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"The point of a story is never about the ending, remember.

It's about your character getting molded in the hard work of the middle."

~ Donald Miller, A million miles in a thousand years

Just a few nights ago, I was venting to a wise friend about my frustration with where I'm at in life, compared to where I thought I'd be by now. About all the things I've spoken, dreamed, studied and written about for years that have yet to become real experiences, due to either my own choices or curveballs life has thrown at me that changed the course I was on. And so after listening quietly to me for several minutes of working myself up over it all, he said something that I did not like at all. He said, "Amber, it sounds like you have been reading the same page over and over again. Maybe it's time to change that page, because until you do, you'll continue to be frustrated. But the thing is, I don't think you want to change that page yet."

I sat there, a little stunned, and I immediately fired back, "No, that's not true," or something brilliant like that. And then I gave him my list of reasons why his assessment wasn't accurate. He didn't understand my special circumstances or challenges of the past several years. He didn't know how many times I'd already tried to change the page and failed. I wasn't afraid to change the page, I said, I just didn't feel like it was time yet and I needed something to change it to first. I'm not interested in making a big change just because I think something needs to happen, I added. I'm having to learn to wait on God.

"Ok," he said simply. "But I still think you don't want to change the page."

The thing is, I haven't been able to get that conversation out of my head. It's stuck in me like a little prickly burr.

And then I read this little snippet of conversation in a book about creating the stories we want to live, and this famous guy, Robert McKee, who knows all there is to know about the elements of story and teaches it in workshops said this:

"Writing a story isn't about making your peaceful fantasies come true. The whole point of the story is the character arc. You didn't think joy could change a person, did you? Joy is what you feel when the conflict is over. But it's conflict that changes a person... You put your characters through hell. You put them through hell. That's the only way we change."

It made me stop. It made me think. About how my character has been shaped through conflict and going through hell the past two years. And about how much more development my character needs to experience. It made me a little tired to think about, because I don't know if this guy was talking about searching for conflict to put ourselves through. I don't think that was it at all, because conflict seems to find us whether or not we're looking for it and I'd rather not go looking for more, though I know it will come in time. I think he was talking more about putting ourselves in a place of risk and sacrifice. So I began to think, what risks am I taking in life right now? Am I taking any new risks, or am I reading and rereading about old risks I have taken, studying the same page over and over again? Darn it all, maybe my friend is smarter than I thought.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to live an epic story. I've wanted to give myself to something that requires great sacrifice and risk, something way bigger than myself, something that will share life with others. The thing is, maybe my friend is right. Maybe I'm a little afraid to change that page. And maybe I haven't changed that page because I've been too focused on figuring out the end instead of stepping out into the throes of the middle. I don't know what to do about that, but I know I don't want to just write about it. I think there is much truth in learning to wait on God and not forcing a page to turn, but I also think God knows when our hearts are ready for turning and when they're not, and only God can give us eyes to read what's written on our pages in a different light.

So this is my prayer: God, give me eyes to read and courage to risk turning that page.

The story within a Story

It's probably not shocking to anyone who knows me or has read my writing, that I tend to be a bit of an introvert. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm not, like, socially awkward (most of the time) and I get a lot of joy from being around people (most of the time). But after a few days of straight people time or busyness, I notice the gas light goes on in my soul and I need to withdraw, just for a few hours, or maybe most of a day, to rest and refuel. And so during this refueling time, I guess I can live in the life of my mind. I love to think and mentally dig around and ponder, about a lot of things, and sometimes that means I can think way too much. I've learned, over the years, that this introspection can work for me or it can work against me. Balancing it, however, does not always come easily.

So it shouldn't come as a huge shock to anyone who knows me, either, that when I think about the story I've been living the past two years, I can think myself into a frustrating hole. I see a lot of positives, and I can admit to a great deal of growth, and I can see God's unmistakeable fingerprints all over the process. But when I look at this story with an eye to decipher it, explain it, or prove some kind of success through it, I come up short. I admit, after all I've unlearned over this journey, I still gravitate toward understanding this story I'm in as if there's a Point A, moving toward a Point B in some linear fashion, with some distinguishable markers in between. Garbage, that's what that mindset is, but still I have remnants of it that I'm trying to shed.

For some reason, this Two-Year mark that looms ahead of me is huge and somewhat intimidating, maybe even more so than the One-Year mark. Why? Well, it's like I picture myself standing in front of a mixed audience, of strangers and acquaintances and coworkers and friends and family, in a business suit that's a little too tight and Armani for my taste. I'm projecting a Powerpoint presentation, with my bullet points and pie charts and hard data, hoping to convince them that I've done something with my life and with this tragedy of losing my dad and everything else that followed, something that explains why it looks like I'm off the charts in No Man's land, wandering between Point A and B, like I may never make it to Point B. And I'm starting to sweat and my face is turning a shade of pink, because somehow, I've got to account for that deviation from the path I was on. I've got to justify the Plan. I've got to prove my success. Little do they know, or maybe they're all well aware, I've got no Plan, at least not in the way I used to define it. It looks like I'm winging it, and hey, maybe I am.

