I have been internally debating returning to this blog for about a month now. It isn't that I don't like posting my thoughts. It isn't because my readership is minimal (I write for myself before I write for anyone else). It isn't even because I don't normally have the time handy that it takes to sit down, brood, and write. That is a continual problem, but one that can be overcome with a little bit of planning and awareness. The reasons for avoiding this blog are actually beyond me. Sometimes it feels like a child's toy that's been played with until the thought of picking it up again and entering that wonderful, imaginary world, for some reason, doesn't possess the same compelling feeling. Or like a movie you know you love no matter how many times you have viewed it, and yet, even on your greatest day of boredom, you can't bring yourself to pop it in the player again.
I suppose healing to such avoidance-behavior can only be found by picking that ol' action figure up again, popping that dusty videotape back into the VCR, and forgetting about yourself long enough to allow something to bless you, even if you believe it is a foregone possibility. Hence this, my first post in several months, which finds the structure in the telling of a couple of good experiences had over the past month.
Rejuvenation
I began my year by attending a week-long retreat in Kerrville, sponsored by the Truett Seminary Center for Effective Preaching. Technically an "I-term" seminary class, I was glad to find that I was not the only graduate in the group. I reunited with several friends from my days at DaySpring in Waco, and we joined with several current students for what was entitled "Imaginative Reading for Creative Preaching."
The week was a true blessing. As 2007 drew to an end, I felt like I was running on fumes, as rickety and unsure upon the journey as my old, rapidly-deteriorating Jeep (which, thankfully, carried me to Kerrville and back safely nonetheless). But this retreat/class was like pulling up to the pumps and topping off the tank. I was rejuvenated in both my reading and my writing, so much so that even during the free afternoons, while the current students were cramming and reviewing their notes (ah, the joy of not having to worry about grades anymore), I sat out on the spacious backside of our cabin, softly rocking back and forth in an old, wooden porch chair, and tapped away on my novel, feeling as if something had been restarted within me. I was the Energizer Bunny who had finally - finally - run out of juice, only to be saddled with a brand new charge. I left the retreat with a sad heart, having been reminded how wonderful seeking deep, challenging truth in community could be. It was a long, quiet, reflective drive back to Houston.
Healing
The other piece of devotion that was kick-started, both by the retreat as well as simply by the obligatory resolutions that come with the start of a new year, was a return to a time of contemplation, quietness, and prayer. Not only have Leigh and I begun to meet together one morning a week to pray both for our future - on the mission field - and the current issues filling our lives, but I have taken back up with renewed fervor the keeping of the daily office. The Book of Common Prayer has become even more invaluable to me than it was when I first purchased it our of sheer curiosity a few years ago. I am currently attempting to keep the 9:00, noon, and 5:00 hours of prayer, and I have found that the more I fashion this time as a mini-retreat, the greater sense of importance it inhabits within me. At the office or at home, I shut all the window blinds, clear my desk, light candles, and read the selected psalms, readings, and collects out loud. I've even been incorporating some different styles of chant. So, I guess I'm still perpetuating my wannabe Catholic-ness. Then again, it would be more accurate to call it a wannabe Episcopalian-ness.
The best apart about all of this, is that I have not returned to these things (writing, meditation, prayer) out of guilt, but out of a real desire to revisit the intimate, mysterious connection these things afforded me with God. Growing up, I was always guilted into "quiet times" and Scripture memorization ... and then guilted all the more when I "backslid" from such things. It has surprised me how a prolonged separation of genuine seeking and centering can cause a person to make the effort all by him - or her - self. I guess we're never completely lost, no matter who may tell us so. After all, the writer of Hebrews reminds us that, "when we are faithless, he will remain faithful, for he cannot deny himself." It is this saving reality that produces hope when it seems all hope is lost. No matter how far I fall, no matter how rebellious my actions, no matter how impure my thoughts, no matter how destructive my words - there is one I cannot shake from my shoulders no matter how violently I may writhe for freedom.
Jacob wrestled with the angel, but even in his strength and persistence, he did not walk away a winner. He did, however, walk away a new man with a new name.
