A third way

“Through violence you may murder a murderer, but you can’t murder murder. Through violence you may murder a liar, but you can’t establish truth. Through violence you may murder a hater, but you can’t murder hate. Darkness cannot put out darkness. Only light can do that.”

~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

There’s no denying it, violence is a daily celebrated and lamented reality in our world. It gets confusing real quick, which “side” to be on. For most people with a moral conscience (not even speaking spiritually), there are “just” types of violence and “unjust” acts of violence. Genocide is evil and must be stopped, therefore, we may believe the use of violence is necessary to overcome violence, and we call this just. We imagine scenarios where we might be called upon to use violence to protect loved ones, or innocents, or ourselves - scenarios where, though not our preference, we wouldn’t question the justification of violence. We have many young men and women courageously and sacrificially fighting wars in other parts of the world, on our behalf, for the causes of peace and freedom and democracy and justice, and we would never want to dishonor them. So we draw a line down the center of a page and place these acts on one side, under the column “Just war” or “Redemptive violence.” And on the other side, under the heading of “Unjust war” or “Unlawful violence” or whatever we deem it, we place the murder of innocents, sexual violence, genocide, violent dictatorships, and torture (though not always in this column), to name a few. We live in complicated times, we say, so we cannot afford to be idealistic.

Though I understand this line of thinking, and indeed, have adopted this line of thinking for many years, my adherence to it the past several years has been tenuous. There is a tense line between idealism and reality. And I wonder if, in getting caught in the crossfires of that line, we lose sight of the third way. The way of the gospel, the good news, that Jesus announced through his entrance, life and death in this world, and then in his resurrection. The way of the gospel that proclaims, not idealistically, but through unleashing a new reality, that “another world is possible.” What is impossible for humankind to accomplish on our own is possible with God. In fact, Jesus assures us (one of his often used phrases, “Most assuredly, I say to you...”), another world exists, even now, and we are invited into it not only in the afterlife, but here and now. His way is not the way of redemptive violence, and I think there is much to support this - much more than I’ll touch on here.

With Jesus’ arrival on the scene of humanity (though he was always present, just not in the flesh), he lays the groundwork for a new kind of kingdom, different than any kingdom humanity has ever known. Jesus plainly stated shortly before his death, “My kingdom is not of this world”, and then went on to say that if it were, his followers would be fighting to protect him from arrest (see John 18:36). Instead, his way of fighting is to go to the cross. In this kingdom, Jesus is the King (not some other god, or all gods sharing the same throne), and all are invited to enter into this realm, leaving behind all other kingdoms, including the culture of whatever empire we came from (e.g., consumerism, imperialism, legalism, materialism, racism, idolatry, etc.), and fully embracing the culture of the new kingdom. When we enter this new kingdom, we receive a new identity: “You should no longer walk as the rest of the Gentiles walk, in the futility of their mind, having their understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God, because of the ignorance that is in them, beacuse of the blindness of their heart; who, being past feeling, have given themselves over to lewdness, to work all uncleanness with greediness. But you have not so learned Christ ” (Eph. 4:17-20). In this kingdom, Christ alone is our model of perfection, and we learn the ways to walk by entering into intimate, dynamic relationship with him and allowing him to transform our mindsets and our lives.

In this kindgom, Jesus warns that “those who live by the sword will die by the sword” (Matt. 26:52). Jesus irrationally instructs his followers to love their enemies, instead of hating them (see Matt. 5:44), and I don’t know that anyone can make a solid argument for killing enemies in the name of loving them. In this kingdom, we are told that our enemies are not of this world, and therefore, neither are our weapons of war (see Eph. 6: 12; 2 Cor. 10:3-5). In this kingdom, the ways of humility, gentleness, and love are demonstrated in power through the King himself establishing his kingdom through voluntarily shedding his own blood, instead of shedding the blood of others or dominating through force. This is scandalous and foreign to us. And taking it a step further, those in his kingdom are called upon to have the same mindset as the King (see Phil. 2:5-8).

