying to decide if I should separate some of my blog entries that concern pop culture, politics, and/or entertainment from those that are centered more on biblical, spiritual, and/or missional matters. Because this blog has gotten large enough (this will be the 85th post) and does not appear to be tapering off (despite when I'm laid up with either the flu or wedding plans), I've decided a spin-off blog might be interesting. Will it be a Frasier, or a Joey? I suppose only time will tell.
I do hope you will make an effort to visit this new blog while still maintaining your perusal of this one as well. You will begin to notice that the sidebar of this blog will contain both a link to Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture as well as a notice when a new entry appears on it.
Please also remember that this blog, Wonderstuff, has a Xanga counterpart if you are more of a Xanga reader than a Blogger. A link will soon be posted in the sidebar for that site as well.
Okay, enough shameless plugging. Now that everything is getting more organized, I can get back to the original spirit of this blog. And now it has a friend!
You can read Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture, including the inaugural post, by going to this address:
www.wonderstuffreviews.blogspot.com
Grace and peace to you, my readers.
Showing posts with label my weird world. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my weird world. Show all posts
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
The Engagement Story
On December 23, 2006, Leigh Ann Wright agreed to be wife. The following is the story of the proposal and the most nerve-racking twenty minutes of my life...
I picked the evening before Christmas Eve as the time to propose to Leigh, seeing as how the following evening was traditionally a time for her family to enjoy each other's company, sitting by the fire and opening a Christmas present or two, and Leigh was excited that I would be able to join them this year. So, I shared my proposal date and idea with her sisters, and later with her mother and father over lunch out the Fountain View Cafe in which I also asked for permission (yes, Truett girls, I still asked for permission even though you all taught me that you are your own woman and a request for your hand should be addressed only to you and no one else).
On the 22nd, unbeknownst to Leigh, I drove to Waco to pick up the ring from a fine craftswoman who had taken my mother's stone and placed it on a vintage-style, white gold band. The following day, after a few hours at the office, I set to work preparing the night. While getting clothes and necessary materials together and putting the finishing touches on a special slideshow DVD, everything was going fine. It wasn't until I left my apartment that things seemed to go to hell. First of all, Houston's Restaurant, the place I had planned to take Leigh to dinner after the engagement (one of her favorites), informed me that they could not accommodate eight people anywhere in their establishment. This seemed ridiculous to me, but they showed me the puny table sizes and were very apologetic. So, with only about three hours before Leigh was to get off work (and there was a chance she may have been allowed to leave early), I frantically battled the heady west Houston traffic, searching for a nice enough restaurant that would not be crowded out that evening and unable to seat eight (the high number is explained farther down).
While Leigh's parents and my own parents (yes, they were secretly in town) made calls to several restaurants, I finally fought my way to Pappadeaux Seafood Restaurant off of I-10. The manager was very gracious, to my weary relief, and not only promised to seat an incomplete party of six when they showed up, but even made a reservation for the eight of us even though the time was only a few hours away.
Able to breathe again, I took my filthy Jeep through a car wash despite the rainy weather, and then vacuumed it out. Though I was almost an hour behind schedule (and had not eaten anything all day), I had given myself a buffer in case Leigh should get off early. I arrived at Leigh's parent's house, unloaded my materials, and then parked my car around the block where she would not pass it. My parents and Leigh's parents were waiting for me, and I was able to talk with them and calm my racing pulse and breath. Shirley, Leigh's mother, informed me that she had convinced Leigh to swing by the house on her way home from work, even though Leigh believed I was coming to her apartment to pick her up for a Christmas date. Shirley had made up some suspiciously elaborate ruse regarding the need for Leigh's opinion on a Christmas present for her twin sister that her parent's had purchased but about which they now had doubts. Leigh had called me earlier, frustrated at her mother's insistence, but I assured her we were in no rush, so she should go by their house after work. Unfortunately, in an attempt to fortify the ruse, I unwisely told her to call me when she was leaving her parent's house, not when she got off work as was her usual routine.