And in this little scenario I've pictured, things are not going so well, because I know I can't fool the audience with some numbers and figures and data, and quite frankly, I don't want to. I've long grown weary of the Powerpoint presentation approach to life. And that's when I remember something I've heard from the mouths of several different people from different places, something that's stuck with me because it sounded more like something God would say than someone like me or you would say. And that something I heard, please don't pass over it too quickly because on first glance it seems cliche, but in pondering, it's actually life-altering. Really.

God isn't interested in my being successful; He'd rather I be faithful.

I can't explain why I am where I am two years after my dad's death. I can't answer when I'll move on from Starbucks to find a "real" job (whatever that means), or how I'll use the degrees I have to earn a living, or why I finished grad school in the first place when I knew I didn't want to be a counselor. I don't have an answer for when I'll go to Africa or Haiti or some other place overseas where I would like to be, or what I'll do when I get there. But somehow, when I think about that something I've heard, I feel a huge weight rolling off my shoulders, and the sweating stops and I unbutton my suit and begin to breathe normally again. I shut off the projector, close down the Powerpoint, and take a seat. This is no longer the definition of success I have to live up to. The greater thing, the thing that is, over the long haul, much more difficult and yet far more rewarding, is that I learn faithfulness. But what exactly is faithfulness? I found it helpful to look at some synonyms for that answer (compliments of The American Heritage Dictionary).

Faithful, loyal, true, constant, fast, steadfast, staunch

These adjectives mean adhering firmly and devotedly to someone or something

that elicits or demands one's fidelity.

Faithful and loyal both suggest undeviating attachment.

True implies steadiness, sincerity, and reliability.

Constant stresses uniformity and invariability.

Fast suggests loyalty that is not easily deflected.

Steadfast strongly implies fixed, unswerving loyalty.

Staunch even more strongly suggests unshakable attachment and allegiance.

So this is more like God's definition of success. It also happens to be a good description of his character. I can't say I fit that bill, but it sure beats any five or ten year goals I could have for my career or personal life. I can't accomplish this with my resume or sheer determination, only with grace as my constant fuel. There is no "arriving" at faithfulness, only moving deeper into its realm. So, with the Two-Year mark in view, I refuel my tank with grace and press on, press deeper, that my story in this next year would be woven with the beautiful threads of faithfulness.

The story within the Story, however, is that God's faithfulness to me will always, always far outshine my faithfulness to him. That, more than mine, is the Story I wish to live and tell.

the dance

If ever there were two mismatched partners, it seems, it would be joy and pain. Imagine the two, dancing together, what an absurd picture that would be! Wouldn't they repel each other, instead of moving fluidly, gracefully, as one? Perhaps, but maybe not.

You see, I think Garth Brooks, the great country lyricist, was onto something when he wrote, "Life's a dance you learn as you go: sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow." Sometimes joy leads and pain follows, and sometimes, pain leads and joy follows, but the two must learn to dance in sync together, responding to what the other is doing. Such is life, I've been learning; to be a whole person is to open yourself to both joy and pain. As humans, we naturally embrace joy, but we cringe at pain and seek to shut ourselves off from it, going to great lengths to avoid it. Even to the point that to always be happy is seen as virtuous and enviable. We don't envy people for experiencing and expressing pain. We may admire them, but we don't wish to be them.

But isn't it both, dancing together throughout life, that lends depth and meaning, compassion and grace, wisdom and humility, to our character? I surely don't need to envy anyone's pain; that is sadistic. Nor do I need to admire how "good" they are in the midst of it. But neither do I need to fear pain or shrink from its touch. Whether I like it or not - and let's be honest, who likes pain? - the two are not such unlikely partners after all.

As I approach the two-year anniversary mark of my Papa's death, I feel the energy between these two dance partners heating up within me. Joy and pain, pain and joy. I think of him, and I feel joy leading during the song of his memory. And then, the music changes, pain takes the lead and the dance steps intensify. I cannot think of him without both; indeed, as much as I loathe the pain, I don't want it to be all joy in my heart. I need both in this dance. They substantiate the memory of his life. It is more real this way, more human, to feel both. And so, I let go once more, I open my heart, and I let them have their dance.