Instead of using force and violence to protect the innocent (or our ideals, freedoms, lives, etc.) and fight evil in the world, we are called upon to choose another way, a higher way. Again and again, in the teachings of Jesus and the early church leaders, we are called upon to live peacefully with others, to “turn the other cheek” when someone strikes us, to not defend ourselves when someone speaks wrongfully against us, to bless those who curse us. We are encouraged not just to endure suffering and trials patiently, but to expect them. A close reading of the teachings of the New Testament show us that it is radical love, not violence, that quietly, progressively takes the world by force and overthrows the strongholds of evil. This way of love is often not the quickest, most expedient, most practical way; but in the long run, it is the only effective way. After all, Jesus is not building a quick-fix kingdom; He’s building a kingdom that will last. When everything else has been destroyed, it will be the only thing still standing (see Heb. 12:28).

Bandaids

The day is still young, and I'm already frustrated and infuriated. I just returned from hanging out with the young married couple I met last week who are homeless (the wife newly pregnant), Jamie and Ashley. They've been staying in a stripped, graffitied, tin can of a camper on a crazy lady's property. This lady happens to be a crackhead and a clepto, a weak and miserable human being who preys on those with less power than herself. She's allowed them to stay in the camper in exchange for Jamie working her property and both of them basically being at her beck and call. They have no electricity, no running water, no lock on their door. Whenever they leave the camper and come back, their meager possessions are mysteriously missing. This woman owns a shotgun that she keeps loaded, and her house is known in the neighborhood as "the house where people go to get high." Her neighbors walk around with a wary guardedness, a tiredness.

Last week, after hearing that my new friends eat only every few days, I brought them a load of unperishables to stock in their camper. Ashley works at a local dollar store once or twice a week, and outside of that, sits on the sidewalk in front of stores trying to sell her artwork. Jamie has not been able to find a job and is restless, agitated, like a ticking time bomb ready to explode. Unable to do much on their own without a phone, Mom and I helped them get their prepaid phone going for at least a month, so they could make and receive calls for themselves.

When I showed up this morning to take them to an appointment, I hesitated before walking through the gate with the multiple "No trespassing" signs and crossing over to knock on the camper door. No stir, no answer. I knocked again. I half expected the crazy lady to open her front door and yell at me, but there was no sign of her. She was probably passed out. My friends were no where to be seen.

I waited in my car for a few minutes before I noticed Jamie striding up the street toward me, looking upset, with Ashley trailing twenty feet behind. He informed me they slept outside last night, in a nearby field, clinging to each other for warmth in this uncharacteristically cold May weather. The crazy lady is trying to sell the camper and kick them out. She's banished them from going inside. Their phone has been stolen, as well as much of their food. They haven't eaten in four days. As I'm listening to this, it's all I can do to keep from marching up to her door and giving her a piece of my mind, but I know this won't do any good. In fact, it would only make things worse. And that frustrates me, greatly, that I, too, feel so powerless. I tell them as much. "Welcome to our world," they said. "This is our life, all the time." I just nodded and stared at them silently as this news seeped in.

We went out to breakfast. They were anxious to get out of the cold. An enormous amount of food was spread before them, and they ate gratefully. While eating, Jamie vented, wondering again and again why he hasn't snapped yet. He's an ex-Marine with a self diagnosed anger problem, and it's really eating him up inside that he's being treated like cow dung by this lady, and that his pregnant wife has to sleep outside and work while he doesn't. He's lost several people close to him in the last month, and that, combined with all the other pressures, is like a fire smoldering at the ends of a frayed rope.

As I'm listening, I'm wracking my brain for what resources I have to help them. I have no extra room in the apartment Mom and I share. As it is, I sleep on the floor. I have no basement, no backyard, no tent to give them. I know no one who has an old junker car they want to donate to a couple in need. I can't afford to buy them another phone that will probably get stolen again. I can't help them get state assistance yet because they don't have an address. There are no shelters with openings for couples - they said they've called all of them, before their phone was stolen - and they don't want to be separated because they are all each other has. I know of one person with a business who is willing to give Jamie some occasional work, but I have no way to connect them since Jamie has no phone and no car and no bus pass.

We leave the restaurant and head to Value Village to look for a tent. There is absolutely nothing, and we have no time to look elsewhere. So they find a few hooded sweatshirts, Jamie finds a pair of shoes, and Ashley finds a pair of work pants and socks. I feel like I've failed them as I drive them back "home" and park in front of the crazy lady's house. Their stomaches are full for a few hours and they have a few extra layers of clothing, but it's all just bandaids. And bandaids just seem outrageously insufficient when you're staring at a person whose multiple, gaping wounds are gushing blood everywhere.