While preparing little clue cards that I planned to place at either entry door of the house, with a trail of Dublin Dr Pepper bottles I acquired from Waco (the significance of these comes from the first gift I gave her the day I first drove down to meet her in person), I made sure everyone was on the same page regarding the restaurant. Her parents, two sisters, and my parents would arrive first, be seated, order appetizers, and await our arrival, ready to surprise Leigh as celebratory guests to our engagement dinner. As I finished the cards that would lead her from either the front or back door - whichever one she chose - to the living room coffee table note, I glanced at the clock. It was only 6:50, which meant Leigh should only now be giving her reports in the Labor & Delivery ward at St. Joseph's Hospital downtown, and was still a good half hour away at the earliest. I decided to use the guest bathroom and clean-up a bit, washing my face, styling my hair, brushing my teeth, etc.
And the the phone call came...
Shirley answered the phone, and we assumed it was Leigh calling to tell her mother that she was getting off work and would be there in about thirty minutes. Shirley spoke quickly and then told her to come on, that she was waiting for her. Then she frantically hung up the phone and called out, "She's at Dairy Ashford and I-10 people! We gotta go!"
My parents leaped from their comfortable seats, and I yelled from upstairs, "Go, go, go!" Thinking quickly, they reversed the plan and my parents, instead of hiding their car, volunteered to drive to Leigh's older sister, Stephanie's, house, since she would never be able to make it over to us in time to drive everyone to the restaurant, as was the original plan. My mother quickly placed the Dr Pepper bottles outside for me, then they wished me luck and sped away.
Realizing Leigh was only about seven minutes away and getting closer by the second, in a blur I dried my face, crammed on my shoes, and flew around the house, checking to make sure the DVD was cued-up, that the outside notes were in place and the electric candles (it was drizzling outside) were on, the bottles were correctly in place, the coffee table arranged, and the lights turned strangely low. Knowing Leigh might pull up any minute, I peered out through the blinds of the front window, watching the street, my heart jumping at any headlights that appeared and then passed on.
I had not been stressed or rushed all day, save the frantic hour spent changing restaurants, but now sweat was pouring off me, and I was trembling. I had put so much work into this, for her to show up even a little too soon might blow everything. My thoughts swirled within me. What if she recognized my parent's car turning across Dairy Ashford into Stephanie's neighborhood? What if she grew too suspicious when Shirley began to sound surprised she was calling so close to home? What if she doesn't do what the notes say and searches the house?
Straining to breathe, I turned from the window and surveyed the living room, if only to gather some reassurance that everything was set up. It wasn't.
The central candle, by which sat a note instructing Leigh to play the DVD, was unlit. And I had no idea where Shirley kept the matches! Knowing Leigh would pull up any second, I ninja-leaped into the kitchen and tore through the drawers, digging for matches. Thankfully, I spied an old book of restaurant matches, half-used, and scurried into the living room. The match took five scrapes to light, but I managed to light the candle, extinguish the match, throw it away, hide the matchbook, and dive back to the window just in time to see Leigh's Honda CRV park out front. Diving to the floor, I Vietnam-crawled my way back to her parents' bathroom, and hid behind the counter where, hopefully, Leigh would not hear my labored breathing.
"Hello?" I eventually heard her call out from the back door (leave it to her not to see the candles and bottles right in front of her on the front walk, but go all the way around to the back door). "Mom? Dad?"
Play the DVD, Leigh. Just sit down and play the DVD. Don't search the house. Don't be stubborn - just do what the note says.
Finally, I heard the music begin on the DVD, which was a slideshow of pictures of the two of us in chronological order, telling our story, sandwiched between the quote about love that first moved her to comment on my blog back in April of 2005. Once again, I could breathe easier, and slowly I stood up, ready to walk out into the living room once the song ended and the words, "I love you, Leigh," came up on the screen backed by soft acoustic music.