I suppose there are more bold, italicized topics I could include in here. I could write more about the progression of the novel, about the wonderful books I have been reading, the contemplative prayer service I am going to be leading every week of Lent, or my plans for Ash Wednesday (which includes catching an evening concert by the rarely-outside-of-Ohio duo, Over the Rhine). I could talk about my scary addiction to FIFA Soccer on Xbox, or the new car my wife bought me for Christmas that finally arrived a week ago.
I could talk about a lot of things, but none would be more wonderful and wonder-filled to me than the two mentioned. I am rejuvenated, even in the face of a new calendar year and a lot of new responsibilities. And I am healed, even while the lingering smell of running on fumes still returns to my nose from time to time. But it's a continuous thing, these blessings, and win or lose, no one ever said wrestling was easy.
Showing posts with label the narrowing journey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the narrowing journey. Show all posts
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, July 02, 2007
The Steaming Cup
It seems the attitude of the day is denial...
This morning, during a much needed time of quiet, I read over these words Thomas Merton wrote 67 years ago. "What (besides making lists of the vices of our age) are some of the greatest vices of our age? To begin with, people began to get self-conscious about the fact that their misconducted lives were going to pieces, so instead of ceasing to do the things that made them ashamed and unhappy, they made it a new rule that they must never be ashamed of the things they did. There was to be only one capital sin: to be ashamed. That was how they thought they could solve the problem of sin, by abolishing the term."
And then, in the Liturgy of the Hours for today, I read the story of Peter, following the arresting party of Jesus at a somewhat safe distance, and warming himself by a fire just a stone's throw from Jesus' travesty of a trial. He's fingered three times, and each time, to preserve himself, he denies his relationship to Jesus. And so it is with us, one way or another.
Denial is the easy way out, and I think it drives more of our thoughts and actions than we realize. Denial can separate us from guilt, and it can draw us closer to another person by casting a shadow over truth. Merton's words hit home this morning, not because I knowingly avoid shame by denying the wages of my mistakes, but because, at times, I find myself denying the stark reality of the gospel - of a God who is both love and wrath, mercy and justice. Forgetting this makes it a bit easier to forget the troubling consequences of my mistakes and misdeeds.
Denial works for most of us, until the shame we successfully elude finally does catch up to us. Denial worked for Peter, until that rooster crowed and the Gospel of Luke reads, "Jesus turned and looked directly at him." In those eyes was the simple, unflinching truth that denying who you are only works in one certain way, and it isn't for hope of self-preservation and avoidance of guilt.
This same Jesus who finds us and looks directly at us when we seek to conceal ourselves by denying the kind of people we are - the kind of person our thoughts and actions naturally reveal us to be - is the one who says quite plainly, "If someone wants to walk in my way, they must deny themselves, take up their cross, and follow me." Yes, those who deny themselves in this way are, as Jesus promised, saved. But this denial is an embracing of shame and guilt rather than an avoidance of it, hence the "take up their cross" clause. C.S. Lewis explained such a concept as if it were a steaming beverage that we have to gulp down, finding out only afterward that we are able to handle it.
So, may the wonder of denying who I am and all I seek to protect myself from work to cleanse me of the dirty shadows of this world. Perhaps, on the other side of this denial, I'll find the strength to see completely past my shame, and that of others.
This morning, during a much needed time of quiet, I read over these words Thomas Merton wrote 67 years ago. "What (besides making lists of the vices of our age) are some of the greatest vices of our age? To begin with, people began to get self-conscious about the fact that their misconducted lives were going to pieces, so instead of ceasing to do the things that made them ashamed and unhappy, they made it a new rule that they must never be ashamed of the things they did. There was to be only one capital sin: to be ashamed. That was how they thought they could solve the problem of sin, by abolishing the term."
And then, in the Liturgy of the Hours for today, I read the story of Peter, following the arresting party of Jesus at a somewhat safe distance, and warming himself by a fire just a stone's throw from Jesus' travesty of a trial. He's fingered three times, and each time, to preserve himself, he denies his relationship to Jesus. And so it is with us, one way or another.