I apologize to them, for being unable to do more. I tell them I'm thinking and I'll keep thinking about possible solutions. I'll make any phone calls to people or places I know that might be helpful. But I won't see them again for a week. They thank me for my help, and I know they mean it, but it feels like what they aren't saying is, "We forgive you, Amber, for not being able to do more, even though we think you could." I watch them walk away, to sneak into the camper and change clothes so Ashley can go to work. And I feel ill, knowing they'll be sleeping outside again tonight and I've done nothing about it.

So this is my venting. It's not to berate myself. I know I can't be their savior; I know I'm limited as to what I can do. But beneath my immediate frustration with my own limitations and my anger toward this woman who is oppressing them and getting away with it, there is another frustration: the partial ineptitude of the Church, which I am part of. With so many churches in the Seattle area, I don't understand why I don't know of any who would open their doors to take this couple in. When social services fall short, shouldn't the local churches be able to stand in the gap as a sort of ER for broken, hurting, desperate people in our community? With all of our church buildings that we use only several times a week, why are so many people sleeping on the streets or in fields, under bridges, or squatting on the porches of drug houses? There's something terribly wrong when a homeless person is granted reluctant access to sleep on a church's property but isn't allowed inside for the night.

And I'm not just talking about churches, as in buildings. I'm talking about us, the body of Christ, supposedly walking around as his ambassadors in our communities. Again, I know this includes me. Why, in these instances when I meet people like Jamie and Ashley, can I never think of a person I can call to ask if they have space to house a couple temporarily? Is it that we don't want to be inconvenienced? Are we so afraid of being scammed or taken advantage of that we are paralyzed from taking risks? Are we afraid for the safety of our families? I'm not saying these aren't legitimate concerns, to some degree, but I dispute that they are legitimately the final word in the kingdom of God.

Some people have wondered if this couple is pulling the wool over my eyes. If they're manipulative and taking advantage of me. And my response is to shrug my shoulders and say, "So what if they are?" I don't think that they are, but really, that isn't the point. Even if they were lying and manipulating, would that mean they needed love and assistance less than if they were telling the truth? Why would I only help someone if I was guaranteed they wouldn't take advantage of my kindness? Somehow I can't believe that Jesus was or is too concerned about these things himself. After all, he's helped me. He's loved and helped a lot of us who have taken advantage of him and given him nothing in return. If he's my model for loving people, then I cannot hide behind my own wall of self protectiveness, only offering myself to the people who seem "legit."

If this is true for me, I believe it's true for the entire community of people who love Jesus and desire to follow in his footsteps in the ways that we live. I know it starts right here, with me, and I pray to God I have the wisdom and courage to walk with Jesus and to love sacrificially, beyond my comfort zone. But I pray, too, that the kingdom that Jesus announced to the world - the kingdom that is here, available right now - would spread like wild, unruly brush in our city, offering something more, something different, than what the world's resources have to offer. And not only resources, but family. A place to belong and be loved, a safe haven, a place to find rest and healing. That's what I want so badly for Jamie and Ashley. I have hope that we can get there eventually, but I just wish I knew where I could point them to today. There must be more than bandaids.

Rethinking the lingo

There's an awful lot of lingo, or Christianese, floating around in churches these days. It's been this way for as long as I can remember. But in the last few years, I finally started revisiting this lingo, questioning the meanings and usages of it, wondering where it came from and if it accurately represents the language of the kingdom Jesus proclaimed. I can't speak for anyone else, but I know there are many out there who are unsettled as I am about the language often encountered in churches. I've got just three words I'm curious about today, and that is more than enough content, though I can think of many more and will probably reflect on them at a later time.

Born again. It's a well-worn, often ridiculed in media, perhaps largely misused in the church phrase. What does it mean, if not to become a Christian? I've heard "born again Christian" used frequently in my life in the church, which seems rather redundant. I have to wonder, is "born again" so much an adjective, if an adjective at all, as much as it's a verb signifying an active process we must undergo in order to know Jesus? More than defining one clear moment when we cross over from "non-Christian" to "Christian," I think it's more involved than that. More involved, I'd say, than a date to remember on the calendar of our lives, marking the point of our conversion.