But, as I stood up, suddenly, and to my horror, the song ended abruptly. I heard Leigh call out in a wavering voice, "Bo, are you in here?"
Cursing under my breath, I retreated back to my hiding place behind the counter as she called my name again. Just watch the darn slideshow, Leigh!
To my relief, the song continued then, and came to its end. I slowly stepped out from the bedroom and found my Leigh sitting on the couch quietly, staring at the words on the screen. I gently touched her shoulder and rounded the couch, kneeling before her. The ring box was literally up my sleeve.
To my best recollection, this is what I said, but I cannot be sure, because during it she began to cry and I was a mess of stress and emotion: "Merry Christmas, Leigh. I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I want to love you for the rest of my life." I then pulled out the box, choosing, for once in my life, not to keep talking, and opened it in front of her. "Leigh Ann Wright, will you marry me?"
"Sweetie," she exclaimed, "yes!" Giving a big hug, she then allowed me to place the ring on her finger. Of course, being the dunce that I am and the wreck of serenity I was right then, I misjudged which was her left hand, and the ring ended up on her right hand. We realized this and changed it a few minutes later.
We remained there for a little while, me explaining to her all my secretive procedures of the past few weeks, my trips to Waco, who made the ring, where the stone had come from, how many lies I had told as well as her sisters and parents, then me asking why she didn't come in the front and her admitting she had not even seen the bottles and candles that had been right in front of her. I was glad, then, that I had set a few up in the back as well. We toasted the moment with a couple of Dublin's, then I told her that her sister had brought over a choice of clothes for her to change into for our dinner date, which we were still going to keep.
She happily went and dressed while I walked around the block, to retrieve my car. Making my way through the chilled, wet evening air, I breathed calmly again, and would be able to do so the rest of the night. As I strolled contentedly to my car, I sighed a deep, brief prayer of thanks to God that somehow, even in his greatness and glory, somehow condescended to be in those frantic and beautiful moments that had just taken place. I hoped he would remain in all our moments from that time on.
Later, at the restaurant, we approached our reserved table and Leigh was taken aback by the excited, silly faces of her family half-hiding behind their menus. It was a wonderful evening, with good food, a wonderful family soon to be joined, and a radiantly beautiful girl sitting next to me, a diamond ring on her finger, a joyous grin on her face.
Merry Christmas, Leigh. I love you.
I picked the evening before Christmas Eve as the time to propose to Leigh, seeing as how the following evening was traditionally a time for her family to enjoy each other's company, sitting by the fire and opening a Christmas present or two, and Leigh was excited that I would be able to join them this year. So, I shared my proposal date and idea with her sisters, and later with her mother and father over lunch out the Fountain View Cafe in which I also asked for permission (yes, Truett girls, I still asked for permission even though you all taught me that you are your own woman and a request for your hand should be addressed only to you and no one else).
On the 22nd, unbeknownst to Leigh, I drove to Waco to pick up the ring from a fine craftswoman who had taken my mother's stone and placed it on a vintage-style, white gold band. The following day, after a few hours at the office, I set to work preparing the night. While getting clothes and necessary materials together and putting the finishing touches on a special slideshow DVD, everything was going fine. It wasn't until I left my apartment that things seemed to go to hell. First of all, Houston's Restaurant, the place I had planned to take Leigh to dinner after the engagement (one of her favorites), informed me that they could not accommodate eight people anywhere in their establishment. This seemed ridiculous to me, but they showed me the puny table sizes and were very apologetic. So, with only about three hours before Leigh was to get off work (and there was a chance she may have been allowed to leave early), I frantically battled the heady west Houston traffic, searching for a nice enough restaurant that would not be crowded out that evening and unable to seat eight (the high number is explained farther down).
While Leigh's parents and my own parents (yes, they were secretly in town) made calls to several restaurants, I finally fought my way to Pappadeaux Seafood Restaurant off of I-10. The manager was very gracious, to my weary relief, and not only promised to seat an incomplete party of six when they showed up, but even made a reservation for the eight of us even though the time was only a few hours away.