Denial is the easy way out, and I think it drives more of our thoughts and actions than we realize. Denial can separate us from guilt, and it can draw us closer to another person by casting a shadow over truth. Merton's words hit home this morning, not because I knowingly avoid shame by denying the wages of my mistakes, but because, at times, I find myself denying the stark reality of the gospel - of a God who is both love and wrath, mercy and justice. Forgetting this makes it a bit easier to forget the troubling consequences of my mistakes and misdeeds.
Denial works for most of us, until the shame we successfully elude finally does catch up to us. Denial worked for Peter, until that rooster crowed and the Gospel of Luke reads, "Jesus turned and looked directly at him." In those eyes was the simple, unflinching truth that denying who you are only works in one certain way, and it isn't for hope of self-preservation and avoidance of guilt.
This same Jesus who finds us and looks directly at us when we seek to conceal ourselves by denying the kind of people we are - the kind of person our thoughts and actions naturally reveal us to be - is the one who says quite plainly, "If someone wants to walk in my way, they must deny themselves, take up their cross, and follow me." Yes, those who deny themselves in this way are, as Jesus promised, saved. But this denial is an embracing of shame and guilt rather than an avoidance of it, hence the "take up their cross" clause. C.S. Lewis explained such a concept as if it were a steaming beverage that we have to gulp down, finding out only afterward that we are able to handle it.
So, may the wonder of denying who I am and all I seek to protect myself from work to cleanse me of the dirty shadows of this world. Perhaps, on the other side of this denial, I'll find the strength to see completely past my shame, and that of others.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Faith in the Mystery: Part One of a Response
Last week, I sat down and wrote the previous blog entry, "Leaving the Runway," in an effort to express the anxiety that I believe every Christian carries to some extent - that anxiety being the opposing forces of proof vs. faith. I was surprised to receive so many comments from people I did not know. Most of the people I know that read this blog rarely leave comments, so it is always a treat to be able to converse further over my thoughts and the feelings of others.
However, these comments were so varied in their critiques of what I wrote that, in one respect, I feel as if I am standing upon the crux of two see-sawing polar opposites when it comes to religious understanding. I hesitated at first to address these comments, but realizing they all came from thoughtful, intelligent people bringing, in their views, their own unique life experience, I feel now that to not address them would be a cop out. So, let me begin with the anonymous commenter on this, my Blogspot blog.
In order to conserve space and prevent this entry from stretching on too long, I will not include the entirety of "Anonymous'" quote, so if you would like to read it all, simply go to the entry just before this one and read the comments.
Anonymous (and even though there were two, I'm assuming it is the same person writing twice - even if I am mistaken, the sentiment in both is the same) came to my blog entry and was seemingly affected by a wishy-washiness he or she perceived in my reflection. What is more, Anonymous expressed concern that such an inability to cast away my anxiety and uneasiness of faith vs. proof might "infect" the youth group that I lead. Anonymous seemed upset that I would refer to the gospels as ambiguous, though, in reality, no matter how tightly one clings to the truth of the Gospels, only the naive would insist that there is no lack of information, that everything holds up perfectly and there is no reason to question anything. Unfortunately, many people cannot bring themselves to question the perspectives given to us in the gospels, let alone the validity of some of the details, even when one gospel differs slightly from other accounts. They simply cough out the "camera-angle" explanation, and bring into question the faith of the person calling parts of the gospels ambiguous.
Unfortunately for these people (and I'm not labeling Anonymous as one, though his sentiment reminded me of such people), the gospels, let alone the entire canon of Scripture, is ambiguous. It does not give us all the facts, and it does not answer every question and erase every doubt. For example, Genesis does not provide us with hard and fast proof of when and even how the earth was created. The Creation account is not a scientific dissertation. It is a narrative - a story - that delves beyond mere physical reasoning to the heart of the problem, that of human rebellion. In the same way, as I've told so many students in the youth group who have asked similar questions, Genesis is not an account of how the world began; it is an account of how God's relationship with man began, and that doesn't really start until chapter twelve with Abram.