Being born again strikes me much more as particularly poignant for us adults. After all, we're already grown up. We've been born and raised and have been set in our ways and worldviews for quite some time, at least many of us. We've gone to school and learned a ton of things (in theory) in both the classrooms of school and of life. For Jesus to come to us, in answer to our questions about the meaning of life and say, "You must be born again in order to live fully," leaves us scratching our heads. In effect, we must leave behind what we've known up to this point in life and scrap it all, starting over like babies. Learning everything over again, this time with a new paradigm. And in order to do this, we must be humble and teachable, not pompous and stubborn. We must have an insatiable hunger and curiosity, as well as an innocent trust in and reliance on the One who is teaching us. That is no one-time event. It's a marked starting point, yes, but it's largely an attitude and a way of life.

Blessed. I'm not so interested here in what the word blessed means as I am with who we commonly associate as the recipients of God's blessings. What I'm thinking of seems to be mostly a phenomena of Western Christianity, more than anything else. Over here in the U.S., we have it pretty good, even in the bad parts, compared to much of the world's inhabitants. I think the "blessings" of being an American have trickled into our churches, particularly the more well-to-do churches, and influenced our understanding and teaching of what it means to be blessed.

I'm in a really well-to-do church right now, and I love and respect them, more than I ever have. For years, I judged this bunch, without even knowing them. But I've got to say, and I say this without feeling critical, I just don't buy into their entire teaching of being "blessed." It makes me scratch my head, that we so often look at people who dress really well and have really successful careers and are well educated and popular and beautiful, who own nice condos and houses and drive nice cars, and we say, "Surely God has blessed them!" And the scriptural evidence for this is often taken from the Old Testament, from the stories of men like Abraham and Isaac, who were among the wealthiest in their lifetimes, more so than their neighbors, and had many possessions. Proponents of this teaching on blessing will say, we, too, have received the same blessings as Isaac, since the New Testament talks about followers of Christ being the children of promise, like Isaac, with the same blessings and same inheritance.

The discrepancy for me comes when I read about Jesus' life and teachings. It hits me square in the face. He never promises blessings to those who love him, in the form of material wealth and prosperity. In fact, whereas in the OT, material wealth is a sign of prosperity, in the teachings of Jesus, this is turned upside down. In a shocking upheaval, Jesus clearly states that now the ones who are blessed are not the rich, but the poor; not the bold, but the meek; not the happy, but those who mourn; not the popular, but the despised and persecuted; not the warriors, but the peacemakers; not those who kill their enemies, but those who love them. In all of Jesus' stories and interactions, the favored ones are not the rich and religious, but the prostitutes, the tax collectors, the homeless, the beggarly, the sickly, the blue collar workers, the women and children, the marginalized.

I don't believe Jesus is a proponent of poverty by any means, but I don't think he came so we could live cushioned lives, insulated from the needs of our neighbors. He often blesses us with resources so that we can be a blessing to others, and he encourages extreme generosity, but I think the real blessing lies not in the sum of the gift but in the giving of ourselves. We can be blessed and have next to nothing, and still give generously of ourselves to others.

Spirit-filled. Ah, this is a touchy one, for many Christians. The ones in the more "Charismatic" or "Pentecostal" churches will claim that being Spirit-filled is a baptism of the Holy Spirit, something that often occurs separately from salvation, an infilling of the power of the Spirit of God in the life of the individual believer. The evidence that this has occurred, they say, is that the individual will speak in tongues (a whole other topic I won't touch on here). Christians in Evangelical or Protestant churches more often teach that being Spirit-filled is a given when someone chooses to surrender her life to Jesus and follow him. I've been in both kinds of churches, so I can see the points of each, but I've got to say, I feel the use of the phrase Spirit-filled is, more than anything, divisive.

When I read the letters to the early Church, I see that the the Spirit is alive and active in the lives of believers in many unique and powerful ways - ways that are natural, and ways that are supernatural. But were I to narrow it all down, I guess I'd say that the most beautiful evidence of the Spirit of God filling a life is in what Paul describes as the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. In the famous "love chapter" in 1 Corinthians, Paul says that speaking in tongues and prophecy and every other "gift" of the Spirit is nothing if not motivated by love. Love, he says, is the greatest gift of all, and it is the top of the list for the fruit of the Spirit. I hope that, whatever our belief is concerning the meaning of Spirit-filled, it is above all affirming of the presence of the Holy Spirit in the lives of all believers who love and obey Jesus. This is the highest thing.