Able to breathe again, I took my filthy Jeep through a car wash despite the rainy weather, and then vacuumed it out. Though I was almost an hour behind schedule (and had not eaten anything all day), I had given myself a buffer in case Leigh should get off early. I arrived at Leigh's parent's house, unloaded my materials, and then parked my car around the block where she would not pass it. My parents and Leigh's parents were waiting for me, and I was able to talk with them and calm my racing pulse and breath. Shirley, Leigh's mother, informed me that she had convinced Leigh to swing by the house on her way home from work, even though Leigh believed I was coming to her apartment to pick her up for a Christmas date. Shirley had made up some suspiciously elaborate ruse regarding the need for Leigh's opinion on a Christmas present for her twin sister that her parent's had purchased but about which they now had doubts. Leigh had called me earlier, frustrated at her mother's insistence, but I assured her we were in no rush, so she should go by their house after work. Unfortunately, in an attempt to fortify the ruse, I unwisely told her to call me when she was leaving her parent's house, not when she got off work as was her usual routine.
While preparing little clue cards that I planned to place at either entry door of the house, with a trail of Dublin Dr Pepper bottles I acquired from Waco (the significance of these comes from the first gift I gave her the day I first drove down to meet her in person), I made sure everyone was on the same page regarding the restaurant. Her parents, two sisters, and my parents would arrive first, be seated, order appetizers, and await our arrival, ready to surprise Leigh as celebratory guests to our engagement dinner. As I finished the cards that would lead her from either the front or back door - whichever one she chose - to the living room coffee table note, I glanced at the clock. It was only 6:50, which meant Leigh should only now be giving her reports in the Labor & Delivery ward at St. Joseph's Hospital downtown, and was still a good half hour away at the earliest. I decided to use the guest bathroom and clean-up a bit, washing my face, styling my hair, brushing my teeth, etc.
And the the phone call came...
Shirley answered the phone, and we assumed it was Leigh calling to tell her mother that she was getting off work and would be there in about thirty minutes. Shirley spoke quickly and then told her to come on, that she was waiting for her. Then she frantically hung up the phone and called out, "She's at Dairy Ashford and I-10 people! We gotta go!"
My parents leaped from their comfortable seats, and I yelled from upstairs, "Go, go, go!" Thinking quickly, they reversed the plan and my parents, instead of hiding their car, volunteered to drive to Leigh's older sister, Stephanie's, house, since she would never be able to make it over to us in time to drive everyone to the restaurant, as was the original plan. My mother quickly placed the Dr Pepper bottles outside for me, then they wished me luck and sped away.
Realizing Leigh was only about seven minutes away and getting closer by the second, in a blur I dried my face, crammed on my shoes, and flew around the house, checking to make sure the DVD was cued-up, that the outside notes were in place and the electric candles (it was drizzling outside) were on, the bottles were correctly in place, the coffee table arranged, and the lights turned strangely low. Knowing Leigh might pull up any minute, I peered out through the blinds of the front window, watching the street, my heart jumping at any headlights that appeared and then passed on.
I had not been stressed or rushed all day, save the frantic hour spent changing restaurants, but now sweat was pouring off me, and I was trembling. I had put so much work into this, for her to show up even a little too soon might blow everything. My thoughts swirled within me. What if she recognized my parent's car turning across Dairy Ashford into Stephanie's neighborhood? What if she grew too suspicious when Shirley began to sound surprised she was calling so close to home? What if she doesn't do what the notes say and searches the house?
Straining to breathe, I turned from the window and surveyed the living room, if only to gather some reassurance that everything was set up. It wasn't.