The second thing that bothered Anonymous about my last entry was my closing metaphor, in which I try to paint a picture of what a life lived by faith is like, as opposed to a life lived solely by proof. Proof and certainty do not necessarily have to go together, as Hebrews 11:1 reminds us (and Anonymous attempted to remind me). However, faith and proof cannot go together, at least for a Christian. I was simply trying to illustrate that eventually, faith must stretch beyond proof. Anonymous wrote, referring to my metaphor, "I don’t believe that boarding the plane and leaving the runway is leaving something grounded, solid, or sure – if it was, no one would fly. In the same way, based on God’s promises, His real, historical, physical, incarnational provision of Christ, and His daily working in, through, and around us, we are convinced, sure, confident – full of faith, that what we hope for will happen. It isn’t a wishy-washy hope of uncertainty."
Quite true, and perhaps my use of the word "uncertainty" was a poor choice, but there are indeed two kinds of certainty. There is the certainty of proof, and there is the certainty of faith. These are not the same, as much as some of the "faithful" would like to insist they are. The certainty of proof is certain because it is "grounded," "sure," and scientifically provable. But faith has its own certainty, and it is not based on what is grounded or sure, no matter how true you believe the Bible to be (and I believe it to be quite true indeed despite it's ambiguous moments). The certainty of faith is found in our ability to hold to what we hope for no matter what goes on around us, what wars against our faith, and what challenges or shakes us to our core. Faith is a struggle, and as Paul Tillich intimated, it is not the opposite of doubt. Rather, doubt is one of the things that faith wraps itself around and redeems. Frederick Buechner writes of faith that it is "a journey without maps." So, ultimately, to those who dwell merely in the certainty of proof, the certainty of faith is not certainty at all, but uncertainty. However, for the faithful, as Anonymous is indeed one, faith is certainty. However, what we must all remember is that it is not the same as the world's view of what is and is not certain.
I am indebted to Anonymous for his or her comments, even if my metaphor was taken to some serious extremes to which no metaphor should ever be taken, and my ability to properly direct the youth under my charge was called into question. What Anonymous has helped me do is rethink my words and move even farther along this shadowy path we call earthly life.
There is still another pole which I need to address - a comment on my Xanga counterpart from a young man named Eric - before I can be finished with my response, but I will do this in another entry to come very soon. I think what I have written above is enough for us all - including me - to chew on.
The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It's our handle on what we can't see. The act of faith is what distinguished our ancestors, set them above the crowd. By faith, we see the world called into existence by God's word, what we see created by what we don't see. - Eugene Peterson's "The Message" translation of Hebrews 11:1-3
However, these comments were so varied in their critiques of what I wrote that, in one respect, I feel as if I am standing upon the crux of two see-sawing polar opposites when it comes to religious understanding. I hesitated at first to address these comments, but realizing they all came from thoughtful, intelligent people bringing, in their views, their own unique life experience, I feel now that to not address them would be a cop out. So, let me begin with the anonymous commenter on this, my Blogspot blog.
In order to conserve space and prevent this entry from stretching on too long, I will not include the entirety of "Anonymous'" quote, so if you would like to read it all, simply go to the entry just before this one and read the comments.
Anonymous (and even though there were two, I'm assuming it is the same person writing twice - even if I am mistaken, the sentiment in both is the same) came to my blog entry and was seemingly affected by a wishy-washiness he or she perceived in my reflection. What is more, Anonymous expressed concern that such an inability to cast away my anxiety and uneasiness of faith vs. proof might "infect" the youth group that I lead. Anonymous seemed upset that I would refer to the gospels as ambiguous, though, in reality, no matter how tightly one clings to the truth of the Gospels, only the naive would insist that there is no lack of information, that everything holds up perfectly and there is no reason to question anything. Unfortunately, many people cannot bring themselves to question the perspectives given to us in the gospels, let alone the validity of some of the details, even when one gospel differs slightly from other accounts. They simply cough out the "camera-angle" explanation, and bring into question the faith of the person calling parts of the gospels ambiguous.