Fly on the wall

Jesus said to his disciples, not long before he gave his life up, that the world would know who belonged to him by their love for each other (see John 13:35). Sometimes I really wish I could be a fly on the wall of the world, objectively observing the Church - God's family - especially here where I live, in the U.S. I wonder what I would see (and I'd have to be quick in my observations because flies don't live very long). I wonder if it would be confusing, while also mysterious; lovely and inspiring, while also gut-wrenching and frustrating. Yes, I wish for more than a peek from this vantage point. But even sociologists know that being a part of the very thing you wish to observe is as tricky as skating on the thin ice of impossibility.

I can at times wager an educated guess at how the world observes those who claim to follow Jesus by their reactions toward us, which are sometimes accurate and sometimes not. Yet I've often thought, it must get very confusing to people, to see so many people belonging to so many different versions of the same religion, most of them not doing a great job at loving one another. Protestants not loving Catholics. Catholics not loving Baptists. Baptists not loving Pentecostals. Pentecostals not loving Lutherans. Lutherans not loving Methodists. Nondenominationalists not loving denominationalists. Emergents not loving fundamentalists. Republican Christians not loving Liberal Christians, and visa versa. Around and around we go.

I inwardly groan when someone, as in a non church-goer, asks me what kind of church I go to, and in effect, what "type" of Christian I am. Most of the time, they have no clue what the differences are in the terminologies used to describe churches, and quite frankly, neither do I, so I do a poor job of explaining. I think to myself, I don't belong to a club. I belong to the Church. Not a church - as in a local church, with or without a denomination - but the one and only Church. Why is it so imperative that I affiliate myself with just one, as if I were marking a ballot, when I just want to be known as someone who, in loving Jesus, also loves the rest of Jesus' family?

Jesus was certainly onto something. What a radical thing it would be if the world saw the Church loving each other, respecting each other, caring for each other's needs, preferring each other above themselves, above our doctrinal differences, yet still within the teachings of Jesus, the One we claim to share a love for. How can we really love people who haven't met Jesus yet, who don't know him, if we can't even love each other? Who would want to belong to a family whose loyalties were so divided?

Jesus also said we need to love each other as he loves us. That's a tall order, and certainly not one we can walk out in life without clinging to him. The more obsessed we are with him, the more naturally we love like him, as easily as breathing. That is my prayer for myself and for all who are in love with Jesus, who will follow him wherever he goes. That we would be so obsessed, so consumed with longing to know him, and in that obsession, be compelled to love each other. That the world would see, and that this love, which cannot be contained, would spill over and spread to every nook and cranny of every continent, every country, every city, every town and village, every highway and byway, every street and field, every mountain and desert, every home and every family, and every person. Everywhere. They will know us by our love.

Table talk

It’s past 10 pm, and a group of about twelve girls from church have finally arrived, with some herding skillfulness, at Mama’s Mexican Kitchen in Belltown. Sushi bistros that were much too tiny to accomodate a group our size, several pizza joints, and an overpriced tapas bar were bypassed after my persuasive vote for the cheaper Mexican diner finally won the group over. Plus, I was at the head of the herd and I knew how to navigate the distance from our church at 1st and Clay to the restaurant at 2nd and Bell. Mad skills, I’m telling you. We settled down at two adjacent tables in one of the many eclectic rooms at Mama’s, and the group relaxed into the laid back energy of the Belltown joint.

At my table sat five other girls (I call us girls because I just can’t bring myself to call us women; it sounds way too adult for my taste). I hadn’t known any of them longer than a day, but I liked them already. Now, if you’re ever wondering what a small group of unmarried girls who love Jesus and who generally lean more toward a conservative bent (though I admittedly hate labels) talk about in the latter hours of the night, over chips and salsa, when no eligible bachelors are around, I’ll let you in on a little secret. It starts with a B and ends with O-Y-S. I haven’t had one of these conversations for awhile, seeing as most of my friends are married, so I just went with the flow, observing the youthful sparkles in the eyes of my new friends as they talked about their hopes and dreams for the future, about what they want in life, or specifically, in a man.