The central candle, by which sat a note instructing Leigh to play the DVD, was unlit. And I had no idea where Shirley kept the matches! Knowing Leigh would pull up any second, I ninja-leaped into the kitchen and tore through the drawers, digging for matches. Thankfully, I spied an old book of restaurant matches, half-used, and scurried into the living room. The match took five scrapes to light, but I managed to light the candle, extinguish the match, throw it away, hide the matchbook, and dive back to the window just in time to see Leigh's Honda CRV park out front. Diving to the floor, I Vietnam-crawled my way back to her parents' bathroom, and hid behind the counter where, hopefully, Leigh would not hear my labored breathing.
"Hello?" I eventually heard her call out from the back door (leave it to her not to see the candles and bottles right in front of her on the front walk, but go all the way around to the back door). "Mom? Dad?"
Play the DVD, Leigh. Just sit down and play the DVD. Don't search the house. Don't be stubborn - just do what the note says.
Finally, I heard the music begin on the DVD, which was a slideshow of pictures of the two of us in chronological order, telling our story, sandwiched between the quote about love that first moved her to comment on my blog back in April of 2005. Once again, I could breathe easier, and slowly I stood up, ready to walk out into the living room once the song ended and the words, "I love you, Leigh," came up on the screen backed by soft acoustic music.
But, as I stood up, suddenly, and to my horror, the song ended abruptly. I heard Leigh call out in a wavering voice, "Bo, are you in here?"
Cursing under my breath, I retreated back to my hiding place behind the counter as she called my name again. Just watch the darn slideshow, Leigh!
To my relief, the song continued then, and came to its end. I slowly stepped out from the bedroom and found my Leigh sitting on the couch quietly, staring at the words on the screen. I gently touched her shoulder and rounded the couch, kneeling before her. The ring box was literally up my sleeve.
To my best recollection, this is what I said, but I cannot be sure, because during it she began to cry and I was a mess of stress and emotion: "Merry Christmas, Leigh. I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I want to love you for the rest of my life." I then pulled out the box, choosing, for once in my life, not to keep talking, and opened it in front of her. "Leigh Ann Wright, will you marry me?"
"Sweetie," she exclaimed, "yes!" Giving a big hug, she then allowed me to place the ring on her finger. Of course, being the dunce that I am and the wreck of serenity I was right then, I misjudged which was her left hand, and the ring ended up on her right hand. We realized this and changed it a few minutes later.
We remained there for a little while, me explaining to her all my secretive procedures of the past few weeks, my trips to Waco, who made the ring, where the stone had come from, how many lies I had told as well as her sisters and parents, then me asking why she didn't come in the front and her admitting she had not even seen the bottles and candles that had been right in front of her. I was glad, then, that I had set a few up in the back as well. We toasted the moment with a couple of Dublin's, then I told her that her sister had brought over a choice of clothes for her to change into for our dinner date, which we were still going to keep.
She happily went and dressed while I walked around the block, to retrieve my car. Making my way through the chilled, wet evening air, I breathed calmly again, and would be able to do so the rest of the night. As I strolled contentedly to my car, I sighed a deep, brief prayer of thanks to God that somehow, even in his greatness and glory, somehow condescended to be in those frantic and beautiful moments that had just taken place. I hoped he would remain in all our moments from that time on.
Later, at the restaurant, we approached our reserved table and Leigh was taken aback by the excited, silly faces of her family half-hiding behind their menus. It was a wonderful evening, with good food, a wonderful family soon to be joined, and a radiantly beautiful girl sitting next to me, a diamond ring on her finger, a joyous grin on her face.
Merry Christmas, Leigh. I love you.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
The Hopeless Romantic Who Will Change the World
My friend, Meg, shared this link on her blog, and, rarely being one to pass up a goofy Internet quiz, I thought I would take a crack at it and share the results with you. Regarding the first test result, I had no idea I am so romantic. Regarding the second, I had every idea that I am steeped in greatness...
Yes, my dear readers, now you know me even better.
My next post is coming very soon, in which I will retell the story of how I got engaged to my wonderful girlfriend (now fiance'), Leigh, over the Christmas holiday. There will be pictures, too.