Understated

It's unreal, incomprehensible, how devastating this "mess-up" is to the Gulf region, to the environment and all its residents, to the U.S., to the economy. Oops. No, oops is appropriate for a misguided weather forecast, a minor blunder in a political speech, a piece of machinery that failed at a less consequential task but is repairable. Oops is offensive in a mistake of this proportion. Maybe no one at BP has uttered the word blatantly, but it has felt like the tone from the beginning of the spill. People are human and we're all going to make mistakes, but I'll be honest, I want BP to pay. For the loss of life, for the way they and other corporations like them and governments (especially ours) have raped the earth. It makes me mad and it breaks my heart. As humans, we really need to take care of what we've been given. If we cannot deal with the consequences of our mistakes, we should not be playing such casual games with the environment. Obviously we cannot take on the ocean and win. Obviously all our technologies and advancements fall dismally short right there. For how does one repair a potential crack in the ocean floor...?

Apology

I'm reading an excellent book, unChristian, an honest and thought-provoking synthesis of research based on what the generation of young people in America (who are outside the Church) thinks of Christianity. I highly recommend this book to any believer who loves and follows Christ. It contains perspectives that, while sometimes quite painful (whether or not they are entirely "accurate" or fair), we desperately need to listen to, validate and evaluate. One of the chapters addresses their perceptions of Christians' attitudes toward homosexuals. From my reading of this chapter, and from my own journey of wrestling with the complexities of the issue of homosexuality, I have written this letter. At the end, I have also included an excerpt I loved from the chapter on homosexuality, written by a pastor in Georgia.

To the gay community in Seattle,

For quite some time now, I've felt I owe you an apology. It's both personal and on behalf of the faith community I belong to - the Church. As a whole, we have not loved you. In fact, we have failed miserably. We have too often been offensively in your face about moral behavior, or we have uncomfortably and with cowardice hidden or skirted from the topic of sexuality. We have not admitted our own sexual brokenness or confusion, or our own imperfections and inconsistencies. We have targeted you as a special group of sinners, forgetting to acknowledge the truth: that we all have sin that leaves us broken and at the mercy of a gracious and compassionate God; that no sin is greater than another in God's estimation; that only He can redeem us and make us whole. In doing so, I know we have caused a rift known as "us" and "you," and sadly, perhaps between you and your perception of Jesus. We have caused many in your community great pain in our exclusion and judgment.

Please forgive me, forgive us, dear community of people that God loves, for our failure to love you fully. For all our actions that have alienated, berated, humiliated, disrespected, and in some awful cases, actually hated you, please forgive us. I believe our actions toward you have also deeply pained the heart of Christ, for they have misrepresented his heart to you.

I do believe, however, that in order for our love toward you to be sincere, we as followers of Christ must begin with a foundation of honesty and humility. We can't affirm what you hold to be a central part of your identity - your sexuality. As far as we can tell, the Bible introduces us to one kind of sexual union, between a man and a woman. So we do believe that this is the course that leads to the fullest life, the life intended for us by the Creator. But we also want you to know, not only with our words but largely with our actions, that we believe God loves every person deeply and equally - homosexual, bisexual, transgender, heterosexual. It would be dishonest for us to pretend that we agree with or understand the path you believe is right, but we accept that you are free to choose your own life course. We believe this because of God's outrageous generosity and charity, not our own.

From this place of honesty, we want you to feel that you are valued and respected by us, as the precious human beings that you are. This is what you deserve from us. We want to learn how to have real conversations, real relationships, real partnerships with you. We want to serve you. Over time, we hope to, in turn, earn your trust and respect. We understand we will have to work for this, that we need to be willing to hang in there for the long haul. We know we don't deserve it, but we really need your patience and grace with us, too, because we aren't perfect and we're still going to make mistakes along the way. But we want you to see a true expression of God's heart and of the life of faith He envisioned us to live as followers of Christ. This will take time, but I pray we'll be committed to the path of love.

Thank you for being willing to read this.

Humbly,

Amber

The fracture in our soul

During the Alexandrian plague (third Century), Christians risked their lives in caring for the sick, taking a posture of grace that said, "I am here for you. I may die, but you will not be alone." The church embodied the gospel and its message was not forgotten.

In the 1980s, the AIDS epidemic hit the gay community. Otherwise healthy men were dying and nobody knew why. The only link seemed to be their sexuality. The church had opportunity to again speak grace and instead spewed venom. Rather than showing compassion, we self-righteously proclaimed God's judgment. The message came through loud and clear.

It was the wrong message.

And it has not been forgotten.

When Greg, who is gay, discovered I was a pastor, his demeanor changed. His wounds had history. After a few minutes of hyperbolic invective, I stopped him. "Tell you what, you don't assume I'm a gay-hating bigot, and I won't assume you're a pedophile. Deal? If we buy into stereotypes, we'll never be able to love one another."

Tears streamed down his face. He asked, "Are you sure you're a Christian?"

Now there were tears of my own.

Christians may say, "Love the sinner; hate the sin," but Greg and many other homosexuals hear, "God hates fags." Its's unfortunate. It's wrong. It's our fault.