One of the girls threw this question on the table with a soft giggle: “Ok, so what is the most attractive thing in a guy?”

This elicited a playful, collective sigh and then a groan. “Just one thing? That’s way too hard,” we protested.

“Just choose one,” the girl who initiated this cajoled back at us.

Round robin, we circled the table awaiting everyone’s reply. One of the girls described a guy who is a true gentleman, the kind you can tell by the way he not only treats you but other women, that he is genuine and respectful. The next girl said she wanted the same thing. That he knows how to treat a woman. Heads bobbed in emphatic agreement. Another girl described a guy who is sensitive, more heads bobbing. And another, a man who really fears God, because she said, a man who fears God will treat you well. I saw a theme emerging here.

When it came to my turn, the group fell silent, waiting to hear my answer. I didn’t exactly know what to say, having long since thrown out my “list” of things I wanted in exchange for this sense that I would know what I wanted and needed when I met him. So I talked about the first thing that came to my mind, how I wanted a guy I found interesting and exciting, a guy who wants to live the kind of life I want to live, not the status quo. I think I started rambling at this point. “I don’t meet a lot of guys who capture my interest,” I admitted. “When I hear what they want in life, I often become bored. It’s just like everyone else. And not that it’s bad, but I guess it’s just not what I want. I want to live this life with God on the edge, ready to go anywhere, do anything, not just live comfortably. Maybe I just don’t meet those guys very often.” From here the conversation turned toward the importance of guys who have “a plan” in life and are actually doing something to move toward that plan. At this point my mind trailed off someplace else. Perhaps because I no longer see myself as a person with a “five year plan,” so I can’t really relate. But perhaps because I wasn’t really feeling the conversation to begin with.

My mind trailed off to the message I’d heard that night at church, the one about how those of us who are part of God’s family shouldn’t be uncomfortable entering into anyone else’s world, no matter how different it is from ours. That’s what Jesus modeled for us. It was a good message, but what I was thinking about during the whole talk was my new friend who was seated beside me at church. A few weeks ago, I met Joey, with the pink and yellow and blue hair, the long extensions, the fake eyelashes, the makeup and the sparkly decals on his face. He’s been coming to our church longer than I have, but he said no one really knows him and he doesn’t really know them either. I've been trying to get to know him. Throughout the message, I was troubled, wondering who has really tried to enter into Joey’s world. I’d like to, I’m really curious to hear his story, to listen to him and know who he is and walk beside him as he’s figuring out this stuff with Jesus; however, wisdom tells me a young woman friend isn’t what this lonely, 50-something, former drag queen needs.

So as we’re sitting at the table talking about boys, I’m thinking about Joey and about how I long for Christian community to be something more than going out to eat after church or hanging out at someone’s house. I love these things, don’t get me wrong - they’re wonderful aspects of community. But they’re not everything. They don’t include people like Joey. And I think if Jesus were hanging out with us, He’d put His arm around Joey and walk with him down the street to the restaurant, sitting beside him at the table and asking him about his life. Or maybe just being in Jesus’ presence, having this unfamiliar sense of being utterly known without having to say a word, would just be enough, like it was for that Samaritan woman who encountered Jesus at the well. Either way I know that, while God’s family (as in the Church) has so many beautiful attributes, we are still very much a work-in-progress until we act and think and love like Jesus. I have no desire to criticize the Church - since I, too, am a living, breathing, imperfect member of it - but I long for the day when I, when we, are living and moving about with the fullness of Christ’s heart pounding in our chests.

So maybe that is my true answer, that is what’s most attractive to me in a man. Someone who, when I observe his life, I see the passionate heart of Christ beating in him as he loves on people. Not in perfection, but in ever-changing growth. I hope that is what he would see in me, too. But the honest to God truth is, I’d rather not talk about it around a dinner table; I’d much rather live it.

Love and timelines

When I was sixteen, I could have sworn I’d be married by twenty one. It’s the perfect age, my friends and I agreed. A mature age. But when I reached that perfect age and the very real possibility of marriage was staring me in the face, something in me freaked. I bolted, leaving the poor guy heartbroken and confused. I’m sure he’s thanked me quietly again and again, however, since he’s now happily married with two kids. Life has a way of working out for the good in the area of love, if we’re willing to wait and navigate the obstacle course. At least I tell myself that, since I’m still in the process of navigation.