Yes, my dear readers, now you know me even better.
My next post is coming very soon, in which I will retell the story of how I got engaged to my wonderful girlfriend (now fiance'), Leigh, over the Christmas holiday. There will be pictures, too.
Monday, October 23, 2006
The Day the Originality Died
I wonder how many of these Vernon's have the middle name "Woodrow" and the Roman numeral "III" tacked on at the end? Here's hoping that I'm still somewhat unique (I never thought anything could be "somewhat" unique ... before this morning).
Maybe my parents should have named me "Leroy" after all ...
Monday, September 11, 2006
Faith Journey: Part Four
I appreciate those of you who have weathered the length and withstood the pretentiousness of the last three parts of this, the story of my journey through faith up to this point. There is both excitement and weariness within me as I realize how little of my life this story recounts, and how much may still be yet to come. There is no doubt, this life is hard, despite what Osteen and all his brethren may assure us. But there is indeed wonder glimmering through the cracks, potholes, and sharp edges of this road we shuffle down.
I promise to return to a more consistent blogging sense of mind following this final part of my story...
It was not until after I graduated from college and began serving as a missionary in New England that I reclaimed a measure of equilibrium. It was during a cold winter in Northboro, Massachusetts when I experienced the most poignant of subtle revelations (for there has never been an audible voice from Heaven as I once desperately desired, but only the subtle nudges of the God who does not adhere to our daily planners and formulaic self-help schedules). Still I feared I was years away from figuring out the structure of my life, from being pure and confident like those members of my childhood church standing up and singing with certainty. How could I preach salvation if I was not even confident of my own? I was conflicted about the wisdom of the mobilization board sending me out. I certainly did not feel like a capable missionary, and I wondered if my sponsors suspected this self-doubt. However, it was only while accepting the task to serve in student ministry programs that I finally found release from the tensions of my youth.
The answer to this agonizing question – the profound discovery of truth – settled before my eyes in the gentlest of ways. While clicking across the Internet one afternoon, bored and carrying around the normal, back-of-my-mind despondency, I came across a webpage that contained all the concert transcripts by one of my favorite musicians, the late Rich Mullins, a songwriter also hailed as a poet and a missionary. I began lazily reading through some of the stories and statements from his concerts, knowing that Mullins was notorious for being controversially honest, no matter the fallout. Then I read an anecdote Mullins told at one of his last concerts, a few weeks before his death, about the time a producer from a Christian cable television station called to investigate him because her show was considering inviting him as a guest. The woman proceeded to question him about when he “accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior.” Mullins replied that he was around three years of age, and the woman incredulously asked how this could have taken place. “Well, I was in Sunday School and we prayed, ‘Into my heart, into my heart, come into my heart, Lord Jesus. Come in today. Come in to stay. Come into my heart, Lord Jesus,’” Mullins sang. The woman told him that wasn’t what she meant, and asked him to clarify when he “knowingly” accepted Christ. When he told her he was probably a third grader at the time, she once again questioned him in disbelief, arguing that he couldn’t have possibly known then what he was praying. It was Mullin’s answer that shook the very foundations of the world I had fashioned around myself. He told the producer, “Lady, we never understand what we’re praying, and God, in his mercy, does not answer our prayers according to our understanding, but according to his wisdom.”
Over the next few months, my moralistic and decisionistic view of God and salvation began to melt away from me like an ice sculpture set out beneath the blazing sun. Of course! Never have God’s movements or his emotional qualities hinged on my actions or my prayers. In the reality of God, no one on earth has complete understanding, and therefore, no one can truly know all the ramifications of their prayerful requests. If God is truly transcendent then nothing can deter him from his chosen purposes, not even the sheer tonnage of human sin and ignorance. And if God is truly immanent, then he “knows me better than I know myself,” as St. Augustine would agree, and I should not fear that God might be duped by prayers possibly derailed by a misguided emotion or desire.