Unfortunately for these people (and I'm not labeling Anonymous as one, though his sentiment reminded me of such people), the gospels, let alone the entire canon of Scripture, is ambiguous. It does not give us all the facts, and it does not answer every question and erase every doubt. For example, Genesis does not provide us with hard and fast proof of when and even how the earth was created. The Creation account is not a scientific dissertation. It is a narrative - a story - that delves beyond mere physical reasoning to the heart of the problem, that of human rebellion. In the same way, as I've told so many students in the youth group who have asked similar questions, Genesis is not an account of how the world began; it is an account of how God's relationship with man began, and that doesn't really start until chapter twelve with Abram.
The second thing that bothered Anonymous about my last entry was my closing metaphor, in which I try to paint a picture of what a life lived by faith is like, as opposed to a life lived solely by proof. Proof and certainty do not necessarily have to go together, as Hebrews 11:1 reminds us (and Anonymous attempted to remind me). However, faith and proof cannot go together, at least for a Christian. I was simply trying to illustrate that eventually, faith must stretch beyond proof. Anonymous wrote, referring to my metaphor, "I don’t believe that boarding the plane and leaving the runway is leaving something grounded, solid, or sure – if it was, no one would fly. In the same way, based on God’s promises, His real, historical, physical, incarnational provision of Christ, and His daily working in, through, and around us, we are convinced, sure, confident – full of faith, that what we hope for will happen. It isn’t a wishy-washy hope of uncertainty."
Quite true, and perhaps my use of the word "uncertainty" was a poor choice, but there are indeed two kinds of certainty. There is the certainty of proof, and there is the certainty of faith. These are not the same, as much as some of the "faithful" would like to insist they are. The certainty of proof is certain because it is "grounded," "sure," and scientifically provable. But faith has its own certainty, and it is not based on what is grounded or sure, no matter how true you believe the Bible to be (and I believe it to be quite true indeed despite it's ambiguous moments). The certainty of faith is found in our ability to hold to what we hope for no matter what goes on around us, what wars against our faith, and what challenges or shakes us to our core. Faith is a struggle, and as Paul Tillich intimated, it is not the opposite of doubt. Rather, doubt is one of the things that faith wraps itself around and redeems. Frederick Buechner writes of faith that it is "a journey without maps." So, ultimately, to those who dwell merely in the certainty of proof, the certainty of faith is not certainty at all, but uncertainty. However, for the faithful, as Anonymous is indeed one, faith is certainty. However, what we must all remember is that it is not the same as the world's view of what is and is not certain.
I am indebted to Anonymous for his or her comments, even if my metaphor was taken to some serious extremes to which no metaphor should ever be taken, and my ability to properly direct the youth under my charge was called into question. What Anonymous has helped me do is rethink my words and move even farther along this shadowy path we call earthly life.
There is still another pole which I need to address - a comment on my Xanga counterpart from a young man named Eric - before I can be finished with my response, but I will do this in another entry to come very soon. I think what I have written above is enough for us all - including me - to chew on.
The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It's our handle on what we can't see. The act of faith is what distinguished our ancestors, set them above the crowd. By faith, we see the world called into existence by God's word, what we see created by what we don't see. - Eugene Peterson's "The Message" translation of Hebrews 11:1-3
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, November 07, 2006
Flight
I stand upon the precipice, leaning at the edge. There is a strong updraft gusting; it tries to keep me from leaning too far. But for the familiar fear residing in my mind, my whole being desires to separate from the ground under my feet and soar into the wild, boundless sky. It is an unknown, frightening blue sea, but no more dangerous than the dusty dirt beneath my feet in which I have placed far too many footprints.
I know I cannot simply jump. My mind won't allow it, nor will the updraft. I am held fast in place, flirting with the edge, unable to free myself. Unable to fly. I have done all that I feel I can - I have stepped to the edge and peered out into the sky. My heart is filled with a desire for so many possibilities that do not exist upon land, but are rumored to lie somewhere within the wild blue stretching out endlessly before me. To get there, however, will take more power than I possess on my own. Strength to overcome my own hesitation and the guarding, gusting wind here at the edge.
I do not need merely a holy nudge, but a holy shove. A confident push that will separate me. Perhaps I will only plummet to the rocks far, far below, but even in such a crash there is more wonder and excitement than when I fall here on land. Falling here is but a pathetic scrape of the knee. Falling out there is a glorious destruction. Everything out there is better, is truer, is wild and unpredictable.