I was really particular about the next two guys who came along. And they came along with years separating their season in my life. Very driven, ambitious, intelligent and disciplined guys. I admired them, but it took them awhile to win my heart. I know this will sound arrogant, but I convinced myself it was in my best interest to be with someone like myself, so after some time, I fancied myself in love with them. Perhaps I was mostly in love with myself. It’s possible they, too, were in love with themselves because they both ended up choosing themselves over me. Each guy broke my heart, my first bitter tastes of heartbeak. I grew a lot from this. I learned a great deal about love and myself and the love of God. But I also grew disillusioned with love. I threw myself into my passions and pursuits in life, becoming more and more picky about the “type” of guy I needed and more and more convinced he didn’t actually exist.

Another several years went by, and time stopped, then started over. Experiencing the death of a loved one will do that, or so I’ve found. When my Papa died, it was like starting the calendar back at 1 AD, and time now proceeds from this new point of reference. That is how much his death rocked my world: turned it completely upside down, inside out, and then blew it up for good measure, starting over from square one. At this same time, a new love entered my life. He offered me strength and comfort, joy in the midst of grief, acceptance and companionship, and something to look forward to in the future. I fell deeply in love with him as he walked with me through the darkest time of my life. Strangely, he was nothing like the other guys I’d fallen for. He was almost nothing like me, except we shared a similar goofiness and childlikeness to life. Unlike the others, he did not share my particular (and at the time, former) passions in life, though we shared a love for God. At first this was a major source of tension in me. But over time, I surrendered to the longing to love and be loved, and I laid those passions to rest, beside my Papa. I was a new person, I assured him. He needn’t be intimidated by the kind of life I used to want to live and how he didn’t fit into that life. I would be happy enough in the suburbs with a nice house and a nice car and several kids and a couple of dogs. I would be happy with a nice marriage and a nice ministry together at church. As long as we could travel, just a little. And as long as I wasn’t bound to the house forever in the role of wife and mom, but was free to pursue whatever God laid on my heart. And so, over time, we came to a sort of agreement that we could see ourselves doing life together. I was utterly convinced this is what I wanted; after all, I really loved this guy.

In the year 2 AD, however, things began to quake underneath the surface of our relationship. I can’t speak for what was beneath his heart, only mine. I couldn’t see it at the time, all I could see is that something else I loved - someone else - was about to erupt and possibly die, and I was scared of the potential loss. I thought I was happy, that this eruption came out of the blue and threatened the life of love I had found. I hated this eruption for happening. What I couldn’t see is that the things I thought I’d laid to rest back in 1 AD when Papa died, well, they were beginning to fight back. Quietly at first, but then with a dogged persistence. Apparently they didn’t think it was their time to die. Apparently, I still wanted more in life than I thought.

It’s taken me several months to convince my heart that this eruption, this loss, is a good thing. When you love someone, really love them for them, whether or not it’s the “best” fit for you, it can be a long, painful process of evicting that love from your heart. There is no switch for turning love on and off, not real love. But over time, I’ve found that as the romantic love has left the building, there’s been room in my heart for a different kind of love. I still care for this man, but the love has changed. My heart used to resist this, but now it breathes a sigh of relief. It’s free, and that feels nice. Real nice.

In the wake of this eruption, as the dust settles, I’ve been able to see a few things more clearly, too. I can see that I was willing to exchange parts of me that seemed inconvenient to love - the Unknowns of life that I embraced, the adventurous, artistic, not-fitting-the-mold types of things - for the comfort and security of the Known. I began to believe that this exchange was necessary, that I had to choose between the comfort of love and the fulfillment of a life lived in the ways God designed me to express it. It’s pretty sobering now to look back and see how fatal a mistake that could have been. Fatal, that is, to my heart; and therefore, fatal to the relationship. God was doing us both a favor, I just needed the dust to settle before my eyes adjusted to the change. In the meantime, I’ve learned an awful lot about the unfailing love of Jesus, of my identity as His beloved. You could say I’ve fallen so much more in love with Him since this big messy eruption, and I wouldn’t trade the mess for anything in the world. I don’t know what that means for the future, if I’ll have a love to do life with or not. But I’m learning, day by day, to embrace life and to live it where I’m at. To tread lightly in each day, hold delicately the moments, give fully of myself, and love deeply the ones who are in my life now.