I found confidence, finally, in letting go, rather than desperately trying to keep hold of every loose end of my life. Realizing that God communes with me solely according to his love and wisdom, rather than my vain strivings, I live in freedom. The stress of maintaining a well-checked gauge of moral compliance has vanished. I believe mercy is an integral characteristic of God, and is daily shown to me. To honor him, I resist temptation and sin, but even in my failure, I have faith that my behavior does not alter his love for me. This faith is not false, for it is grounded in God and not myself. It is certain, yes, but certain like a man who, though walking in the dark, whistles all the while. My literary hero, Frederick Buechner, writes in his book, Wishful Thinking, “Faith is better understood as a verb than as a noun, as a process than as a possession. … Faith is not being sure where you’re going, but going anyway. A journey without maps.”
I recognize that there is struggle in this life. I have first hand experience that in life there are significant moments of confusion, of doubt, and separation. I suspect I will experience such times again and again. Nevertheless, I do not despair of my life. I believe that through even the difficult times, God brings laughter. He brings joy. I do not find my legs trembling to stand anymore, and no longer do I have to fake a smile.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Faith Journey: Part Three
The journey of faith goes on...
One of the first moments of illumination through the dusty murk of this crisis came halfway through my time in college. While working a part-time job at a Christian bookstore, on a whim I picked up a book entitled The Ragamuffin Gospel, a work by Brennan Manning, a former Catholic priest. The odd title inspired me to turn its pages. I credit this book as one of the most influential works I have read in my life up to this present time. Manning not only communicated the unconditional, endless nature of God’s love, but how his grace, impossible to earn, should revolutionize our entire life, not just prompt our moral obedience. God was not only to be recognized as Lord over my spiritual activities, but every aspect of my life, from the mundane to the magnificent. In words that have stayed with me since first reading the book, Manning expounds on Rabbi Abraham Heschel’s famous prayer:
Dear Lord, grant me the grace of wonder. Surprise me, amaze me, awe me in every crevice of your universe. Delight me to see how your Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his, to the Father through the features of men’s faces. Each day enrapture me with your marvelous things without number. I do not ask to see the reason for it all; I ask only to share the wonder of it all.
My spiritual wounds found a salve in these words, and I began to try to take delight in a life of religious simplicity. God was no longer furrowing his eyebrows as he studied my every good and bad act, but was joyfully supplying my life and breath. Most importantly, my self-centered view of God began to fade, though slowly. He grew larger than merely an immanent god – he became transcendent. He was the God of the Universe. The God of mighty deeds, yet still desiring relationship with those he created.
However, with this shift in theology came a new struggle. As I learned to embrace the grace of God – that he loves me as I am and not as I should be – I found it hard to reconcile God’s justice and forgiveness, especially concerning how, as a forgiven Christian, I was to avoid taking advantage of the grace given to me. My Christology was central; the death and resurrection of Jesus was the source of the salvation I claimed. But having prayed to God for ultimate forgiveness and having accepted this salvation, I felt as if I were treating God like a weak friend who cannot help but continually forgive his fair-weather pals no matter how many times they reject his friendship. My lack of confidence metamorphosed into a burden of guilt, heavy as a millstone, bending my entire body into weariness. Day after day, I recognized a desperate need for God’s grace mainly because I believed I was treating it as a license to lie, or to explode in anger, or to indulge in lust, or to put off praying. Surely, if I truly understood the gift of grace, I would not need it to the extent that I did. And so, as in my days as a teenager, I doubted my salvation. Surely a real Christian in my situation would have come to an understanding about how to live both obediently and effectively, growing beyond a need for so much grace. This road of life was as spastically up and down as an EKG, where from each mountaintop experience of grace I would plummet into valleys of guilt.
It was not until after I graduated from college and began serving as a missionary in New England that I reclaimed a measure of equilibrium. It was during a cold winter in Northboro, Massachusetts when I experienced the most poignant of subtle revelations ...
To be concluded...
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