Deep down, beyond my present fear, I believe a real life is one lived in flight. I need this wildness. I need the unknown.
But first, I need a holy shove.
I know I cannot simply jump. My mind won't allow it, nor will the updraft. I am held fast in place, flirting with the edge, unable to free myself. Unable to fly. I have done all that I feel I can - I have stepped to the edge and peered out into the sky. My heart is filled with a desire for so many possibilities that do not exist upon land, but are rumored to lie somewhere within the wild blue stretching out endlessly before me. To get there, however, will take more power than I possess on my own. Strength to overcome my own hesitation and the guarding, gusting wind here at the edge.
I do not need merely a holy nudge, but a holy shove. A confident push that will separate me. Perhaps I will only plummet to the rocks far, far below, but even in such a crash there is more wonder and excitement than when I fall here on land. Falling here is but a pathetic scrape of the knee. Falling out there is a glorious destruction. Everything out there is better, is truer, is wild and unpredictable.
Deep down, beyond my present fear, I believe a real life is one lived in flight. I need this wildness. I need the unknown.
But first, I need a holy shove.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Frozen
"We touched down on the sound at the top of the world in the land of the midnight sun, where the frozen river melts away and breaks into a run into the sea, into the mighty waves that waited just to see it. From a long way off that river thawed and the tide ran out to meet it. "Welcome home, unfrozen river, welcome home!" - from the song "All Shall Be Well" by Andrew Peterson
My deep desire is to move, to actively seek the Kingdom until one grand morning when I find myself stumbling down that last stretch of road, the weariness melting off me in the final, staggering steps that, as they wobble and fall, one after another, they become the last testament of the paradox of this life, that it is quite simple but also quite difficult.
I often feel frozen in this life, locked into a way of thinking, a selfishness, an apathy that, even in my most inspired moments, I perpetuate instead of humbling myself. To retain this self-centeredness is to be frozen, unmoving. To humble oneself (or to be humbled) is to be thawed, to begin to flow. A river moves where it desires, but only because the destination it desires is what the landscape around it bends toward as well. In other words, as much as a river destines its own flow, it is as much predestined at the same time. I desire to move, and my life is contoured to flow toward the Kingdom, but I often find myself remaining frozen, unable to break free even though the desire exists.
The wayward son "came to his senses" one afternoon while he stood ankle-deep in mud, excrement, and pig slop. Finding himself stalled, frozen if you will, in the consequence of his selfishness, he somehow found a way to break free, even if it was with a rehearsed excuse on his lips. He thawed. He flowed. And he found the sea waiting for him, even surging forward to meet him. The excuse ended up not being necessary.
Oh, that I also would thaw and break free into a rapid run for my true home, the destination I am bent toward, the only place I really belong.
My deep desire is to move, to actively seek the Kingdom until one grand morning when I find myself stumbling down that last stretch of road, the weariness melting off me in the final, staggering steps that, as they wobble and fall, one after another, they become the last testament of the paradox of this life, that it is quite simple but also quite difficult.
I often feel frozen in this life, locked into a way of thinking, a selfishness, an apathy that, even in my most inspired moments, I perpetuate instead of humbling myself. To retain this self-centeredness is to be frozen, unmoving. To humble oneself (or to be humbled) is to be thawed, to begin to flow. A river moves where it desires, but only because the destination it desires is what the landscape around it bends toward as well. In other words, as much as a river destines its own flow, it is as much predestined at the same time. I desire to move, and my life is contoured to flow toward the Kingdom, but I often find myself remaining frozen, unable to break free even though the desire exists.
The wayward son "came to his senses" one afternoon while he stood ankle-deep in mud, excrement, and pig slop. Finding himself stalled, frozen if you will, in the consequence of his selfishness, he somehow found a way to break free, even if it was with a rehearsed excuse on his lips. He thawed. He flowed. And he found the sea waiting for him, even surging forward to meet him. The excuse ended up not being necessary.
Oh, that I also would thaw and break free into a rapid run for my true home, the destination I am bent toward, the only place I really belong.
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