Yeah, I look back and the twenty-one marker hangs back far in the distance. And it’s a strange sensation, being this far in life, how quickly it’s passed and how vastly different it is from how I pictured it to be years ago. I think of how much I’ve experienced, how much I’ve grown into my own skin as a person, as a woman. And I’m thankful, deeply thankful, that I’m not alone in navigating this obstacle course of life. My heart is grateful to have had this time, up to this point, to know Jesus more deeply each year, and in that reflection of Him, to know myself. I am better for it.

A gaggle of goats

Yesterday I wrangled my good friend, Laura (and her baby Isaac - he kinda had no choice), to come on a drive with me to visit a farm up north that rescues goats and tries to find good homes for them. No one knew we were coming, I was just hoping they wouldn't mind once we showed up. Thankfully, when we arrived, a lovely volunteer greeted us at the gate and invited us in to meet the goats. Between Laura and I, we took over 140 pictures in one hour, but I've included just a few of my favorites here, along with the stories that make these pictures so memorable.

This first pic is what I'd like to call a goat posse. If you've never been around goats, the first thing you might want to know is that they are very social (unless they haven't been socialized, in

which case they'd be antisocial...). When we walked inside their fenced home, they came running, ready to sniff us and nibble us and rub their horns against us. Some of them followed us around, never shy to solicit us for affection, and sometimes butting others out of the way who would compete for our attention. I could tell from the get-go, this bunch was full of personality and overall, a gaggle of goat loves.

This dude right here (pic #2) he latched onto me right away. He's a big goat, but thankfully, he didn't have horns (it's easier not having to dodge them). He was all legs and pretty skinny, and he just get nuzzling me for some hugs. My kind of guy...

Speaking of horns, this guy in picture #3, I also caught his eye upon walking into the pen. And notice, he's got rather large horns. I think there's something about the horned goats, because this guy's got a load of personality as well as a flair for mischief. He also followed me around, and after awhile, noticing I was paying attention to a whole bunch of others in addition to him, he must have gotten starved for some affection.

He began

rearing up on his back legs, turning his horned head toward me in mid air and then charging me to do a little head butting (though in my case, it would have been my stomach). I wasn't prepared for this and didn't quite know what to do. I grabbed him by the horns and held him back, though he kept wiggling free and doing the whole routine again. The nice volunteer came and rescued me and remarked that he must be in need of attention. I guess so! This jealous, affection-starved, head-butting goat decided he'd show me just how unhappy he was with my choices by soon after eating my coat. I had rather naively, I'll admit, hung it up on a

gate post outside the entrance to their pen. I was enthralled with taking pictures of goats in another pasture when the volunteer called out, "Is that your coat he's eating?" I ran over and sure enough, Mr. McCoat-Eater was happily chewing the corner of my coat, having already digested part of the elastic cord and working on a piece of plastic that had been fastened around the cord. His little ploy had worked, and we made up (picture #4). I don't know why, I seem to attract the obnoxious ones.

Alright, so pic #5 is just downright heart warmingly adorable. This was Isaac’s first time meeting a goat. He’s a pretty chill baby who takes everything in without giving much away in expression (a lot like his daddy), so you can’t tell by the picture, but he’s pretty enthralled by this first encounter. This was the only baby goat on the farm, and she won her way into all three of our hearts. Someday she’ll be the same size as the big white guy above, but right now, she’s soft and petite and her horns are a very person-friendly size.

Ok, so there was this goat teeter totter that Laura and I thought was amazing. These two goats playing on it (pics #6 & #7) were like actors on a stage, reenacting a scene from the Matrix, barnyard style. It all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to laugh about it until I looked at the pictures.

Now this goat in pic #8, I don’t know her story, but she’s the new kid on the block. She was a bit aloof, but you could tell there was a strong personality underneath all that hair. The more I studied her, the more she resembled a character out of a Shakespearean play.

Finally, the little spotted goat on the left in pic #9, this is Romeo. The volunteer pointed him out to us and shared that she recently adopted Juliet, the goat. It sounds like the makings of a tragic story, because little Romeo here is indeed in love with Juliet, but the volunteer has been unsuccessful thus far in adopting Romeo. The two star-crossed lovers are separated, for now, hopefully with a nicer ending than the play.