It may look different from person to person, but sin has fractured every human soul (see Rom. 3:23; 5:12; 1 John 1:10). Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn said, "The line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being." It is time we lived and loved as though we really believed that.

At our church we regularly say, "As Christians, none of us have the freedom to live however we want. Man or woman, young or old, gay or straight - we are all under God's authority and called to conform our lives to Christ."

The Bible is clear: homosexual practice is inconsistent with Christian discipleship. But there is not special judgment for homosexuals, and there is not special righteousness for heterosexuals. For all of us, our only hope for the fracture of our soul is the cross of Christ.

~ Shane Wheeler (taken from unChristian)

Let us learn to walk truly in the way of Christ's love.

Imagine

“I also am other than what I imagine myself to be.

To know this is forgiveness.”

~ Simone Weil

Imagination. It's something I had in abundance as a kid. I lived my daily life in a continually unfolding, adventurous drama - a screenplay in my mind - where I was the writer, producer, director and lead actress. A touch of childish narcissism, yes, but also the heart of a compassionate girl who dreamed of doing something special, something brave and meaningful, with her life. I didn't know what that would be, so I created scenarios in my imagination and I acted them out, hoping someday I would find my way into a real life adventure.

It's sad how often "growing up" means you have the imagination sucked right out of you. Idealism is traded in for realism, dreams for practicality, and imagination for intellectualism. The imaginative ones are relegated to professions we deem as the Arts, to social or business entrepreneurs, to the few in the public eye whom we admire as visionary leaders in some specific realm. We check our imagination at the door and let others do the creative thinking.

I do see imagination making a fair comeback in my generation and the ones behind me. I see young people seeking creative solutions to the unique dilemmas our world faces today. I see kids and young adults less satisfied with the status quo, wanting to be part of a story bigger than themselves, daring to dream bigger. And inwardly, I cheer.

I even see little seedlings of imagination sprouting up in the field of the Church. They may not be prevalent yet, but they are there, quietly spreading in beautiful splendor. In my imagination, I see a Church who has broken off from other lovers and is committed to Jesus with a steady, lovesick devotion. I see a Church whose heart is tender in compassion and gentleness, fierce in love and purity, gracious and humble within and outside the walls of church buildings. I see a Church who can place their fingers on the pulse of the culture, connecting with the life of the world around them, while themselves emanating back the heartbeat of Christ. I see a Church who cares more about the poor and unpopular and offensive and marginalized than they do about buildings and programs and projects and positions and church services. I see a Church who is outrageously generous, content with much and content with little, sharing whatever they have with anyone in need.

I see a Church who actually believes they are who Jesus says they are and who live from that place of revelation and freedom. I see a Church who lives and loves with extravagant sacrifice. I see a Church who is honest and real about their imperfections, not seeking to cover their flaws with superficiality or pride, letting people see them as works in progress. I see a Church who is known, not for what they stand against, but for who and how they love. I see a Church who is not afraid to be uncool, who stand faithfully and intelligently on the truth of God's word, who know how to communicate this truth undefensively, with actions more than words, but with words when necessary. I see a Church with people of all colors, shapes and sizes, living in unity and community, not always uniformity. I see a Church that has possessed a vision of the kingdom of heaven and lives with this vision in their hearts at all times.

Yes, in my imagination, I see all this. In my heart, I yearn for it. In my experience, sometimes, I taste it. But there is more, much more. We may not be there yet, but must not lose our imagination. To lose our imagination is to perish, and the world needs for us to be fully alive.

Outdoor symphony

Some nights, when I wish to escape the caucaphony of distraction, I wander in the direction of water. And there, tonight, I found myself stretched out upon a chaise-like rock, one of the few fingers of a fountain on the pier. A front row seat to the outdoor symphony. In the cool of the late May evening, I lounged in my seat of honor, awaiting the music.

And it's amazing how the ordinary stuff of nature is arranged so artistically from a different perspective. In this case, sideways.

The opening act: nightfall's descent from a sidelong glance, revealing the heaven's wrinkled brow. Creases of stormy blue and pearl and silver. Sailboat masts pierce the sky's brow, stately and stoic, bobbing rhythmically in the bay.

Second act: nature's surround sound increases as my mind's distraction decreases. The distant roar of a train thundering by, wheels squealing intermittently. The more immediate gurgling of the fountain above and below and around me, sometimes, sneaking up behind me. The gentle hum of the wind, blowing through sails and blades of grass. The synchronicity of the outdoors.

Final act: Tall wispy grass bends and dips, shakes and shimmies, plie's and pirouettes, dancing with an invisible partner. Dancing with grace and ease. Dancing because they can.

I close my eyes and open them again slowly, the world around me appearing to spin ever so slightly. I photograph the moment in my memory, knowing this symphony will be here when I return, but never will I see this exact performance repeated.

I sigh, contented. It is time to rest.